Chapter Text
Stiles wakes slowly. He's warmer than he's felt in months, the bone deep chill disappearing easily in the face of Derek. Stiles sighs and presses impossibly closer. At some point in the night, he had turned around, burying his face in Derek's neck. The man obviously doesn't mind since he's still there.
Stiles considers it, breathing in sandalwood and something vaguely citrusy. Derek is still here, flush against him, in his bed. Derek took his pain without question, faced Scott and a group of hunters and eventually will face an ancient scorpion demon all because Stiles has asked him to. All because he asked for his trust and got it on a silver platter.
Stiles reaches out for his magic, for the buzzing under his skin. It hurts, sends an ache right up through his bone marrow. The whimper he lets out is involuntary, but it does the job and rouses Derek all the same. He pulls Stiles closer, brushing his fingers down the length of Stiles spine, sapping the pain immediately. Stiles doesn't try to hide the groan that breaks through his teeth.
"Sorry," Derek mumbles sleepily, a yawn interrupting him. "Shoulda asked first."
Stiles presses back against Derek's hand with minimal hesitation, probing along the bond mindlessly. He just hums in response, focusing more on the fuzziness of not hurting anymore and the calm radiating from Derek.
"What are you thinking about so hard in there?" Derek asks, his other hand emerging from behind Stiles' pillow to card through his hair and cradle the back of his neck. Stiles leans into the touch. Derek doesn't accuse him of reaching for the bond. "I'm not mad about taking your pain if that's what you're looking for. I get more upset when you won't let me take it."
Stiles hums again, mind bleary. Anger had been what he was looking for. Anger at Stiles being weak enough to need his pain taken, anger at Stiles hurting so much over relatively nothing. It had been days since he died. He should be fine now.
"If it were up to me, you would stay in this bed and heal. Fully. Not just enough that you can keep going, keep pushing. You would stay here and sleep and let me drain your pain until maybe it hurts a little less," Derek murmurs and Stiles heart aches. His throat stings with the weight of it. He doesn't want to be in pain anymore. But he can't have Derek take it from him forever.
"You know it can't be like that," Stiles croaks. Something damp drops into his hair. He ignores it the same way Derek ignores the tears soaking the crook of his neck, the collar of his sleep shirt.
Silence falls in Stiles' bedroom. They've built a haven here in Stiles' green pillows. A painless one. A peaceful one. Derek wants to keep Stiles locked inside, away from scorpion demons and Scott and the hunters.
Instead, he just pulls him a little closer. Runs one hand down his spine, blindly tracing the curves of the new tattoo, black lines creeping upwards, buries the fingers of his other hand into soft brown hair. He allows a rumble to fill his chest, wolf preening when he hears Stiles' heartbeat calm at the noise. "One day it will be."
Neither of them acknowledge the tension lingering in the room, the way neither of them can keep that promise. They stay there, entangled in each other, until Stiles can stand without issue, until the pain Derek is taking feels low level and less like being buried.
Stiles only allows Derek and Peter to come with him to the meeting with Chris Argent. Erica is too much of a wild card around any Argent after her time in Gerard's basement. Boyd stays back to keep Erica from opening any basement doors. Isaac and Cora are sleeping off guarding the pack, and Jackson is too busy worrying about Lydia to be of much assistance.
He doesn't wear his coat, he doesn't bring his bat. He wears plaid and sneakers and brings Mischief because he still feels a little emotionally raw after waking up so softly. He doesn't want to go to this meeting armed to the teeth like he's expecting it to go badly. So, he goes as Stiles, knows that his left and right hand will stop anything before he can even reach for his magic. Which is good, because it still hurts.
They meet at a diner, because it's neutral territory, it's public, and frankly, Stiles is hungry. They get there first, moving chairs around a table under the waitress' watchful eye. Mischief curls at Stiles' feet under the table. Derek sits on his right, Peter on his left.
Stiles' dad shows up armed with case files that he only lets Stiles take after handing him some curly fries in exchange. Stiles hands them over begrudgingly and glares at Derek for the soft way he's smiling. "Don't get used to it," he instructs. Noah just rolls his eyes and sits next to Peter.
"How is no one freaking out that there's a fox in here?" Derek asks. It's an attempt to distract Stiles from his dad committing transgressions against his own health. Stiles lets it happen. He can be merciful sometimes.
"Mischief can hide himself when he wants to. He can't hold it for long, but right now, he's a very cute emotional support German Shepard."
Stiles watches Derek glance under the table, making eye contact with the Great Dane sized fox nosing at Stiles' hand for a curly fry. Derek just raises a brow at him. Stiles shrugs, sneaking another fry under the table. He turns his attention back to the case files his dad handed him.
Noah points things out between bites. "Completely drained. Not a single ounce of blood left in her body. I can see why they thought vamps, but there aren't any teeth marks on the victim's neck."
Stiles flips a page, analyzing the ME report. He frowns at the papers in front of him. Derek leans into him, pressing their shoulders together, in an attempt to see what he's looking at. "What's wrong?"
"There aren't any marks on the neck," Stiles says, looking to his dad. Noah nods.
"Exactly. Something supernatural is going on here, but it isn't the clan. Someone drained her without leaving a single mark."
The bell above the door rings and Stiles feels the moment the hunters enter. He steels himself, swallowing around the guilt that clogs his throat everytime he sees Chris Argent. He closes the case files and wipes his hands off. He stands, tracking the hunters movements towards him. Chris brought three people with him as well, his two lieutenants and a third. Chris seems pale, tired. There are bags under his eyes and his hair is a mess and Stiles feels bad. He hates that he had to kill his men, hates that he has just as much blood on his hands as the man in front of him does.
He reaches out a hand. Chris takes it easily, grip strong even though he looks exhausted. Derek growls briefly at the touch. "Emissary Stilinski. Thank you for meeting with us."
Stiles gestures to the chairs on the other side of their table. "Sit. Call me Stiles, Chris, we know each other too well for such formalities."
Chris grimaces at the reminder, but sits all the same. "I apologize for our agressiveness with the clan. We should've waited."
"You violated our treaty."
"You kidnapped Scott McCall," Chris snaps.
The tension between the groups rises, but Stiles forces his heartbeat steady. His hands don't shake where he has them placed on the table. He forces down the urge to fidget, tries to summon the unaffected air he wears as Emissary. It's been harder to reach recently. He doesn't linger on that thought.
"Is it really kidnapping if he threatened us first?"
Chris pauses, narrowing his eyes analytically. "He threatened you?"
Stiles waves a hand. One of Chris's lieutenants flinches. Stiles catches Peter's smirk in the corner of his eye. "He attempted to storm our pack house. I couldn't very well just let that happen. I have a reputation to maintain after all."
Chris doesn't respond, so Stiles continues. "We're not here to discuss Scott."
"You can't blame me for being a little worried," Chris says. "You're kidnapping teenagers, allowing a clan to invade your territory. Maybe you're slipping."
"Slipping into what, Mr. Argent?" Stiles voice stiffens, growing colder with the honorific. He didn't come here to be accused of becoming something other. He's kind of tired of people calling him that.
Chris just tilts his head. Silence falls, the two engaged in a staredown. One of Chris's lieutenant's flinch again when Derek drops his fangs and Chris's shoulder's fall, the fight going out of him. "We violated your treaty," he repeats.
Stiles nods. "You did. Scott will be handed over to the clan later tonight. They will decide the punishment that fits the crime."
"They'll kill him!"
"Maybe. He got several of their clan members killed. He knew what he was doing when he mislead you. My question for you is did you know too?"
"Know what?" Chris snaps.
"Did you know he was lying?" Stiles gathers the case files together, tapping them against the table before handing them over. "You're a smart man, Mr. Argent. You expect me to believe that you went in guns blazing just because you believed Scott?"
Chris doesn't open the files, confirming what Stiles thought. He had known Scott was lying. He had seen the ME report or the photos of the body or something that showed him it couldn't have been the clan, and he had stormed in anyway. Stiles welcomes the rage that sweeps through him, grateful for the way it sharpens his mind.
"We agreed that upon violation of this treaty, you would leave Beacon Hills," Stiles reminds. Chris just nods. Peter is smirking, Derek's eyes scream his relief. Stiles smirks, something sharp and a little mean. "However, I think I have a better idea."
Derek understands it. From a logistical stand point, it makes sense. Making the hunters stay in Beacon Hills, at least until they've defeated the aqrabuamelu, is a good defensive decision. It ensures that they have more numbers and forcing the hunters to work with the pack is a punsihment in it's own right. He's a little in awe at how sharp Stiles' brain is.
Peter doesn't seem happy about it. Stiles lets it run off his back unconcerned. Derek finds himself also a little in awe watching the two of them work. The year together shows through the way they weave around each other, Peter stepping in when Stiles backs off, Stiles sharpening his tongue when Peter's goes silver. Stiles takes Peter's unspoken concern in stride and Derek looks forward to hearing them bicker about it later.
The ground feels a little more stable under his feet recently. Standing side by side with Peter and Stiles, fighting for his pack. These are things he knows, things his wolf recognizes, things he didn't realize he needed until he had them. Returning to Mexico feels a little like a forgotten dream. He'd rather stay, sneak Noah more curly fries while Stiles watches the hunters leave the diner and course correct to giving the fries to Mischief when Stiles pins him with a glare.
"Do you really think they'll follow through? Do you really want to rely that they'll come when you call?" Peter asks.
Stiles picks at his food and Derek kind of wants to throw his pickles at his uncle. They should be trying to get Stiles to eat, not re-hashing battle plans. He sends a glare to Peter but hands his pickles over to Stiles, who brightens at them.
"They either help us or Chris Argent is forced out of Beacon Hills. No matter what I asked them to do, he would do it. Nobody wants to be separated from their daughter's grave," Stiles says, mainly to himself. Peter softens visibly, pushing the remainder of his fries over to Stiles and shutting up.
Derek nudges his thigh to Stiles', trying to send warmth through the bond. He thinks that Stiles appreciated the pickles more. It's quiet for a little, Stiles looking a little more interested in his food the longer nobody talks.
"What's the plan for tonight?" Noah asks.
Stiles thuds his head against the diner table. Peter sighs. Derek doesn't want to hit his mate's father, but he comes pretty close to it. Noah throws his hands up, exasperated.
Stiles doesn't want to open the basement door. He doesn't want to watch Scott's face fall when he realizes that Stiles is serious, that handing him over to the clan is the plan and Stiles wasn't just bluffing.
Derek is sprawled on the couch, watching Stiles stare down the door.
"The door won't bite," Derek finally says, tone light.
Stiles keeps staring at it, brows furrowed, ignoring Derek.
"If you keep staring at it like that, you're going to accidentally turn it into a portal or something."
Stiles finally breaks away from the door, walking back into the study and collapsing on the couch across from him. "I'm not that powerful."
Derek raises a brow. "Oh, really? So you can only summon lightning from nothing? Wow, that's lame."
"I thought we didn't talk about me summoning lightning."
"We don't talk about it because you almost died, not because I think it's unimpressive."
Stiles groans, thumping his head back against the couch. The throw blanket muffles it and Stiles wishes for a moment that it wasn't there to ruin his dramatics. "I didn't almost die, I did die."
"That part is not impressive." Derek gets up, coming around the coffee table to sit on the edge of it in front of Stiles. "What's wrong?"
Stiles lets his head loll so that he can see Derek through his narrowed eyes. "It's a long list."
"Hit me," Derek shrugs.
"I'm about to hand over my brother to a clan of bloodthirsty vampries."
Derek shrugs again. "They aren't bloodthirsty. They're actually very nice people. Maybe they'll be understanding."
Stiles doesn't dignify it with a response. "There's a scorpion demon out there probably performing an ancient ritual and almost definitely wanting to kill me."
"This isn't the first time an ancient being has wanted you dead," Derek reminds him.
Stiles finally lifts his head all the way up. "Is this supposed to make me feel better?"
Derek places a hand on Stiles' knee. "It's supposed to remind you that you've been through so much worse than this. That you aren't alone in this. Let Peter and I take Scott to the clan. Let us handle it. You can stay here, research the aqrabuamelu. If anyone can figure out what it wants, it's you."
Stiles looks at Derek, long and hard. The man is gorgeous, even when he's worried about Stiles' safety. He looks soft in the light of the study, the sharp edges of his jaw and the pointy tips of his canines not quite as agressive. Instead, the light hits his green eyes turning them a gorgeous hazel and his hair is messy from him running his hands through it. Stiles places a hand on top of the one on his knee. "I don't want him to face this alone."
Stiles watches it as it registers, watches Derek's eyes widen. Because that's the crux of it. Stiles doesn't want to open the basement door and feed his ex best friend to the wolves. And yet, he can't find it in him to not go. "He left you to face the aftermath of the Nogitsune alone."
It's Stiles' turn to shrug. "Yeah, he did. And you know what I wanted more than anything? I wanted him there, by my side. I wanted to be able to lean on him, to reach for him. I was in pain, I was scared, I was angry. All I wanted was my brother."
He still wants him. Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night, and he feels like it's three years ago. He feels like Scott might come in through his window at any second, complaining about his asthma or his classes or his mom being sad. Sometimes, all he can think about is what would have happened if he wouldn't have dragged Scott into the woods that night to find a body. Most of the time, he finds himself thinking something, turning to say it to the person who always used to fill the space next to him, only to find someone else standing there. Or worse, finding the space empty.
Derek, in a rare display of emotional maturity, seems to understand almost immediately. "It isn't your fault, Stiles."
"Isn't it? I dragged him out there. I eavesdropped on my dad, I knew it was dark and dangerous and stupid. And yet, I still convinced him to come with me. I left him out there."
Derek sits forward more, taking Stiles other hand and squeezing both of them. "You went back as soon as you could. You called him and texted him and the minute you thought something was wrong, you spent hours researching until you knew how to help. That was an accident. It does not mean you deserved to be left behind by him."
Stiles lets Dereks words linger in the air, tasting them. He doesn't feel like they sit right in his mouth. "He doesn't deserve to face this alone."
"I think I'll have to disagree with you on this one," Derek says, aiming for levity.
"I used to hold his hand when he had asthma attacks. I carried an extra inhaler with me everywhere, terrified that he might have an attack and not have his. I would hold his hand and let him squeeze mine as hard as he needed to, even if it hurt me," Stiles murmurs. He looks at Derek, sadness and guilt mixing in his stomach. "If he feels pain tonight, I need to be there to hold his hand. Please, Derek."
Stiles isn't really sure what he's asking Derek for and he would bet money that Derek doesn't know either. Derek looks like he's seconds from wrapping him in a blanket and not letting him leave the couch ever again. Derek looks like the last thing he wants to do is let Stiles get up and go to the basement and lead his brother to slaughter. But, Derek, who has spent the past few weeks being back from Mexico learning how to not step on Stiles' toes, learning how to step back and support Stiles' decisions, just squeezes his hand again and nods.
"Whatever you need, Stiles. Even if I hate it."
The Preserve is cold and dark when they leave the pack house. Stiles hates it. He's in his coat now, though it doesn't feel like it's helping. The tips of his fingers are freezing, almost numb, still tinted black from the strength of the magic he used over a week ago. A physical representation of the fact that decisions he makes leave a mark. Sometimes, he wishes he never discovered how powerful he is. He thinks that maybe Stiles from three years ago was happier being powerless.
Scott is quiet, a type of forlornness coloring his features. Stiles can't bring himself to stand close to him, so he lets Derek and Peter bully their way between them and doesn't remark on it. The whole pack is here, minus Jackson and Lydia, but they've gained Melissa, Noah, Ethan and Kira. Kira stays close to Scott. Melissa keeps shooting worried looks Stiles' way. Noah doesn't leave Stiles' side. He appreciates his dad being here, even if he doesn't need to be, even if he doesn't really want him to see this side of him.
What right does Stiles have to decide the course of someone's life?
They trudge through the Preserve to the Nemeton. Stiles sometimes hates the dramatics of it all, but this is a place that is linked to the Hale pack, a place of power. He doesn't think they could do this anywhere else.
Stiles' stomach swirls uneasily, the few bites of diner food he managed already threatening to make a reappearance. He knows that Derek is worried about his eating habits and is trying to give him some grace about it. He did die fairly recently, after all. Appetite's are hard things to regrow. He's worried and anxious and pretty much every other synonym for the word. He doesn't want the clan to kill Scott, not really, though he does wish Scott was no longer around to torment him. He wishes there was a way to turn back the clock, to never drag Scott to the woods and to never believe Deaton about the mountain ash, to never let the Nogitsune in.
The trees give way to the Nemeton and Stiles swallows thickly. The pack stops, Stiles, Derek and Noah in the lead. Peter and Boyd bracket Scott and Kira, Melissa hovering with Ethan in the middle of Isaac, Cora, and Erica. The pack fans out, falling into formation easily. Mischief paces the edge of the clearing, on guard, fur dark in the moonlight.
They wait in silence. Scott doesn't try to beg for his life or manipulate Stiles into letting him go.
Stiles doesn't know how to feel about that. He wants to lean into Derek's warmth. He doesn't.
The clan melts out of the darkness suddenly, Aisha and Alexander walking arm in arm. Alexander leans heavily on the younger vampire, and Stiles feels that all familiar rage come back. Scott is the reason the old man is limping.
"Aisha, Alexander, thank you for meeting us," Stiles calls across the clearing, the Nemeton standing between the two groups.
"Thank you for your help with the hunters, Emissary Stilinski. We are sorry for any grievances caused by our presence in Beacon Hills," Aisha responds, voice strong.
Stiles is quick to interrupt. "Do not apologize for things that are not your fault, Clan Leader. Any grievance acted upon in your name was unwarranted and unwanted. Allow me to extend my own apologies. No blood should've been spilled."
Peter brings Scott forward, places him next to Stiles. Stiles thinks maybe he should be handling this differently, but he doesn't know how to. So, he just rolls his shoulders, reaches for his magic, isn't surprised when it hurts. He embraces the ache, let's it ground him.
"A peace offering," Stiles offers, waving a hand towards Scott. Scott flinches. Stiles wants to smack him, give him a real reason to flinch. He refrains. "This is the one who incensed the hunters on your clan. He is yours to invoke punishment upon."
Alexander nudges Aisha, and the two cross the clearing, steering around the Nemeton with deference. The spark in him, the other, part in him, preens at the recognition of his land's icon. When the two stop, the old man spits at Scott's feet.
"I should kill you where you stand," Alexander growls. Scott doesn't flinch, but Melissa does. Stiles catches it out of the corner of his eye. "Good people were hurt because of you."
Scott wisely keeps his mouth shut. Derek steps closer to Stiles when he feels Stiles' emotions crest.
Aisha glances between Scott and Stiles, noticing the tension. "Emissary Stilinski, may I ask you something?"
Stiles nods.
"I was under the impression that you two were quite close."
It's not a question. Stiles isn't sure who talked to Aisha about Stiles' and Scott's history, but vampires have always been known for being intuitive. It turns out technically being dead can make you see things others can't. Who knew. Stiles sees Isaac shift minutely. Hmm, so there's the culprit.
"Once," is all Stiles says.
"I am also under the impression that he has hurt you, Emissary Stilinski," Aisha continues.
Stiles turns his head, looking at Isaac with a raised brow. The boy looks back unflinchingly, a slight blush across his cheeks the only evidence of embarrassment at being caught. Cora doesn't even have the decency to look caught. "It seems like my wolves may have been a little loose lipped last night."
"On the contrary, they provided context that we felt was instrumental in our decision. You took us in under your protection. You saved us from starving. You have done more for us than most Emissaries would. We are forever in your debt for that."
Stiles nods, acknowledging the response. It hurts to hear them talk about what could've happened to them. It hurts to hear them talk about what he feels like he could've stopped from happening.
Aisha keeps going. "This wolf has hurt you. We would appreciate him not having the opportunity to do that again, to you or to us. However, we don't wish to hurt you more."
She looks to Alexander, who glares at Scott with all he's worth but nods slowly. "We would see the wolf banished from Beacon Hills as punishment for leading the hunters against us and violating your treaty. He is not welcome within these woods that once raised him. He is not allowed to be in this town even if his family continues to reside here. If he so desperately wishes to leave those who care about him alone, let him feel loneliness too." Alexander's decree rings through the clearing powerfully. Stiles feels the magic in his blood rise with it. "Though, if it didn't hurt you, I would prefer to kill him," Alexander adds.
Stiles chokes on a laugh, eyes glossy. He has a lot of blood on his hands. He doesn't want to add more. Scott has hurt him, alot, and frequently, but he doesn't want to be responsible for the death of his old best friend. "Banishment is an acceptable punishment. I'm always of the mindset that more bloodshed never actually helps anything."
Alexander eyes him curiously. "That's an important philosophy for a being of so much power. Be careful, young Emissary. Some may mistake your level-headedness for naviety."
Stiles lets his eyes flash gold, tilts his head a little too far, quirks his lips the way Void did. Sparks run down his arms briefly. Aisha grins at the display of power. Alexander just nods grimly.
"Thank you for allowing us to get justice," Aisha says, tilting her head and readjusting her hold on Alexander.
"When you need us, Young Spark, we will come."
Stiles watches carefully as Alexander and Aisha join the rest of the clan and disappear back into the forest. He feels the tension melt for a moment, feels the way Scott's shoulders dip and Melissa's breath steadies. He himself feels mainly relief, that someone esle made the decision, that he finally didn't have to be the one making a rough call.
That if this somehow goes wrong, if Scott leaves and gets hurt, maybe it isn't all on him.
Allison dying was his fault. He can't handle another one.
Stiles flicks his hand, the spelled cuffs falling from Scott's wrist. He isn't worried about Scott trying anything. He's tired, emotionally wrung out, physically exhausted. Scott beats him to it by looking at Isaac. "You told them about Stiles and I being friends?"
Stiles lets it happen, confusion making him interested too.
Isaac rubs a hand across the back of his neck. "I thought maybe it might help them to know the whole story. That it didn't used to be like this."
Stiles feels his heart break a little bit. That's such an innocent way of putting it, but it's true. It did not used to be like this. And Isaac, who's never known stability a day in his life after growing up with his father, is missing it. The way things were before the Nogitsune. Stiles has half a mind to agree with him.
"Well, it worked. Now everything is fine," Scott sighs, pulling Kira close.
Stiles feels Derek stiffen next to him. "Everything is fine? You still got people hurt. I didn't imagine you would be so okay leaving Beacon Hills."
Scott sends Derek a confused smile. "I'm not leaving Beacon Hills."
"Did you not pay attention? I know it can be hard to listen to your betters, McCall, but you've just been issued a banishment," Peter snarls, stepping closer.
"Yeah, but that was just for show. That was just so the vampires would leave us alone, right?"
Silence slips into the clearing, Scott's confused puppy act falling the longer it continues. His arm drops from where it had encircled Kira's shoulders, eyes hardening.
Before he can even attempt to take a step towards Stiles, Derek is there, eyes flashing. "That was not just for show. Scott, you lead the hunters to wage war against the clan. Innocent people got hurt. You can't possibly think we would just let that happen with zero consequences?"
"They're vampires, Derek! Since when did we start working with the creatures trying to invade this town?" Scott yells.
"Since they weren't trying to invade Beacon Hills, but live here peacefully!"
"Stiles, are you seriously going to let those vampires force me out of here? What about school? What about my mom?" Scott tries to step around Derek, but Derek pushes him back, fangs dropping. Scott drops his fangs too, eyes glowing alpha red.
Peter pushes Stiles back towards Noah, who's hand has been on his gun this whole time. Stiles shrugs them both off, clapping his hands together. Thunder rumbles through the clearing, deep and growling. Stiles moves his hands together, wind whipping so fast the tree branches above them bend to it, the gusts pushing Scott back and away from Derek. Sparks run down Stiles forearms, eyes glowing gold, face impassive.
It's hard to hold back how much it hurts to use his magic like this, the stabbing pain in his hands and his chest and his legs. He isn't sure how long he'll be able to keep it up, but he steps up between Derek and Scott anyway. He deepens his voice, adds magic to it so that it echoes throughout the space and bounces right back at Scott. There's wetness on his face, a mix of tears and the rain that's starting to pour from the sky.
"Scott McCall, you are hereby banished from Beacon Hills and the surrounding Hale Territory. If you return, it is upon pain of death. If you return, you will be violating the decision struck today and you will face the wrath of the Hale Pack and the Alaskan Clan."
Scott's face is a war of anger and fear, but he shoves up close to Stiles anyway. Stiles can barely hear Derek's growl above the raging of the storm around them. "I'm not leaving! You won't raise a hand against me, Stiles. We both know that. If you were unafraid to, you wouldn't have brought the clan into it."
"You have one day to leave Beacon Hills. Good luck and good riddance, Scott McCall," Stiles whispers and places a hand on Scott's shoulder. The boy disappears and the storm seething around them settles instantly, rain dropping off to a light drizzle. The wind dies, Stiles' coat settles, the thunder calms. Stiles doesn't stumble, barely flinches when the pain of using his magic truly settles in. He clenches his hands in his fists to hide the way he knows they'll shake, rotates both his shoulders to try to quiet the ache resting between the blades. He's soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead. Mischief moves from his position on the edge of the clearing and slinks towards Stiles', curls around his legs, sending warmth through the spark.
When he turns, the pack is looking at him in awe. He keeps big displays of his powers to a minimum, not wanting the people he cares about to ever be afraid of him. He doesn't see any fear, just genuine amazement from Cora and Isaac, pride from Peter and Noah. Ethan looks conflicted, Kira's shoulders slumped in sadness. Melissa is crying softly. Derek is all worry, concern, and the most confusing part, love. Derek's green eyes are dark, but bright, full of something that looks alot like the way Stiles' remembers his dad looking at his mom. He tries to ignore it, focuses on Melissa and Kira and Ethan.
The whole pack is soaked. Stiles didn't really mean for it to rain, but his powers always had a habit of listening to his emotions more than his logic. "I sent Scott home. The pack will come around midnight tomorrow to make sure he's leaving. Melissa, I'm sorry."
He probably owes Kira and Ethan an apology too, but he didn't grow up with them. He grew up with Melissa's citrusy perfume and terrible cooking and kind son who can't even look him in the eye anymore. He grew up with no mom but someone who took him in anyway and she deserves an apology. He isn't expecting the woman to come up to him and hug him desperately.
He hesitates. He's been hugged a lot more than he's used to in the past weeks since Derek's been back, but he can't say it's normal to him yet. He also figured Melissa would rather slap him than hold him right now. After a minute, he melts, clinging desperately and burying his nose in rain-soaked, citrus smelling curls and is glad when she doesn't remark on the way he's wetting her hair more. Mischief whines highly.
When she finally pulls away, she holds him by the shoulders, voice steady. "You did the right thing, Stiles. Losing Allison changed Scott. That isn't the boy I raised and I am so sorry he's hurt you the way he has. He hurt innocent people, vampires or not, and he deserved the consequences. This is not your fault, do you hear me?"
He nods, ignores the ache of tears in his throat and swallows. "Yes ma'am."
She squeezes his shoulders, moves the hair off his forehead gently, and goes back to Kira and Ethan. She gathers them both in close to her and leads them away from the clearing.
Stiles wants to collapse, wants to sleep for a hundred hours, but he just stands there instead, watching them go. He can hear Noah leading Isaac and Cora away, hears Peter and Derek whispering, but stays where he is. He cards a hand through the fur on Mischief's neck, burrowing his freezing fingers into the warmth. When Derek approaches him, he's glad the rest of the pack is already gone, leaning into Derek's offered side easily.
"Ready to go home?" Derek asks.
Stiles shakes his head. "There's one more thing I need to do."
Derek doesn't have it in him to deny Stiles' request, so he leads him back through the Preserve to the house and bullies the Spark up the stairs. He deposits him in the bathroom in Derek's room and turns on the shower, leaving Stiles to do the rest.
He pulls out an old BHHS hoodie that barely survived the Hale House fire and a pair of sweatpants, and then pulls out more comfy clothes for himself. He doesn't let Stiles leave the house until he's warm and dry and in a pair of gloves because nobodies fingers should get that cold.
The blanket he puts over Stiles' legs once he's in the passenger seat of the Camaro is probably overkill, but it's been a rough day so Stiles' lets him fuss. Derek glances over a few times on the drive, but isn't surprised to see Stiles' face blank and impassive.
Watching Stiles do magic always made his heart beat rabbit fast, always made his stomach flutter. Tonight's display did the same. Stiles summoned a storm from nothing, made his voice growl like thunder and sparks fly off his skin, and then turned and apologized in a voice years younger than his age. He lead a powerful pack and an ancient clan and did it all with the grace of a being much older than he is. But it's the kindness he displayed around the magic that really made Derek fall for him.
The way he clung to Melissa. The way he grew angry at Alexander's injuries. The way he wanted to be there for Scott even after everything. That big heart and well of empathy, that's why Derek keeps coming back to Stiles' side.
It's why he helps the boy out of the Camaro, let's him lean on him as he navigates their way through the graveyard. Why he spreads the blanket out on the ground in front of the headstone that says Allison Argent and takes a few steps back to give him some space.
He keeps an ear out, probes the bond between them gently, but lets Stiles talk.
"Hey Alli," Stiles murmurs, voice rough. "I'm sorry I haven't stopped by in a while."
Stiles voice is so heavy with grief that Derek's eyes sting.
"A lot has happened recently. Derek is back. I'm a few months clean -"
Derek misses the next few words because all he can hear is his own heart breaking. When he tunes back in, it's to the sound of Stiles himself crying. "I'm really sorry, Allison. I wanted him to be able to stay. I wanted him to change. I wanted to help him. I think he's too far gone, though. I can't let him hurt innocent people, not like that. The clan was merciful. He's still alive. He just can't stay here."
Derek watches as Stiles slips off one of his gloves and runs his fingers over the headstone. Under Allison Argent, it says, Beloved daughter, loving girlfriend, cherished friend. "You know, I told Scott that they should leave this off. 'Loving girlfriend'. She was so much more than that."
Derek comes back to Stiles' side, sitting down next to him hesitantly. The boy just leans into him, slipping a hand into his. "I didn't know you two were so close."
"We weren't. It was hard, after Gerard kidnapped Boyd and Erica, after her mom died. I couldn't be around her for weeks, would flinch whenever she moved too fast near me. The guidance counselor at the school is in the know though. Allison tricked me into meeting with her. After a few sessions, it got a little easier. Neither of us had a mom. We connected through our grief."
Stiles falls silent for a moment, taking a sip of the coffee Derek had brought with them. "Did I ever tell you about the time that the Argents forbid Allison from seeing Scott? They had me running interference between them. I had to say the stupidest stuff."
"Tell me about it," Derek suggests. Stiles hums lightly before dropping into another story.
They sit there, leaning together in front of the grave of an old friend and enemy, telling stories until Stiles pauses.
"Oh, Alli. I'm sorry I failed you," Stiles sighs.
Derek could say a hundred times over that it's not Stiles' fault that Allison is dead. Derek could say a thousand times that Scott is not his fault and that the world is a better place with Stiles in it, but Stiles will never believe him. So he pulls the boy closer and joins him in his grief.