Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every time Stiles barged into Derek’s loft without so much as an invitation, using the Emergency Keys™ (baptised so by Erica following the Very Long and Very Serious speech Derek had given them all before he had handed a copy to every member of the pack), he loudly and gleefully informed him that it was karma and payback for every time Derek had snuck his way into his bedroom for Nefarious Reasons™  (which included, in no order of importance: gathering information on a big bad, hiding from the police, creeping on innocent teenage boys, etc).

Derek hated it very much, which was largely why Stiles did it so often.

He would have done the same today but, unfortunately for his inner sadist, there was an Emergency.

So he didn’t do that.

Instead, he marched into the room, not stopping until he was standing in front of Derek.

Derek, who was ostensibly reading the book in his hands, and doing his utmost to ignore the Stiles standing in front of him.

As if something like that could ever stop Stiles.

Clearly, Hale still did not know who he was dealing with.

“I was under the assumption that you were the leader of this team,” he said, arms crossed, his own - still rather poor, he had to admit, no matter how many times he practiced - version of Judgemental Eyebrow Face in full swing. “The so called alpha of this pack. Mr Motherfucker in charge of all us fuckers. The captain of this down on its luck ship. The–”

“Just say whatever it is you want to say,” said Derek, giving up on his pretence. “I don’t have the energy to deal with any of...” 

He didn’t finish the sentence, just motioned vaguely to the entirety of Stiles.

Which, rude.

“There is a new Waffle House near the Jungle,” said Stiles.

Derek stared at him.

Stiles stared back at him.

Derek did not blink.

Stiles did not blink either.

“As much as I love whatever this is,” said Isaac, using his werewolf powers to spawn from behind the couch – because Stiles had not been focused enough on Derek to somehow miss his giraffe limbed self, the guy straight up teleported – like the creeper Derek was raising him to be, “I heard Waffle House, and I’m intrigued.”

“You’re not going to the Waffle House,” said Stiles, not looking away from Derek.

“Why not?”

“Because...” he did not finish, looking at Derek expectantly.

Derek just silently – and stubbornly – stared back at him.

Stiles kept staring at him, making a point of not loosing himself into the man’s eyes because that would be counterproductive to what he was trying to accomplish.

“Can you do your flirting at a later date? Why can’t I go to the Waffle House?”

“Derek can tell us, since he is the Alpha,” said Stiles, because if Derek thought he could out-stubborn him, he was in for a rude awakening. A very rude awakening, worse than any rude awakenings previously caused by his own terrible judge of character ability. “He can tell you all about how a strange Waffle House nobody knew anything about, that has spawned near the Jungle, directly over a bunch of the Nemeton’s ley lines is probably not something an innocent young cub such as yourself–”

“Fuck you.”

“-Should wander in alone.”

“Stiles, it’s a Waffle House,” said Derek, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, is it? Because you have gone and checked it and made sure it is the case?”

“Stiles–”

“Because the newly discovered lake in the Preserve was not a lake – it was a Selkie nest. And the haunted shop in town wasn’t a nice witch’s hideout from the supernatural police. And the–”

“Make him stop,” complained Isaac. “Tell him what he wants to hear so that he can just shut his mouth.”

“You want me to investigate the Waffle House because you believe it’s a possible threat?”

“I want you to do your job and assess all possible new threats to the town and to your pack. A pack made out of very stupid very young teenage werewolves.”

“Most of you are eighteen.”

“Yesterday you had to take a fork from Isaac before he stuck it in a power socket.”

“There was something inside of it,” said Isaac, while Derek made his Constipated Face of Resignation. With the pinched eyebrows and everything. “I was trying to help.”

Stiles gave Derek a pointed look. “You want him alone in a non investigated Waffle House? You know he’d manage to kill himself with nothing but a bottle of syrup.”

“And you would manage it without even stepping foot inside,” said Derek, even as he reluctantly put down his book. He sent a mournful look to it – some old copy of some old book because Derek Hale was a man of many hidden depth, one of which included the love of antique paperbacks – and then glanced back to Stiles. “You’re coming with me.”

“As if that was in question,” said Stiles, reaching for the keys of the Camaro. Unfortunately, Derek used his werewolf training to steal them before he could pick them up, and he pouted. “Come on! When are you going to let me drive your car?”

“When I’m dead and Isaac gets it in the will.”

“Yes!” cheered Isaac, taking the spot Derek had vacated on the couch.

“Isaac gets your car in the will? What about me?”

“You get the loft,” said Derek, opening the door. “Now hurry up, let’s get this over with.”

Stiles was probably supposed to say something like ‘I don’t want your loft’, but he had a feeling that Derek wasn’t completely joking.

In fact, he had a feeling that he knew why Derek wanted him to have the loft, in the very likely unlikely case of his passing. 

It probably had something to do with Stiles helping him find it, that summer Erica and Boyd got temporarily forcibly adopted by the alpha pack. Something to do with Stiles being the first person, even before Isaac, to have a pair of keys to the place. Something to do with Stiles bringing him housewarming gag – and non – gifts and plants. Something to do with Stiles helping him clean the blood on the floor from when Boyd had nearly died at his own hands. Something to do with the dark and long nights where it was just the two of them, Stiles the only witness to the weight on Derek’s shoulders and soul. Something to do with the two of them alone after the Nogitsune, Derek the only witness to the weight on Stiles’ shoulders and soul.

Something like that. 

So he didn’t say that.

“Who gets your new house, then?”

“Boyd.”

“What about Peter?”

“He’ll get my middle finger mailed to him.”

"A final fuck you before you are put into the ground," said Stiles, nodding in approval. "Nice. Though I don't know how to feel about us mauling you after death. I feel like a specimen such as yourself should be left untouched. For posterity. Immortalised-"

Derek revved the car.

"You started the conversation!" complained Stiles, even as he jumped into the car. "Rude."

"I regret this already," muttered Derek, starting to drive.

Stiles chose to believe it was said with love and fondness.

It worked better for his delusions.

+++

From the outside, the Waffle House's geographical position made it look slightly post-apocalyptic.

It looked like a standard Waffle House.

It had the yellow top, and the clear glass, and all the proper signs all around.

But it was sitting right in the last corner of town, between the main road and the Preserve.

The Jungle was about ten minutes away from it on foot, but the landscape was completely different.

Stiles had done the calculations, and something like this should have taken a few weeks to build. It should have caused excessive traffic for those coming and leaving the town, and knowing the gossip mill, everyone should have known about it.

But there had been no posters, no chatting, no complaints, nothing. He had not heard a single peep from the deputies at the Precinct, and they were without doubt the biggest gossips in Beacon Hills.

And yet, there were plenty of cars in the parking lot, and even from outside, it was clear the place was busy.

Stiles smelt supernatural bullshittery afoot.

“It doesn’t–”

“If you’re about to say that it doesn’t look like what a bedspot for evil creatures should look like, I’ll hit you,” said Stiles. “I’ll hit you, and then I will remind you, not so gently, of the serial killer pharmacist.”

“She wasn’t even supernatural,” complained Derek.

“But she was evil! And we knew this before you two started flirting.”

“We weren’t flirting-”

“You literally smiled at her,” said Stiles, closing the door of the car with perhaps a little more force than necessary. In his defense, he took making Derek Hale smile very personally, and he did not like sharing that skill with another well known Serial Killer Love Interest Derek had had in his life. 

Wait.

Did the Nogitsune perhaps make him one of said Serial Killer Love Interests?

Well. He supposed that to be a ‘Love Interest’ you had to have Derek Hale interested in you. A skill that Stiles, unfortunately, had yet to master.

Not for lack of trying.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, is all I’m saying.”

“You always judge books by their cover. You literally announce that you won’t read a book because the cover ‘looks boring’. It’s all you ever do.”

Stiles decided to ignore those potentially not false truths about himself, instead opening the door of the Waffle House.

He had expected it, from seeing the cars packed outside, but he was still a little surprised by the amount of people he found sat inside, eating and chatting among one another.

And by surprised, he meant very suspicious.

“Nobody seems to be dying,” pointedly said Derek, just loudly enough to make sure Stiles and Stiles alone heard him.

Because Derek Hale was a dick.

Unfortunately for him, one of them cared about the members of their pack and the safety of Beacon Hills in general, so instead of answering him, Stiles went straight for the counter, where one of the three servers on the floor was.

“Hi,” said the girl behind the counter, smiling friendly at them both. “How can I help you?”

“What do you suggest?” asked Stiles, leaning against the counter. “I didn’t even know they were building this place. You guys sell waffles?”

“As the sign says,” said the girl, in a tone that Stiles was very familiar with – from that summer he tried to work retail to get his car fixed (before Derek ended up doing it for him) -, “We are a Waffle House. Mostly waffles, but we also do breakfasts, omelettes, hashbrowns, burgers, sandwiches, pies, drinks...” She pushed one of the menus forward. “Maybe you guys would like to take a seat and browse?”

“Oh, that’s perfect, thank you... Audrey.”

She smiled back, which Stiles put down as ‘suspicious' in his head immediately.

She was working in hospitality and dealing with customers instead of relaxing – there was nothing to smile about.

“She seemed perfectly nice.”

“I don’t trust your judgement in women,” said Stiles, not even looking at him. 

“Allison, Lydia, Erica.”

“You hated Allison, you didn’t trust Lydia, and Erica is the exception to the rule because even a broken clock is right twice a day.” He pulled out his phone, taking quick pictures of the menu. “Which, you know, it’s sort of a weird saying. If a broken clock is right twice a day, why would it be wrong at any other time? And if it’s wrong because it’s ahead by a few minutes, then it would never be right. The saying makes no sense. It’s stupid.”

“You’d know all about that,” said Derek, perusing his own menu. “Everyone’s human here, apart from the lady in the back.”

“Who?” asked Stiles, doing his best to appear inconspicuous as he tried to look behind him in the booth. “The pretty waiter?”

“No, the kitsune he’s serving.” Derek gave him a look. “You think the waiter is pretty?”

“I mean, he is,” said Stiles, still trying to inconspicuously look at him. He had darker skin than the girl at the counter, but they shared some subtle similarities that made him think that they were probably siblings.

In fact, a quick look at the third server – tall, and with long colourful braids – revealed that they were probably all siblings, with the pretty guy being the eldest.

“Family owned Waffle House just doesn’t seem right,” muttered Stiles, still observing the guy. “Waffle House is owned by the Rogers family, and has 40,000 employees spread throughout 1973 locations. Why would any manager employ siblings? How would they explain the decision to their superiors? It’s just suspicious, right?”

“Right.”

“So either they are proudly ripping off an already existing chain with zero idea or interest in the repercussions and other problems they are causing, or they’ve got something on their manager.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Or a third secret thing I have yet to discover,” continued Stiles. “Something here doesn’t smell right, and it’s not whatever the cook is making back there. Cause that smells nice. Oh!” He turned to face Derek. “There has to be someone in the back making food. Two people minimum. If we get in the back–”

“Yeah,” said Derek, not looking up from the menu.

“You’re agreeing with me?” asked Stiles, a little surprised. “Really? That easily?”

“Sure,” said Derek.

Ah.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?”

“Uh-uh.”

“So you agree that I am the best partner you could potentially have?”

“Yeah.”

“So you would marry me if it meant I was your happily ever after.”

“Yep.”

“So you think I should drive your Camaro later?”

“Absolutely not,” said Derek, lifting up his head to glare at him.

“You... How?! You weren’t even paying attention!”

“I always pay attention when it has to do with my car,” said Derek, and then did the weird smile he always used to make people think he was a Normal and completely hinged and stable member of society.

It did not fool Stiles (or the pack), though. 

Stiles knew better.

“Hi,” said the third server – her tag read ‘Imani’ – matching his smile, but making it look way more natural. “Would you like to order?”

“No–”

“Yes,” said Derek, still with his creepy smile. Or was it a flirty smile? He had seen Derek flirting, and he wasn’t like this. “One pecan waffle with chocolate chip, large bacon, and large city ham sausages. You?”

He pretended he couldn’t even feel the furious glares Stiles was sending his person, and then Stiles had to stop, since Imani turned to him.

“Well, Imani,” he said, smiling a little obnoxiously, still mentally killing Derek, “What would you recommend?”

“Depends. Do you like more savory or more sweet? We’ve got omelettes, waffles, hashbrows, breakfast food...”

“Mh,” said Stiles, making a big show of eyeing the menu. “This is like any other Waffle House, then?”

“Yes,” she said, brightening up. “One of the many sites of the chain–”

“One of 1973,” agreed Stiles. “Which employ over 40000 employees. I’ll have the peanut butter chip waffle with chocolate chip.” He smiled. “Not to be nosy, but are you and the lady at the front siblings? You look a little alike.”

“Yes,” she said, appearing surprised that he had noticed. “Dallas, Ezra, Tatiana, Izzy, Malik, Audrey and I are all siblings.”

“Wow,” said Stiles, pretending to be greatly impressed by this. “And you all managed to land a job together? That’s so lucky!”

“Helps when your grandmother is the manager,” she said, putting away her notepad. “Will be right with you!”

“Take your time,” he said, keeping the smile up until the woman was gone. As soon as she rounded the corner, he was turning back to Derek, expression very grave. “Did you see that?”

“Did I see a completely normal human girl who you decided to assault with more questions than even the Spanish Inquisition would be comfortable with and who actually bothered answering you? Yes, Stiles, I saw that.”

“First of all, she was smiling too much for that to be natural,” said Stiles, leaning forward and keeping his voice low. “Second, she literally admitted that this isn’t a lucky coincidence.”

“Stiles, it’s a Waffle place.”

“It’s a Waffle House that appeared out of nowhere and where five employees are siblings and their manager is their grandmother.” He looked darkly at the counter. “Like I said, something is going on here. And I will get to the bottom of it.”

“Just don’t burn down the place,” said Derek, dismissively. “The next Waffle House is two hours out.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“That Beacon Hills is a hellmouth.” 

Well. Stiles couldn’t really argue against that.

“Fucking killer water horses!”

“It’s called a, fuck,” Stiles grabbed the tree harder as it violently shook, “It’s called a each-uisge.”

“I don’t give a fuck what’s it called,” snapped Jackson. “Tell us how to kill it!”

“I am trying!”

The problem with each-uisges was that, similarly to kelpies, their proximity to water made them almost unstoppable. The water was their home and their cure all, like they were a child of Poseidon in a Percy Jackson book.

They were fast, faster than werewolves, and their skin was almost impenetrable, even from claws. If they could get them still for long enough to get them down, maybe they’d have a shot. 

But getting them down was proving to be just as hard as killing them.

“My arrows are useless,” panted Allison, aiming her crossbow anyway. “We really need you two to get an idea already.”

“I’m trying,” repeated Stiles. “We– Boyd, watch out!”

Too late. Before the wolf could move, the enormous water horse had clamped his teeth down on his side with a sound Stiles would appreciate never having to hear again.

Derek was immediately on it with a tree shaking roar, but the wolf was already munching on the pieces of skin he had managed to get from the crying wolf.

“Oh, fuck that–”

“You can’t!” said Lydia, stopping him from trying to get down. 

“I have to! He got Boyd, and the wolves–”

“Are faster than you and I both,” said Lydia, in an equally snappy tone. “All we’re going to do if we go down there is get between them–” She winced as Scott was kicked against another tree, “And risk them confusion. We–”

“Did you see that?” interrupted Stiles, lifting a hand.

It was testament to how worried she was that Lydia did not even complain about being interrupted.

“See what?”

“They stopped. It was just a couple seconds, but when... oh.” He turned back to Lydia. “Vibration.”

Her eyes widened in immediate understanding, and Stiles cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Guys, fall back and cover your ears!”

“What?”

“Just do it!” said Derek, clawing the each-uisge’s face and grabbing Boyd with the other arm. “Now!”

Thankfully, nobody was in the mood to question Derek or Lydia.

Stiles bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and quickly wiped some of it on the tree they were on, establishing a connection between him and the land.

Then, he turned to Lydia. 

“Ready?”

She nodded, looking a little pale.

“Now!”

She did not hesitate. She put a hand over Stiles’, and then she screamed.

Despite the temporary connection between him, Lydia and the land, Lydia’s scream, so close to him, was still painful.

Not painful enough to knock him out the way it did the horses or hurt him like it did the wolves, but still painful.

It did not matter. 

Stiles ignored the pulsating pain in his ears, instead focusing on his pack bonds as the each-uisge stilled where they had been standing.

He needn’t had worried.

As soon as Lydia was done screaming, the wolves were descending upon the four horses.

“Go for the neck,” he uselessly said, just as Derek snapped the first one’s neck. 

Ew.

He was never riding a horse again.

Instead of focusing on that or the angry disembowelling of the horse, Stiles slid off the tree as quickly as he could, making a direct beeline for Boyd – who was being guarded by a very stressed looking Erica.

His shirt was all torn in the shape of the bite from the animal, and it took him a lot not to gag.

“Hey there, Vernon,” he said, as cheerfully as he could. “Not to worry you, but there’s like a chunk of you that’s missing.”

“I got it,” said Erica, holding the bloody piece of–

“I hate my life,” groaned Stiles, trying very hard to push down the bile in his throat. “I refuse to believe that this isn’t karma for me eating that stupid waffle.”

“You had waffles? When?”

“Derek forced me,” said Stiles, pulling out previously crushed echinacea leaves and petals. “We were investigating.”

Boyd groaned, which Stiles forced himself to ignore.

“Because I’m always right, obviously. There is something definitely fishy about a full grown Waffle House appearing from nowhere on a conjunction point of ley lines and being ran by a bunch of siblings under the management of their grandmother. It’s suspicious.”

“And...” Boyd’s eyes were closed, but he was still forcing himself to speak, breathing through his nose. “You ate... there?”

“Well, it would have been rude not to,” said Stiles, taking a deep breath before accepting the... piece of his pack member from Erica. “Because – oh dear god – Derek had ordered – I hate this very much – and then I ordered to not look suspicious – don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up – and then Isaac messaged us to get him some-”

“Terrible. Medic.”

“I’m doing my best,” protested Stiles, ignoring the way the skin/side was squelching in his hands. All he needed was to keep it connected, and then–

“Why. Isaac.”

“He begged,” said Derek, dropping heavily on Boyd’s side. He put a – very bloody, don’t even think about it – hand on his beta’s shoulder, and looked at Stiles questioningly.

Stiles nodded once: Boyd would be fine.

It was gross, and bloody, and he hated all of it, but healing magic was what he had specialised in after finding out he had a spark.

“Well, I can beg too,” said Erica, as the rest of the pack slowly appeared beside them. The only people with no blood on them were Allison and Lydia, and Stiles quickly looked away from Scott, Isaac and Jackson’s mouths.

Was it weird that Derek’s mouth being covered in blood didn’t bother him?

He had a feeling it should be mildly horrifying and worrying.

But it was Derek.

He liked Derek’s mouth. No matter what–

“This might hurt,” he said, forcefully focusing back on the injury. “Sorry in advance.”

“You don’t sound sorry-” started Erica, before Boyd’s sudden scream cut her off.

Stiles kept his eyes firmly on the injury, as well as his focus. His hand was covered in goldenseal powder and resting on the injury, glowing a little white as he willed Boyd’s injury to knit itself back together again.

He only opened his eyes again when the screaming and the skin knitting both stopped, and nearly toppled to the ground.

He only didn’t because Derek caught him before he could.

He could have sworn the man was sitting on the other side before, but as an appreciator of Derek’s arms and how they felt around him, he was not going to complain.

“You okay?” The Alpha’s voice was very close to his ear, and he could feel the sound of his voice right in his spine and you know what? Maybe this was not so good for his metal health.

“Peachy,” he said, focusing on Boyd instead of Derek. “And you?”

“I don’t know if I want to thank you or hit you,” admitted Boyd, wincing as he pushed himself in a sitting position with Erica’s help. “Ow.”

“You’re welcome,” said Stiles, turning to the other members of the pack. “Any other urgent and/or life threatening injuries?” He looked pointedly at Derek and the blood splatters on his skin and clothes. 

“Not my blood,” said Derek, deciding then to stand up and deprive Stiles of that sweet sweet skin contact. “Scott? Jackson? Isaac?”

“Fine,” said Jackson, flexing his wrist.

“Scotty? You hit your head pretty badly,” said Allison, sounding worried.

“I’m fine,” said Scott, leaning to give her a quick hug that she didn’t shy away from. True love was clearly blind and unable to smell blood and bloody horse bits.

Uh. Maybe that was why he saw nothing wrong with the blood all over Derek’s own face and lips and–

Nope. This was so not the time for any sort of deep insight into his own feelings.

“He’s got a thick head,” said Stiles, also forcing himself to his feet. “I am exhausted, though.”

“And famished,” said Isaac, looking at the woods despondently. “Nobody brought their car, correct?”

“Wasn’t much time. We all just rushed into the woods when Lydia said something was wrong.”

“Come on,” said Derek, helping Boyd to his feet. “The house isn’t too far.”

“You know what else isn’t too far?” Isaac gave everyone a meaningful look. “The new Waffle House.”

“Oh hell no,” said Stiles, whirling on him, earlier exhaustion promptly forgotten. “We are not going there.”

“Why not? Derek said they’re not evil.”

“And you’re going to trust Derek’s judgement?” Stiles crossed his arms, trying to channel his inner ‘Sheriff Stilinski Is Disappointed’ look (because, Alpha or not, his father managed to terrify and assert dominance over everyone in the pack – Derek, Peter and Chris Argent included). “We don’t know for sure that they’re not evil.”

“They’re not,” insisted Isaac. “How can they make such awesome waffles and be evil? It’s just not right.”

“Those waffles were passable.”

“Those waffles are to die for,” corrected the beta.

“Are they? Are they really, Isaac? Are those waffles worth everyone in your pack dying? Are they worth Scott dying? Are they worth me dying? Are they worth you having to go to the Sheriff’s house and tell him that his only son is dead because you really really wanted waffles?”

Surprisingly, this true and heartfelt statement was met with various eyerolls.

"Yes."

“It’s a human owned human staffed waffle place,” said Derek, rolling his eyes. “It’s safe, Stiles.”

As if he had any sway over him.

“We are not going there.” said Stiles, decidedly.

+++

Ezra – the pretty server – did not appear sufficiently freaked out when the door opened and Stiles and the pack walked in.

Stiles walked in with a glare on his face to really rub it in everyone’s faces how upset and unimpressed he was with the whole thing, but nobody paid any attention to him.

That was fine. When Stiles turned out to be right yet again, he would ask them to do really embarrassing things to earn his forgiveness before he saved them.

Though he could not deny that Ezra’s face as they walked in was a bit funny.

They had cleaned most of the blood off their persons between magic and the lake, but that did not mean they looked all that great.

Boyd might be all healed up and standing upright now, but there was still a suspicious bite sized hole on the side of his shirt.

“Sorry,” said Stiles, when it became clear nobody was going to say anything and Scott looked about to pass right out. “We were swimming and training for lacrosse and completely lost track of the time.”

Ezra stared at Stiles and then, very pointedly, turned to look at the clock.

The clock that proclaimed that it was, in fact, 3 am on a Tuesday.

“Holidays,” said Stiles, with the same dumb smile. “Time loses all of its meaning. Though, to be fair, time doesn’t really have meaning. Everything time related is very arbitrary and human decided. It was just some guy who woke up and decided, one day, that the clock should be 24 hours long and decided which hour was what.”

“It was, originally, Hipparchus,” mentioned Lydia, half leaning on Isaac’s side. “There are, however, disagreements on that. Can we get a booth or not?”

“Uh... sure,” said Ezra, still looking very confused but letting them in. “That one is our largest one, but I don’t know if–”

“We’ll fit,” re-assured Allison, pushing the pack towards the large booth.

It was a tight squeeze, definitely too tight to be completely comfortable, but there was no such thing as personal space when it came to being in a pack. They were used to being touchy feely with one another, and fitting in a space meant for one just to be close to one another.

And considering Boyd’s bad injury earlier on, it wasn’t surprising that they were a little more touchy feeling than normal (there were already whispers at school about a poly relationship, and part of him wanted to see what they would say, if they saw this).

This did not mean, however, that his heart did not start going into overdrive when he ended up squeezed in between Derek and Scott.

And it had nothing to do with Scott.

“God, I’m starving.”

“Isaac, stop squirming, oh my god-”

“You comfortable?”

“Lydia, just sit on Jackson’s lap and–”

“How about you sit on Jackson–”

“You okay?”

Stiles glanced up to Derek, who was observing him a little too closely and carefully for his tastes.

Did he have no idea of what his eyes did to normal people like Stiles? Those people in Geneva clearly had no idea of what a real weapon was.

“He didn’t call the police,” was what he said instead of that mushy stuff. “Who does that? Who gets a bunch of sopping wet and slightly injured girls and guys walk in at three am with no car and covered in mud and doesn’t call the police?”

“Someone who works at Waffle House. Do you want him to call the police?”

“No,” said Stiles, sighing. “But it’s suspicious. Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”

“I think it’s Beacon Hills,” said Derek. “And if I lived in Beacon Hills and saw something suspicious, I’d walk away and pretend I didn’t see anything.”

Well.

Stiles couldn’t really argue against that.

He was still right though.

And he was 100% going to prove it.

Chapter Text

Mornings like these were Stiles’ favourite.

Mornings where Stiles ended up at Derek’s place so early in the morning that nobody else was around. 

Mornings when Derek did not bother pretending to be annoyed at his arrival, and instead silently made breakfast for both of them.

Mornings where they ended up sat together on the couch, television off, and either quietly talking, or sitting in companiable silence.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved the pack. He loved being around the pack, being around his friends (even Jackson and Isaac, but they weren't allowed to know this).

But there was something about how perfect mornings alone with Derek could be. Something about how he allowed himself to be... almost soft, almost sensitive.

Those mornings, when Stiles managed to make him smile, it was his real smile. Not a smirk, not a forced grin, but his real smile. A soft smile that had his bunny teeth showing and that always sent Stiles into cardiac arrest.

It felt different, during those mornings. It felt like there was something between them, and that if there wasn’t, that something could grow.

They were the best kind of mornings.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“I like your cooking,” lied Stiles, taking a bite of the breakfast scramble. Derek raised an eyebrow, and he corrected, “I like this.”

“You could get off your butt and cook yourself, if you have so much to complain about,” said Derek, sitting close to him.

There was plenty of space on the couch for both of them to sit without touching, but Derek’s shoulder was lined up right against Stiles’.

It made him feel all tingly inside.

“I am a guest in your home,” he said, instead of the giggle and feet kicking combo his soul was trying to convince him to do. “I deserve to be served.”

“You make others cook at your home.”

“I don’t consider them guests.”

“I don’t consider you a guest.”

It was probably meant to be a mean thing to say, but all it told Stiles’ slightly deluded brain was that Derek was so used to having him around that he no longer considered him a guest.

The urge to giggle and kick his feet grew stronger.

“Where is Isaac?" He asked, instead of listening to his brain. Despite popular belief of Derek and non-Derek's in the pack, Stiles did know how to use his brain to mouth filter. "He usually ends up showing up around this time.”

It was honestly freaky how he managed to teleport into the kitchen and living room as soon as he smelled food (almost as freaky as his ability to digest everything Derek made, no matter how poisonous or terrible it was). 

Derek insisted it was his werewolf sense of smell, but Stiles was not convinced. Werewolf powers did not explain how he figured out there was food, came down, and then scurried back upstairs before they could notice, silent as a ghost.

There was just something freaky about Isaac Lahey, and one day he’d prove it.

Derek took a studiously long bite of his own food.

Stiles, who had seen him and other werewolves scarf entire baguette sandwiches in one go, was immediately alert.

“Derek,” he said, staring at him closely, “Where is Isaac?”

“Breakfast.”

“Breakfast,” repeated Stiles. There was nothing wrong or strange about Isaac going to breakfast, so why was the werewolf being shifty? “Where?”

“With Boyd, Erica, and Jackson,” said Derek, still not quite looking at him. “They were patrolling, last night. Looking for the trows.”

“That is a lot of words for you, this early in the morning,” said Stiles, suspicion not abated. “You still haven’t said where.”

“I don’t really–”

“Oh my god,” said Stiles, nearly slapping the werewolf’s bowl out of his hands. “They went to Waffle House!”

Derek winced. “It’s not like I can control where they go-”

“We don’t know that it’s safe, Derek! They could get in trouble! That place does not have a 'werewolf pack friendly' stamp of approval, yet!”

“... A what?”

Stiles slapped his arm again. “Derek!”

“Stop hitting me,” complained the wolf, moving a little away from him. “I can’t stop him or the rest of them from getting breakfast.”

“You can stop them from getting breakfast there! They could die!”

“They are fine, and that place is safe, Stiles. Nothing is going to happen to them.”

“You don’t know that,” said Stiles, putting down his plate. “We haven’t finished investigating.”

Derek sighed. “I won’t finish my breakfast, will I?”

Stiles stared right back at him, eyes narrowed.

"What do you think?"

+++

Less than fifteen minutes later, they were walking through the doors of the Waffle House.

The place was not packed, but there were a lot of people sitting around – both that Stiles knew and didn’t.

He didn’t pay attention to those people, however. Instead, he made a beeline straight for the pack, who was sitting in one of the corners, looking at him especially with dismayed expressions.

“Before you say anything,” said Erica, putting a hand up when they stopped in front of them, “This was Isaac’s idea.”

“No, it wasn’t!” protested the blond, glaring at her. “It was Jackson’s.”

“And what about it?” said Jackson, and this was why ex-kanimas should not be made pack. They were still, at the end of the day, snakes.

“I am very disappointed in all of you.”

“Boo-hoo,” said Jackson, rolling his eyes. “Stiles, it’s a Waffle House. A normal Waffle House, staffed by normal human beings, giving normal waffle house food. No poison, no toxins, nothing different than any Waffle Houses we might have been at outside Beacon Hills.”

“It’s-”

“Safe,” finished Erica. “Because you and I both know that if you had any shred of evidence that this was in some way not safe, you would have told Derek, and he would have listened because god forbid you say jump and he doesn’t ask you how–”

“Erica.”

She rolled her eyes. “Point is, if you genuinely thought this place was dangerous instead of just suspecting it, we would not be here. You would have made sure we weren’t here. So stop being suspicious and just sit down. You devoured the waffle, last time we were here.”

“I was starved and out of my mind,” lied Stiles, arms still crossed. “And I–”

“Derek,” said Imani, stopping beside them at the table. “Welcome back. And you’re Stiles, right?”

“Yes,” said Stiles, looking between a slightly guilty Derek and the smiling server. He gasped. “You have been here without me!”

“In his defense, I begged him,” said Isaac, not even bothering to look up from the menu. “Are you going to be a little bitch about it?”

“I might,” said Stiles, glaring at them both. Derek had the decency to look just a little bit sorry, which was cute enough to make Stiles consider forgiving him.

Then he remembered the way he had been deceived, and he decided he’d hate him for a little bit longer.

It wasn’t like Erica didn’t have a point, however.

About the lack of facts, not the whole bullshit about Derek supposedly liking him. That was just Erica’s weird bullheadedness about the status of Stiles’ relationship with one broody Alpha.

If Stiles had seriously thought they were in danger, he would have let them know. And if he had let them know, none of them would have ever been found there.

Their first few months of werewolf business had been a straight lesson in ‘if Stiles says someone is dangerous you trust him even if the evidence wouldn’t stand in a court of law and Stiles knows best (better than Derek at least)’. ISSSIDYTHEITEWSIACOLASKB(BTDAL) for short.

They trusted that much about him.

But still, he couldn’t push down the nagging feeling that something about this place wasn’t right.

Something about how fast it had appeared, and about the fact that everyone in town knew about it already. It wasn’t exactly in the middle of town. Nearer to the woods and the main road out of Beacon Hills, than it was to the town. 

Even his dad had mentioned checking it out, a couple of days ago (a hope Stiles had quenched with a steel foot in the shape of a large plate of tofu and greens).

“So...” Imani looked at the way Stiles and Derek pushed themselves in the booth with the betas, clearly confused. “You guys want to order?”

Stiles allowed this with no further argument, most certainly not squealing when Derek just placed his order for him (was Stiles' order that predictable and easy to remember or did this mean that Derek paid special attention to Stiles' various whims and actions? The world - Stiles - might never know).

However, as soon as Imani shot them another smile and walked away, he turned to the rest of the pack. “Is it just me or was she being way nicer than necessary?”

“Seriously?” Boyd gave him a very judging look. “Now she’s suspect because she’s being nice?”

“There is no such thing as a Nice Person™ in Beacon Hills,” insisted Stiles. “Because Nice People™ make Good Things™ happen, and Good Things™ don’t just happen in Beacon Hills. The most we can hope for is a strained smile and no maladies befalling us.”

“You’re spending too much time with the Hales,” said Jackson, shaking his head. "Their melodrama is rubbing off you."

In his opinion he wasn’t spending enough time with the Hales – or one particular Hale at least – and there wasn't enough being rubbed against him - again, by a very specific Hale that was most certainly not Peter - but he did not reply.

He flipped him off, though, just to make sure Jackson knew he still thought he wasn’t shit.

And though he loved those mornings, when it was just him and Derek at Derek’s place, talking and smiling, and would never replace them for anything, he liked this too.

He liked being surrounded by the pack, and seeing the way Derek relaxed when having them around him. Bitching with Erica, making fun of Isaac, arguing with Jackson, purposefully disagreeing with Boyd, and just talking with Derek... it made everything a little bit better.

Just a little brighter.

And, when they got their orders only fifteen minutes, he could not deny it.

The waffles were good.

“See?” said Derek, because of course he had seen Stiles’ face as he ate. Or maybe he had just heard the unholy sound he had made and figured out what had happened. “It’s not so bad, is it.”

“I suppose,” said Stiles, stealing a piece of bacon from Derek’s plate. The werewolf could have easily prevented this but didn’t (unlike he had done with Erica), which solidified Stiles’ delusion that maybe Derek did like him. “I guess I should leave it alone.”

Instead of relaxing, Derek – and the rest of the pack – looked immensely suspicious of his acquiesce.

“That was too easy. What are you planning?”

“Me?” Stiles pretended great affront. “I’d never do anything wrong, ever.”

Not a single person at the table looked like they believed him.

Rude.

Rude but right.

Because, the next day, Stiles was pulling up to the Waffle House all by himself, intent on getting some information.

There were only a couple of other people inside other than the servers, who immediately smiled when they saw him.

“Hey, Stiles,” greeted Ezra with a smile. “Alone today?”

“Yep. Picking up an order for my dad at the precinct – Sheriff Stilinski?”

“Your dad’s the Sheriff?”

Stiles tried to gauge his tone, but while he sounded surprised, he did not sound particularly nervous. Just the way most people responded to hearing he was the son of the Sheriff.

Which he found quite rude, actually. Did he not look like a perfectly responsible and law abiding citizen?

“Can’t see the family resemblance?”

Ezra gave him a quick up and down look, before giving him a dimpled smile. “I’d have to see you in a uniform to make sure.”

What a... weird thing to say. Then again, Stiles was a champion of weird things to say, so he didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know if I want to go into law enforcement,” he admitted, still taking the opening. “You planning on staying here for long?”

“Waffle making has always been the family business,” he said, not sounding like he was fully joking. “I mean, I definitely don’t plan on staying at Waffle House longer than I have to, but until things get better for grandma and we can try launching her Waffle place again, this is the best we can do.”

“Your own waffle place, uh. Ambitious. Family owned?”

“I know what you’re wondering,” said Ezra, leaning against the counter with a friendly smile. “How and why is an entire family working at the same place when it’s not theirs.”

“Guilty,” said Stiles, laughing.

“Grandma is persuasive,” said Ezra. “As soon as she got the position, she decided to take the responsibility of hiring personnel. And you’d be surprised how little the big bosses care about you being siblings when you have stellar records, will work for minimum wage, and know your way around a pan.”

Technically this was true. There was no 'no nepotism' policy at Waffle House – Stiles had conduced throughout and detailed research.

There were, however, policies about discrimination and choosing one person over the other based on previous connections – in this case, DNA.

But Stiles wasn’t here to bust anyone’s chops about that, nor was he interested in calling the Waffle House police on them.

What he was interested in was the grandma.

“Your grandma sounds like someone I’d love to talk to,” he said, right as a bag of food was passed to Ezra.

He handed it to Stiles with a strange smile. “Come back, and maybe you’ll meet her.”

Was that an invitation of some sort? Was he really letting Stiles and his grandmother meet?

That sounded almost too good to be true.

“We’ll see,” he said, because he did not want to sound too excited about meeting some guy’s grandmother.

That’d be creepy.

"Could I also get a coffee to go?"

"Sure," said Ezra, with another of his pretty smiles.

The guy was seriously attractive, thought Stiles, sitting on one of the empty chairs as he waited.

The whole family was, with their strong bone structures and dimples and curls, but between his natural charm and his green eyes, Stiles found himself attracted by Ezra the most.

As Lydia and Scott insisted on reminding him, he may have a thing for green eyes.

Unfortunately, Stiles' brain had decided that no pair of eyes would ever be as beautiful as Derek's. Which meant that when Ezra came back mere minutes later with a cup in his hand and a smile, Stiles smiled back and his heart did not so much as twitch (other than the twitches necessary to make sure he didn't drop dead, of course).

"Thanks," said Stiles, accepting it and snorting at the cute smiley face crudely drawn on the side. "How much...?"

"It's on the house," said Ezra, pushing Stiles' hand away. 

"What? But-"

"You and your friends showed up in the middle of the night and spent a small fortune," he said, shaking his head. "Keep your coffee money, Stiles. Just make sure you come back, alright?"

"Uh... alright," said Stiles, a little bemused by Ezra's words or wink. "If you won't get in trouble."

"I won't," he confidently said, despite Stiles being able to see a girl he hadn't before - her nametag read 'Dallas' - staring at him very judgementally.

But he wasn't one to say no to free coffee, so he just smiled.

"Thanks, Ezra. I'll see you around."

"If you don't, I know where to find you!"

Was that a joke or a threat? Stiles wasn't really sure, even as he smiled and left the place.

Ezra seemed nice enough, and Stiles hadn't gotten any suspicious vibes off him - other than the 'he is being way too nice' suspicion - but it was far too early to say anything with any sort of certainty.

"All in all, a successful trip," he decided, dropping the bag of food in the passenger seat. "Next up is drop this to the Precinct, and then I'll have the whole day to myself. I could-"

Of course, because he had dared to hope, his phone started to ring.

Stiles slammed his head against the steering wheel so hard the horn honked.

It spoke both highly and poorly of the establishment they were running that nobody reacted to the sound.

+++

“This was supposed to be a holiday,” complained Stiles, pressed hard against the tree. “This was supposed to be our summer.”

“It’s your own fault for believing that,” said Allison, standing behind a second tree, bow drawn. “It’s Beacon Hills, Stiles.”

“But I hoped really hard. Don’t I deserve a break?”

“This entire thing started partly because you decided to drag Scott into the woods to find a dead body instead of staying home playing videogames,” chimed in Isaac – unhelpfully, as he was wont to do. “Maybe you are being cursed by the spirit of Laura Hale and will never feel peace.”

“That is a terrifying idea.” He moved his head slightly, trying to steal a look through the windows of the seemingly abandoned cabin. “Are we sure this is safe? Because I am personally not sure that this is safe. Who approved the plan?”

They both stayed suspiciously quiet.

Stiles sighed.

“Seriously? Scott? Derek decided to listen to Scott?!”

“He has been a werewolf the longest after Derek and Peter,” pointed out Allison. “And he does have some great ideas. ... Sometimes.”

“Scott has great ideas only once every month, and he has already used his great idea for the month. Which means something is going to go horribly wrong.”

Don't get him wrong, Scott's ideas weren't always bad.

But one thing Scott seemed to have no defense against was mischief.

And the witch who had decided to relocate in the woods was most certainly mischievious - and coming from Stiles, that meant something.

Witches in Beacon Hills were not unheard of.

Derek had meant plenty of them during his non traumatising early life as the son of an alpha, and the second iteration of the Hale pack had seen their own share too.

Usually witches were pretty up to code. They knew what they could and couldn't get away with, and only ever dropped by Beacon Hills to stock up on rare plants, make sacrifices to the Nemeton, or get their energy up again.

The ones they had dealt with were white witches, and they had never caused any harm to the pack.

Had they played tricks on the pack, however?

Yes. Yes, they had.

Their idea of a 'trick' ranged from summoning animals from mythology or equally strange ecosystems to making people speak in riddles and rhymes for days at a time. 

Nothing terribly malicious, but very bothersome, and with a secret meaning at the end of it so that everyone involved remembered the affair with good humour (or a stern face, in Derek's case).

It was all pretty standard, and the pack had gotten used to it.

But this witch had not done any of that.

This witch had appeared on Hale land maybe two weeks ago (though Stiles and Lydia both suspected she had been around for far longer, simply hiding), and she had not approached the pack once.

In fact, the few times they had come across her, it had been by complete accident, and she had disappeared before anyone could say or do anything.

Coinciding with her arrival had been the sudden appearance of malevolent spirits, selkies, serial killer pharmacists, a pack of hyvr dogs and the each-uisges.

Beacon Hills was not known for coincidences: what were then the odds of evil creatures and a completely unrelated witch appearing at the same time?

Not ones Stiles wanted to bet on, that was for damn sure.

And definitely not ones Stiles was willing to bet Scott's planning skills on either.

Allison rolled her eyes. “You need to–”

She didn’t finish speaking before there was a loud explosion from the cabin.

Stiles would have said ‘I told you so’, but he was struggling with controlling his emotions as he and Allison immediately sprinted towards the door, ignoring their earlier instructions to ‘wait outside’ because clearly, those were the instructions of a moron-

He crashed against Jackson as the betas stormed out of the small cabin, nearly falling to the ground.

“Jeez,” said the wolf, keeping him from falling on his ass. “What are you doing?”

“What happened?” asked Stiles, quickly making sure that everyone was following out behind him. “Are you guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” said Jackson, slapping his hand off when Stiles tried to wipe the red not-blood from his cheek.

“What happened?”

“Booby trapped,” said Derek, looking more annoyed than hurt. In fact, none of them looked particularly injured, which made Stiles feel better.

Better enough to punch Derek in the shoulder.

“Hey!”

“Scott’s plan,” he said, refusing to fall for that hurt expression and sad, sad, eyebrows. “Really?”

“It was a good plan,” defended Derek. “And why did you hit me and not Scott?”

Stiles pointed at where his best friend was entangled in the Scott/Allison sandwich he had been obsessed with since they first met.

“How could you hurt that face?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “You’re scared of Allison.”

“More than I would ever be of you,” agreed Stiles.

Allison gave them a beatific smile which somehow worked despite the very scary bow she was wearing on her back.

“The witch?”

Derek’s glare returned.

“Boyd and I tracked her here while doing patrol, and called for back up,” explained Scott. “When we got here, we started to talk about how to better draw her out so that we could talk to her. She hasn’t actually done anything, yet, but like someone once said ‘we can’t just ignore how she has appeared out of nowhere and we’ve been dealing with new strange creatures since then, right’.”

“That was me,” said Stiles, just in case anyone had forgotten.

Nobody replied, which he assumed meant that nobody had forgotten.

“Before we could decide, she invited us in.”

“Hold on,” he interrupted again. “She invited you in? And you went?!”

“Violence is not always the best course of action,” protested Scott, looking all hurt. “And she said that it was not nice to loiter outside a poor old woman’s house.

“So, we went in.”

Stiles did not call Scott or Derek an idiot, which he considered proof of great self restraint on his part.

His face said more than words ever would anyway.

“The inside is bigger than the outside,” continued Scott. “Much bigger. And since as soon as we walked in she disappeared, we decided to search the place.”

“A witch’s house,” said Stiles, just to state the obvious and, hopefully, shame them a little for their decisions.

“Her magic is not dark,” said Derek. “She is a white witch. Which meant she wasn’t going to kill us.”

He was right, but it didn’t mean Stiles had to like or acknowledge it.

“We ended up finding her hidden in her bedroom,” said Scott, trying to wipe his face with his equally filthy shirt. “We called for her, but she didn’t move. And even though we told her not to, Erica got annoyed and tried to shake her awake.”

“I thought she was ignoring us!” complained the blonde.

“Let me guess,” said Allison. “It was a decoy and it exploded.”

“It was a decoy and it exploded,” agreed Scott. “Covered us in what I’m starting to think is beet juice, and teleported us back at the entrance. Because of course it did.”

“Of course,” said Stiles, observing the small cabin with a lot more interest than before.

Other than the spookiness of it all, there was no hint to the fact that the place belonged to a witch. It looked like just any of the very few houses in the Preserve: empty and abandoned.

There was not a single trace of magic inside of it.

Which either meant the witch was powerful enough to hide her magic from them, or that she was powerful enough to create a complete illusion for the wolves to fall into without it leaving any trace of magic behind.

No matter what the answer of ‘how’ was, the witch was powerful.

Perhaps not evil. But definitely powerful.

Stiles was intrigued. And impressed.

He had been previously interested in the witch for the same reasons Derek was, but now he was curious.

“Whatever you are thinking of, no,” said Derek.

Because of course Derek had been watching him close enough to notice the subtle shifts in his expression that usually predated trouble.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” he lied, pointedly ignoring the more than average number of lie-sniffing werewolves around him. 

What were they gonna do, call him out?

He’d just lie again.

“Anyway, you guys needs to get washed,” he said, ignoring their bitch faces. “Unless you enjoy being drenched in... whatever that is. You could get pimples.”

“Werewolves don’t get pimples,” said Jackson, though he quickly started walking off.

“Someone clearly didn’t see high school pictures of Derek.”

The horrified look on Derek’s face was worth revealing that precious blackmail he had on him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come? You must be starving.”

“I’m fine,” said Stiles, waving them off. “You guys go ahead. Derek will probably cook something.”

“Are you suicidal?” wondered Boyd.

“Should we send in for a welfare check after we get to Waffle House?”

“Get out,” said Stiles, pushing him with little effect.

Because every werewolf he knew was basically a gymbro who weighted far more than they looked. Just in case his life wasn’t Twilight enough.

He had once punched Jackson in the face and sprained his wrist like Bella had.

Isaac and Erica had mocked him mercilessly for weeks.

“Ezra will be disappointed,” said the blonde, smirking as she walked out. “I’ll tell him you guys said hi.”

“Whatever you want, Reyes,” he said, closing the door behind her.

Seriously. He did not understand that woman and what she was on, sometimes.

He then went in direction of the couch, throwing himself over it and turning on the television. He had already assembled a pack of popcorn and chocolate: now it was just a question of guessing Derek’s new Netflix password and put on something the werewolf wouldn’t mind.

“I swear I changed the password,” said the werewolf, when he came down almost twenty minutes later, freshly washed and changed. 

“You did,” agreed Stiles, pointedly not looking at the droplets of water he hadn’t cared enough to wipe away. “In your defence, it took me almost two minutes to guess this one.”

“You already have your own account that you share with Scott.”

“True. But that is not comparable to the joy I derive from using your account. There is little like it.”

Derek scoffed, and instead of taking a seat on the free sofa like a reasonable person respecting of the hearts and emotions of a teenage boy, he forced himself in the small space between Stiles’ feet and the arm of the sofa.

“Why are you here?”

“I love you too, Sourwolf.”

He rolled his eyes. “The pack went to the Waffle House together. Lydia is joining them with that guy Danny. You should go have fun.”

Stiles frowned at him and, instead of lifting his head, shuffled around awkwardly, nearly dropping off, until his head was where his feet had been.

“True,” he agreed. “But I also don’t like that place. And I like spending time with you, dude.”

Derek, who had watched the entire process very judgementally, paused at that. He looked Stiles with that expression on his face that he was never able to decipher, and then nodded to himself.

Had he said too much? Had he not said enough? Did Derek hear what he had been saying or did he think he was weird or did he–

“I like spending time with you too,” said Derek.

Stiles blinked past his initial confusion to find Derek’s eyes fixed on the screen and his hand almost in touching distance of Stiles’ head and shoulder.

What did that mean? Did it mean what Stiles thought it meant? Did it mean what Derek was saying?

Was Derek saying what Stiles thought he was saying or was he saying what Derek was saying which was different from what Stiles thought Derek was saying?

Or was Derek just saying things?

Was Derek putting down what Stiles was picking up?

Or had Derek assumed Stiles was putting down something else and picked it up?

Or did he maybe mean something else?

Did it-?

“Stiles.”

“You are confusing,” complained Stiles. 

Still, he forced himself to stop trying to find the hidden meaning of everything Derek Hale might or might not say, and turned to face the television, ignoring the continuous racing of his heart.

Derek’s fingers rested on his shoulder.

“So are you.”

They didn’t really talk after that.

Stiles was surprisingly okay with it.

Chapter Text

“Do I want to know how you found out where Peter lives?”

Lydia gave him her usual look of superiority, pressing the doorbell. “I have my talents, and you have yours.”

“Uh,” said Stiles, studying her. “I think that if we ever went to prison, you and I should make a bet to see who manages to get out first.”

“As if I’d ever get arrested,” said Lydia which... point.

If he had to rank the members of the pack from most to least likely to get arrested, Lydia would be dead last. 

Jackson would bribe his way out, Allison and the others would fight, Stiles would argue, but Lydia? She’d simply never get caught.

“Why is he pretending he’s not in? Hale, we know you’re inside!”

“I thought you would have realised that I didn’t want you around when I didn’t answer the first time,” complained the wolf, right before opening the door. He did not look particularly surprised or happy to see them. “Don’t you have things to do?”

“Unfortunately, our current things to do are talking to you,” said Lydia, shooing him. “Let us in, we need to talk.”

“Normally I would say that I don’t want to talk to you, but considering it’s my two favourite members–”

“How come every time you speak, I imagine someone jumping up from behind you to say ‘and this is how an Uncle Bad Touch might sound like’?”

Peter put a hand on his chest, pretending hurt, as a soft laughter came from behind him.

“Peter,” said a definitely female voice, “They have got you there.”

“Belinda, you hurt me deeply,” he said, moving out of the way to reveal a woman much older than Stiles had expected.

She was shorter than him, too, with greying hair tightened in many mini twists over her head. She had a friendly smile and enough wrinkles to prove a life well lived. She looked like the kind of woman Stiles might spot at a library, waiting to find some kid she could tell all the crazy stories of her youth to, and Stiles decided immediately that he liked her.

Even though she was, for whatever reason, at Peter's place.

Alone.

With Peter inside of it.

He refused to think about any of the possibilities or implications.

“I doubt there is much left to hurt,” she joked, patting him on the chest. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

Peter glanced at them as if expecting them to do the polite thing and say that they could come back. However, Peter did not exactly live in town, and they really did not want to come back.

Also, neither Stiles nor Lydia had ever been accused of being particularly 'polite'.

“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” said ‘Belinda’, giving both of them a smile. “Don’t let him have it easy.”

“We have never and we will never,” sweetly promised Lydia, and even Peter winced at her tone.

The old lady just laughed, before moving past them and away.

Stiles watched her walk on the main road, wondering how she was going to go home, considering the only cars parked out front were Peter’s and Lydia’s, before he was beckoned inside by the older man.

Peter’s house would never cease to disturb him.

Not because there were skulls around, or evidence of insanity and hidden crimes.

No, the house disturbed him because of how... normal it was.

The walls were all painted a neat white. There were a lot of very pretty paintings hanging on the various walls. The kitchen perfectly matched the rest of the house, down to the granite counter tops.

It was minimalist paradise, and there was something about Peter that greatly clashed with the idea of minimalism.

Or something.

Maybe he just did not like that Peter Hale had better interior design talent than he did.

After all, he had helped furniture Derek's house, and Derek’s house was proof that the pack might have a lot of enthusiasm, but not so much ideas of how to make a cohesive and matching colour scheme.

The living room couch had zebra prints.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit from my favourite pack members?” asked Peter, sinking into a black velvety couch.

Stiles was officially jealous.

“You know why we’re here,” said Lydia, clearly choosing to ignore all of Peter’s good choices in a way only she could. “What do you know about the witch in the woods?”

If you hadn’t known him, the way he raised his eyebrow at that might have even looked genuine. 

“What witch?”

However, Stiles and Lydia knew him.

“Cut the bullshit,” said Stiles.

“I just don’t know what makes you think I know anything about a witch living... in the Preserve, is it?”

“You are Peter Hale,” said Stiles, rolling his eyes. “You are always in everyone’s business but yours. You always know something.”

“I don’t go into people’s business,” protested the man. “I am not an Argent. I mind my business, and if I happen to find out secrets while doing it, that’s just cause I am exceptionally charming. 

“But...” he smirked. “In this case I do know something.”

Of course he did.

They looked at him expectantly, but all he did was get more comfortable on the couch.

Would it really be stealing if Stiles waited for Peter to be out and then took the couch from him? Sure, stealing was bad, but stealing from Peter Hale, after all the creeping, scaring and maiming he had done in their sophomore year, that was just reparations, right? Payment for past emotional scarring.

Or something.

“Question is, why are you coming to me, and why now? Surely this is something that your alpha should come around and find out.”

Neither of them blinked despite Peter being technically correct.

However, while the relationship between the last two remaining Hales had been contentious at best and murderous at worst for the past few years, lately it had ended up in a default ‘ignoring one another’s existence’.

Or rather ‘Derek ignoring that Peter existed’.

The causes were unclear. Derek had ‘forgiven’ (read: decided to work with despite previous actions) a lot from Peter, but had stopped talking to him almost a month ago.

Isaac said he knew why, and always looked at Derek or Stiles and giggled like a child in those occasions, singing ‘I know something that you don’t... I know something you’ll never know’ to himself as he did so, but nobody else had any idea.

Though he would not be surprised if Lydia had a pretty accurate idea.

“Are you going to tell us or should I show you the very hurtful results of the ‘should we kill Peter Hale poll’ I made?” 

The poll did exist. 

The results, however, hurt Lydia more than they’d ever hurt Peter, because it turned out everyone needed ‘dirty uncle Sal’ in their lives.

And as far as uncle Sal’s went, Peter wasn’t so bad.

Apart from, you know, the murder and non consensual werewolf biting, that was.

Peter however, very much did not need to know they sort of kind of cared about him.

“You are so hurtful, Lydia Martin,” said the wolf, pouting slightly. “I think that’s why I like you so much.”

"Woop-woop, that's the sound of da police..."

Stiles was ignored by both.

“She was a friend of Talia,” then explained Peter. “The witch. This is not the first time she comes to Beacon Hills to set down roots for a while, but it is the first time since Talia died. 

“I don’t know if Deaton told you, but magic is stronger when there is a settled pack on the land. And not only is it stronger, but it operates as a restorative force, bringing energy back to those who know how to ask for it and those the land determines worthy.”

“So she is not a threat?”

“And does this mean anyone can just drop by and go to the Preserve to recharge?”

“She could be a threat,” said Peter. “But she is not a threat to you or to the pack. She is more of a mischievous soul than a malicious one. She likes causing minor trouble.

“And no, Stiles. Only those who have a connection to the land. Do you know how to allow someone to form a connection?”

Stiles glanced at Lydia, before he shook his head.

Peter did not appear surprised, though he did look annoyed. “It’s like Deaton doesn’t even want you guys to learn new and interesting things. Doesn’t matter: connections are formed only with the blessing of the land – which, in turn, can only come from the alpha and/or the emissary. However, connections outlast the person who cast them and remain so long as the land does not lose the pack.

“Beacon Hills and the Hale Pack might have gone through some troubles and rough patches, but there has not been a single year since we first settled on these lands where at least one member of the Hale Pack did not live here.”

Sometimes Peter said things like that, and Stiles was acutely reminded of all of the things he and Derek had lost.

The Hale Pack had all but created the town. They had been here for a very long time, according to everything he had found about the origins of Beacon Hills, and had been protecting it for just as long.

They had always been a massive pack, and while they had mostly been a familiar pack, they had had many human or non werewolves members among them.

Peter and Derek had grown up in that mess of family and friends and family friends who were all unified under the banner of pack.

And then one day a crazy pyromaniac bitch had set that life ablaze.

She had burned down everything they knew, and because of her (Stiles blamed Peter for a lot, but he blamed Kate Argent for everything Peter had done and become), there were only two of them left.

Once upon a time 'so long as a single member of the pack lives here' would have been laughably easy to achieve.

Now, it was sheer luck - and that was if you wanted to call Peter being in a coma for years luck.

“Do you know how we can get her to meet with us?” 

Peter shrugged. “She used to play by the rules,” he said. “And she’s not dangerous. But then her children died and she went a little...” he whistled, tapping a finger against his temple. “You know?”

Both Lydia and Stiles stared at him very intensely.

“Yes,” said Stiles, as he and Lydia continued to look at him. “We are very aware of how that works. Painfully aware, if you will. Have the scars and bite marks to prove it.”

“You guys are both annoying and mean,” said Peter, shaking his head. He was still smirking, though. “No wonder I like you so much.”

And he wasn’t even kidding.

“Thanks,” he said, as Lydia and he stood up. “Let us know if you accidentally run into her.”

“Connections or not, Derek is alpha now,” added Lydia. “She needs to speak to him before setting house in his backyard.”

“She saw Derek when he was in nappies,” said Peter, also standing up. “It’s hard to take him seriously when you know he cried at the ‘three little pigs’ story because they burned the wolf or that he had a lisp until he was like eight.”

“Speaking of the delightful baby Derek stories you have apparently been holding out, you need to speak to your nephew,” said Stiles, making a note of this information in the large ‘Derek Hale’ folder that existed in his head.

“It might shock you to find out, but this time it’s not my fault,” said Peter. “He’s just mad I’m right.”

“It does shock me. So much so that I don’t believe you.” Stiles opened the door for Lydia, keeping his eyes on Peter. “Talk to him. At the end of the day, murder and mutual maiming aside, you are what’s left. Stick together.”

Peter sighed, but it did not sound like a resigned ‘you’re so right, Stiles, and we should all always listen to you' sigh. More like ‘why is this world against me? I have never done anything wrong, ever’ sigh.

“I can’t wait for Derek to get his head out of his ass,” he said, patting him on the head a little condescendingly. “I have so much to share with you.”

Then, he closed the door.

Because he was Peter, and what was the point of Peter if he couldn’t be weird for no reason and cause everybody problems?

Stiles turned to Lydia.

"I hate that guy."

"I know your poll vote," she said, not turning around.

"Those were meant to be anonymous!"

+++

“I don’t like how often we are here,” said Stiles, sliding in the booth Derek was already occupying. “I don’t like that this has become a headquarters of sort for us. I don’t like that we all just eat here and conveniently forget that this is a suspicious place that suspiciously– heeeeeey, Ezra.”

“Hi,” he said, flashing all three of them a smile. “Good to see you back, Stiles.”

Since ‘I am being forced to be here at all because all of my best friends slash pack insist on not seeing how your presence and the presence of this store is highly suspicious, both due to the position of it and because of how fast it appeared’ was probably not the answer he was getting paid for, Stiles just grinned at him.

“I don’t know what you put in your syrup but they keep bringing me back.”

Ezra winked at him. “Family recipe. Even I don’t know how Imani makes it. We–”

Derek cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly, and gave Ezra one of his smiles that was more like he was about to eat you.

Stiles personally found that smile as cute and charming as any other of Derek’s smiles, but apparently people who did not deal with rabid beings with too many rows of teeth attacking them every other week found it bizarre and threatening.

Allegedly.

Ezra, like those weaklings, nearly took a step back, his hold on the notebook tightening.

"Uh..."

"Ignore him," said Lydia, smiling pleasantly. "He always gets like this when he hasn't had breakfast."

She further demonstrated this by ignoring Derek's low growl or the way Stiles 'subtly' kicked him under the table at this, before charmingly placing her order.

Stiles did the same with a very fake grin on his face, which only fell when Ezra quickly walked away, still looking a bit freaked out.

Then, he turned to Derek.

“What was that? I know you were raised by wolves,” another low growl, “And don’t really know how to conduct yourself in polite company, but you’re not usually rude to waiters."

This was because Derek claimed to understand what it felt like to work minimum wage.

He had never elaborated further on the point, so now all Stiles had in his brain was this image of Derek in a subway uniform, asking people if they wanted ‘cheese and toasted’ and judging people’s orders, no matter what it was.

... every day he was grateful that nobody in the pack had unleashed latent abilities of reading minds and continued to pray that this remained the case.

“You need to apologise to your uncle,” said Lydia, instead of agreeing with his callout. “He is right.”

“He is not,” said Derek, now glaring at her. “You don’t even know what he said.”

“I have a pretty accurate idea,” said Lydia, which was news to Stiles. He hadn’t even realised she had cared enough to try and figure it out – normally he was the one who overinvested in all things Derek Hale. “And he’s right. Imagine how much pain it brings me saying it, and know that I don’t do so lightly.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” insisted Derek. “Can you just tell me what you wanted to tell me so that I can continue with my book?”

“No,” said Lydia. “All I saw from whatever that was is that Peter is correct and that, even if you don’t say so to him, you should do as he says. You have to know it will go the way you want it to go.”

“I am feeling very excluded from the conversation, and I don’t like it,” warned Stiles, looking between the two of them in frustration. “What did Peter say?”

Derek just stared stubbornly back, demonstrating yet again why he was the Alpha. After all, very few people could argue with Lydia Martin and survive unscathed with their pride and personal opinion intact.

Stiles knew from personal experience.

“Stiles, if me and Peter agree on something, what is the probability of that thing being correct?”

“97 percent,” he said, still trying to figure out what the battle of wills was about. It couldn’t be about Derek being nice or waffles, right? “Two percent subject to me agreeing or disagreeing with you guys, and 1% because we should always leave space for reasonable doubt.”

“And I’m going with reasonable doubt,” said Derek, arms crossed. “This discussion is over.”

“Rename it unreasonable doubt,” said Lydia, but she did sit more comfortably on her chair, leaning against the back rest – further proving the point that Derek really was the alpha. Lydia never abandoned arguments with other people. “But whatever. I don’t actually care about your truly appalling patterns of behaviour. The witch.”

“Arlotta,” said Derek, which made them both pause in surprise. He rolled his eyes. “You are not the only ones who were trying to figure out who she was or where she came from.”

“You went to Deaton,” realised Stiles. “Dude. Not cool.”

“You went to Peter.”

That was... a very valid point.

“Anyway, Peter didn’t give us her name, just her life story. Apparently she has a bond with the land, virtue of Mama Hale and potentially Deaton himself.”

Lydia shot him a glare for his words, but Derek did not react to the mention of his mother.

While the situations and reasons had been drastically different, both of them had lost their mother. And both of them, again for different reasons, were traumatised and blamed themselves for what had happened.

This meant that while speaking to others (even family) about their mothers was complicated, speaking to each other came strangely easy.

Derek knew stuff about Stiles’ mom that only the Sheriff could guess. Both in terms of his love for her, and in terms of his fear and the latent resentment he felt. 

And likewise, Stiles knew truths about Derek’s feelings for his mother that nobody else in Beacon Hills could guess, not even Peter himself.

They were bonded by trauma.

Hopefully one day they would be involved in a different type of bond– no! Bad brain!

“Deaton did not mention that,” said Derek, both he and Lydia eyeing him strangely. Well, he was eyeing him strangely. Lydia was eyeing him with contempt.

Affectionate contempt, he liked to think.

“All he said was that her children were killed, and she extracted revenge,” he continued, which immediately killed the mood. “He doesn’t think she is dangerous, but she is not innocuous either.”

“I see why Peter didn’t mention it,” muttered Lydia, but Stiles did not really mind it.

In fact, after finding out who Peter was killing and why, he had not really thought about stopping him.

His only concern had been his plan to get Scott to join in the killing.

And then he had captured Lydia, and things had become personal.

“What do you want to do, then?” asked Stiles, frowning.

“I still want to find her,” said Derek. “At least to speak to her. She might have had a deal with my mom and a connection to the land, but I am the alpha now. I am the one she is supposed to be talking to before she decides to just move in. Not Peter.”

She probably hadn’t meant any disrespect, and it wasn’t like the pack was particularly formal among one another or with strangers, but according to polite behaviour and proper supernatural procedures, she should have spoken to Derek.

No matter what her feelings regarding him were.

“We’ll find her,” said Stiles. “It’s not like she can remain hidden forever, and the Preserve is Hale land.”

“Plus you have Stiles,” said Lydia, shrugging delicately. “Between his magic, your knowledge of the Hale land and the fact that you are literally our emissary and alpha, I know you will have no difficulties finding her.”

“Which is why you should never be making plans with Scott,” agreed Stiles, watching Lydia stand with a frown. “Where are you going?”

“I came to help you track down and get the information out of Peter,” she reminded. “I have no interest in... whatever is coming next. Goodbye.”

“Wait–”

Lydia, of course, did not wait. She pulled away from the booth, taking her milkshake from Dallas and pointing over at Derek in a clear ‘he’ll take care of that’ move.

And because he was a softie who liked how it felt providing for the pack, Derek did not so much as blink at that. He just glared at Lydia’s disappearing act, but that was his rection to anyone and anything inconveniencing him, so she shouldn’t take it too personally.

“Here,” said Dallas, smiling as she brought their meal to them. “The girl said–”

“Yeah,” said Derek, moving his book to the side. “Thank you.”

Dallas smiled, though it looked a little forced, in Stiles’ opinion.

It was more honest when it was aimed at Stiles, but definitely nowhere as easy and shining as the previous times.

“Don’t be surprised if your ice cream tastes suspiciously like spit,” he said, as she walked away. “This is why you don’t scare or upset the servers, Derek.”

“I would know if they had done something to my food,” said the alpha, contradicting his own words by observing his food very closely and even sniffing it before taking a bite. 

And also neatly ignoring the second part of Stiles’ sentence.

“I hate how good this place is,” said Stiles, moaning at the taste. He didn’t even love waffles that much, but whatever it was they put in the peanut butter cream was something divine. “Honestly, whoever is cooking this stuff deserves to be made cum daily for the rest of their lives.”

Derek made a face, the tips of his ears turning a little red.

“Why can’t you be normal?”

“Is this a challenge, Derek Hale? Are you trying to even imply that I do not out-normal you on a day to day basis?”

“Please,” scoffed Derek, watching Stiles steal his fries. “If you put the two of us in front of someone and ask them to guess which one is human and which one is supernatural we both know who won’t pass.”

“Derek,” said Stiles, with as much pity as possible. “Derek, you growl when the ice cream machine doesn’t work. You punch machines when they won’t give you your treats. You flashed your eyes at the microwave.”

Now even his neck was red, which was really unfair.

Unfair in the way it made Derek look even cuter than normal, because really who had had the bright idea of making a killer machine badass alpha come with very human bunny teeth and a blushing face that made older women swoon?

Didn’t they understand the sort of problems they caused to Stiles’ heart with such behaviours and tactics? 

It was so mean.

“What did you get anyway? What fla– hey!”

“You have your own drink,” said Derek, pulling his milkshake closer to himself, almost possessively. 

“I’m just asking what flavour it is,” complained Stiles, trying to reach for it. “Oh, come on, I’m just asking!”

“Why do you need your hands if you’re just asking? Leave it alone!”

“Okay, but if you let me have a small sip–”

“No.”

“Derek–”

“No.”

“Sourwolf-!”

“N. O.”

+++

Derek’s milkshake tasted like strawberries, acai and mint. It was a combination that should, by all accounts, make Stiles want to gag, but that actually worked surprisingly well together.

Or maybe that was just the sweet sweet taste of victory as he and Derek made their way out of the Waffle House with Stiles holding Derek’s drink in his hand and sipping it.

“I hate you,” said the wolf.

“Lies and untruths,” said Stiles, slurping obnoxiously. “I am your favorite.”

“You are the only one I can never seem to get rid of,” said Derek, with a put upon sigh.

Was Stiles supposed to take it as a mean comment or as a declaration of affection?

It was getting increasingly hard for his obsessive brain to parse the difference between the situations when he was around Derek.

Derek and his existence made every aspect of Stiles’ life unnecessarily hard.

Pun fucking intended.

It–

“Stiles?”

Stiles remained standing where he was, head cocked slightly to the side.

“Stiles.”

“Sh,” he said, crouching slowly to the ground. “Can you feel that?”

“All I can feel is the wind and whatever’s coming from the Waffle House or the road,” said the wolf, coming to stand closer. “What do you feel?”

“Tug," he said, brows furrowed. “Nothing dangerous, I don’t think. None of the wards I put up this winter were triggered. But I can feel a tug from the Nemeton.”

Derek’s concern didn’t dissipate.

“Is it–”

“It’s safe,” said Stiles, brows furrowed. He stood back up and, without pausing, started walking towards the woods.

Derek caught up with him less than a second later, not stopping him but looking at him with that ‘Stiles’ look he had perfectioned after so many years.

“It’s safe,” he insisted. “The Nemeton has not been cleansed, but I am linked to it now. The energy I am perceiving is not malevolent.”

“You did not say benevolent.”

Derek wasn’t alpha for nothing.

But Stiles was quite confident.

Last year, Stiles had... come across a ritual on how to cleanse the Nemeton.

The ritual had involved killing an innocent and then killing a bad person to balance things out.

Scott and Derek had not approved.

So instead of doing that, Stiles had worked towards ridding the tree of the poison that was rotting it from inside out.

Being a spark had been a bit confusing when he had found out in sophomore year, and it was just as confusing now. He couldn't necessarily cast spells in the way witches and other magical beings could, but he could dip into natural magic he could access and use that to his advantage.

Which meant he could dip into the magic of the Nemeton and slowly - very slowly - work on healing the rot inside.

It had been a year since he had started, and he was not yet done.

He was, however, and continued to become more and more connected to the tree the longer he worked on it.

It wasn't bad. 

He didn't attract any more bad guys than he had before doing this, and hurting the tree didn't hurt him.

But he was aware of the Nemeton like your phone was of any Wi-Fi or Bluetooth spots.

He just knew what was going on with it at all times (or, better, had a good idea).

So he knew what was going on even before they got to the Nemeton.

He did not pay much attention to Derek, as the wolf scanned their immediate surroundings for any threats, looking in surprise at the Nemeton itself.

“Oh.”

Derek was at his side in less than a second.

“What?” he asked. “Are you okay? I can sense some faint magic, but I can’t see anyone–”

“It’s fine,” said Stiles, a small smile appearing on his face. He moved forward and crouched next to the old stump, putting a hand over the top of it. “Told you nothing bad happened.”

“Stiles.”

He closed his eyes, allowing his senses to fully perceive the magic around him.

It was hard to explain what magic felt like.

The best explanation Stiles could provide was a Pollock painting.

Magic was like every single dot that, together, formed a much larger and more impressive image.

Except that every single dot was, in itself, a painting, a painting with colours and sounds, and a different smell.

Stiles could hear them all at the same time, which, in itself, was a big headache.

The Nemeton was one of the many finished paintings magic could appear as.

To hear the Nemeton, to fully sense it, Stiles had to tap into all of these different flavours and sounds at the same time, and try to make sense of them - try to make it into one single clear sound.

It was exhausting.

It was loud.

It made headaches ten times worse.

But it was so worth it, when Stiles managed to turn the swirl of magic and energy into one single spot, until it was just him and the Nemeton,

His mind was usually in three hundred different places at once, but when he connected and it was just him and the Nemeton... it was like everything else turned off.

It was just him and the tree - even though the tree was a Pollock painting with even more magic under it.

And one more, today.

“The witch offered her magic to the Nemeton,” he explained, feeling oddly touched by the gesture. “White magic, white witch; Deaton and Peter were right.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She doesn’t have to do it,” explained Stiles. “It’s just... the Nemeton is still a bit rotten because of all the dark magic it has been subject to. Between being cut off and being used as a source of power drawing all that is evil and bumps in the dark to Beacon Hills, not even my link to it or Lydia’s whole banshee-ness has really been helping the tree. 

“We have maintained it at a somewhat reasonable level of non possessed by evil things for evil purposes, but we routinely – well, I routinely offer some of my magic to the tree. The witch did the same.”

Her power was surprisingly comforting. The few witches he had met before had magic that was sharp and bitter, like the root of a tree, but hers was cloudy. 

Soft.

It felt like the hug of a mother.

It was nice, even with knowing the source was a tricky witch living in the woods.

Stiles judged people often, sometimes even before they spoke. He had a sixth sense for when things were dangerous or when they were dangerous.

He had never been particularly worried about the witch, despite her sneakiness, and this proved – at least to him – that there was in fact nothing to worry about.

Someone who offered magic to a dying tree for the land which she was temporarily staying at was not the sort of person Stiles encouraged hunting down.

He pulled the magic offered by the witch into the Nemeton's core, pushing some of his own since he hadn't done so in a while.

The Nemeton was not exactly sentient or anything like that. But Stiles still felt the way it accepted both with ease, pushing it through its roots-

“Oh,” said Derek, eyes wide when Stiles glanced at him in alarm. “What did you do?”

What had he-? 

Oh.

“The Nemeton did that,” he explained, a little surprised. “Well, with my help, I guess. It’s absorbing the magic offered into the land. It’s–”

“Your magic is the purple one, isn’t it?” asked Derek, eyes flashing red. “It’s familiar.”

That... was surprising.

And unexpected.

Enough so, in fact, that Stiles let go of the tree, turning to look at Derek. 

“You can feel it?”

“I usually can,” said Derek. “Normally not this strongly, though. You are... everywhere.”

“Probably being near to the Nemeton,” considered Stiles, nodding. “Maybe it’s... what?”

Derek’s expression did not clear, and he continued staring him oddly.

“I can feel you,” he explained. “I can feel your magic. It’s almost like I can... know you.”

“Is that a good thing?” wondered Stiles. "I feel like since we sort of crashed into each other when I was fifteen, this should sort of be a good and very normal thing."

But he had a feeling that Derek was attempting to say something important and he couldn’t really understand what that was.

“You love Beacon Hills,” he said, sounding fascinated.

“Well, yes. I live here.”

“No, you... you love the land. The Preserve. The Nemeton. You love it the way the pack loves it.”

“I am pack,” said Stiles.

He knew what Derek meant. The wolf had always had a clear link with the pack, to the point where sometimes he could easily guess what they were thinking, but Lydia and Stiles were different.

They were pack, they had pack bonds. But they weren’t wolves, and they didn’t have an imperative to follow Derek’s rules. They didn’t have a link between them and the alpha that made him able to feel them enough to basically have control over them.

Stiles could feel strong emotions from the pack, and from Derek.

Derek could feel strong emotions from the pack, but not from Stiles.

He hadn’t planned or thought about it, but he was glad Derek could now feel the depth of Stiles’ feelings.

... For Beacon Hills, of course.

“You are... you are always there. Everywhere. And you want to. I...”

He paused, but that was fine. Derek’s eyebrows said everything his mouth couldn’t.

They said more, sometimes, than Derek would be comfortable with.

Or maybe Stiles was just very good at reading the werewolf.

"I know," he said, smiling and trying to convince his mind that this was a normal exchange between packmates and that he really had no business reacting the way he was.

Derek just meant that-

“You are important.”

Oh.

Maybe his mouth could say things.

Because Derek had no regard for Stiles' feelings, emotions, and general wellbeing.

What an ass.

... god, he loved him so much.

"You are important too," was all he said.

Derek smiled, and Stiles decided he could die happy.

If he never told Derek his real feelings, if Derek never reciprocated them, if they never got together: he could die happy, just with that smile.

It was enough.

Chapter Text

There were many reasons as to why Stiles should not be alone in the woods.

The main reasons were: he lived in Beacon Hills; he was a spark; he routinely ran with wolves; he had a supernatural ability of always managing to get himself in trouble.

Those were just some of the many many reasons why he should never ever be caught by Derek Hale walking around the Preserve by himself.

Those reasons did not include ‘you might accidentally run into - and almost crush - a fae and risk getting yourself mixed up in fae problems’; still, as Stiles stared at the little creature he had almost stepped on, he had a feeling Derek might try to say that it was 'implied'.

It very much had not been.

All he had learnt about fae/faeries/fairies/fae folk/other-'f'-starting-fancy-names came from old books belonging to Alan Deaton or to Peter Hale - dubious but not completely unreliable sources of knowledge.

The general consensus was that faes were not to be trusted, faeries couldn't lie, and fair fae folk preferred living in places that were not the Preserve of Beacon Hills, California.

“Help,” said the fae, determined to prove him wrong by reaching pityingly towards him.

Like the books agreed, she was very small - roughly the size of his hand. She was white like fresh snow - skin, clothes, eyes, hair - and, despite the row of sharp kitten sized teeth, all in all did not look like a dangerous predator.

Stiles knew better.

Like werewolves, it would be dangerous to claim that all faes were inherently dangerous.

But just like werewolves, it would be particularly stupid to call faes not dangerous.

Was the species capable of inflicting damage? Maybe not the way werewolves did, but yes.

Was every member of the species dangerous? Again, not exactly, but the potential for danger and pain was there.

Was the smartest thing to do get away or call for back up? Yes, most certainly. 

But the most important question however was: did Stiles have any self preservation?

And the answer to that was a big, fat, no.

Which was why he stopped a few steps away from the fae, instead of bolting out of there as quickly as possible.

“Help?”

“Maybe,” he said, looking around for hidden fae circles or other nasty tricks she might have left for him. “I better not die for this.”

“Die?” she asked, sounding immediately distressed - and distressing him with her very high pitched voice.

“No, no, not you, sorry,” he said, clicking the speed dial button on his phone before putting it back in his pocket. 

Hopefully Derek wouldn’t be so mad about him getting involved, if he saw that technically he had called for help before doing so.

"Okay, Tinkerbell," he said, finally stepping closer. "Let's see what's going on with you."

"It is clear, friend Spark, where the problem might lay," she said. "I twisted my wing while flying in the sky. Now I am stuck in the humans' land, and I can only cry, for no matter how much I try, I can no longer fly."

"Rhymes," said Stiles, with a very fake smile stretched on his face. "Why not. That's so fun."

Thankfully, the fae was too busy being in pain to note the sarcasm, and it was easy to see exactly what the problem was.

One of the fae's wings had somehow twisted on itself - a surprisingly common occurrence for supernatural creatures with the ability to fly. It was as common as a an ankle sprain to them, if maybe a little more painful.

But it was also much more fixable than an ankle sprain – especially if there was someone like Stiles around to help.

“Okay,” he said, slowly scooping the scared creature in his palm. “Don’t curse me or do me any favours, and I will have you fixed up in no time, all right?”

The fae made a sound of pain and distress and yeah, Stiles saw how these things managed to have the supernatural world by the balls.

They looked so unthreatening and pretty and nice that they could fuck you over in moments without you even realising you were getting fucked over.

“Orzenia,” he said, opening his bag with one hand and pulling out a bag of yellow powder. “For healing.”

“Orzenia for healing? You have wolves in these woods.”

“I have been known to run with the occasional wolf or wolves,” he agreed, carefully spreading the powder over the fae. “What gave it away?”

“Humans and sparks do not use orzenia in their cures. Only wolves, and kitsunes, and shifters; only they use orzenia for pains and blisters."

“And faes,” he pointed out, using the tip of his nails to untwist the wing.

She twisted her nose. “To alleviate any malady, the fae folk uses krenady.”

She said that, but the pained expression was already disappearing from her face as the orzenia quickly relieved the sprain.

“How do you even twist a wing? Were you flying too fast?”

Her expression turned a little embarrassed, as she was deposited back on the ground.

"In an attempt to hurry back home, I flew right in the eye of a storm," she said, sheepishly. "But I turned too fast and lost my way, and with a twisted wing had to pay. But now all is better, and I-"

"Do not have to worry about me," quickly said Stiles, knowing exactly where this was going.

There was only one thing worse than finding yourself in the sights of a fae's revenge, and that was finding yourself in the sights of a fae's gratitude.

He did not-

“That is a really good job.”

One would think that after years and years spent around werewolves with an allergy to making sound or noise, Stiles would have gotten used to people appearing in his vicinity without warning.

That would be very incorrect, however, and that Stiles had not yet developed a heart condition or dropped dead was only due to his supernatural non spark powers.

“Jesus H Christ,” he said, only barely managing not to crush the fae again. “What the fuu– oh.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” said Belinda.

You know, Belinda as in that old lady he and Lydia had met in Peter’s apartment.

They should have probably investigated that woman a little bit more.

Because of course she was the witch.

What sane person would willingly hang around Peter Hale for prolonged period of time but a witch?

Chris Argent did not count, because he had been insane enough to tap that in youth and everyone knew that, no matter how much he tried to deny it. 

Even Allison suspected it. 

Even Stiles’ father believed it.

But anyway-

“You’re a witch,” he said. "You're the witch."

She smiled. “And you’re a spark. Don’t try to deny it,” she added, when he opened his mouth. “I have been watching you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you–”

“Please do not imply anything around people who like to take things literally,” she said, giving the fae a quick glance.

Right.

Faes were tricksters at heart.

And in so far, the witch had not hurt or caused anyone particular harm. So...

“Well, looks like the powder fixed you right up,” he settled for saying, speaking to the fae directly. “You’re good to go.”

“You hea–”

“I can’t heal,” he quickly said. “The powder healed you. And you can’t really thank a powder.”

She frowned, looking between him and his bag. “I... I suppose. Still, I must owe you–”

“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “Good luck, little fae. You should get home.”

She lit up. She thankfully did not thank him for anything else, and Stiles and the witch watched her jump up before disappearing into the sky at a terrifying speed.

Only once she was gone did he relax, sighing and leaning back, his back against the wall.

“You know, most people would salivate at the chance to have a fae owe them a favour,” said the witch.

Because, for whatever reason, she had decided to stick around now.

Maybe she figured that, now that he knew who she was, he’d be able to find her more easily.

She was right.

“I am not most people,” he said instead of that. “And I know that even favours from the faes come with caveats and danger.”

“Happen to someone you knew?”

“After you read enough stories, you do not need things to happen to you,” he said, shaking his head. He studied her. “You are not running.”

“You are stronger than I thought you would be,” she said.

He wasn’t sure what she meant by this. 

Even sitting at a distance as they were, he could feel the energy rolling off of her.

When it came to magic users, witches were among the strongest of all.

Sorcerers had the ability to manipulate the magic around them.

Mages were born with innate magic within them.

Witches occupied a spot between sorcerers and mages: they weren't born with magic, but they could learn to control it.

Which put them several spots above sorcerers.

And sparks? Well, conveniently for them, neither Deaton nor Peter had books on spark or even really knew much about them. All Stiles knew was that he could see magic, could conduct it, and could will things if he tried really really hard.

So not as strong as a witch, which made her statement a bit stupid. She could very easily hurt him if she wanted.

“You don’t have a teacher, do you? Peter mentioned that.”

“Peter is sharing the pack’s secrets with you?”

She scoffed. “Believe it or not, Peter cares too much about any of you to share secrets. He just thinks I should teach you.”

He frowned, surprised. “You’re a witch.”

“And Deaton is an old druid who doesn’t have your pack or you as his best interest.”

That was... something Stiles had always suspected as well, so he couldn’t really disagree.

“And why would you ? You don’t know me.”

“I would like to make Beacon Hills my permanent residence," she said, which was surprising. "It works in my favour if the resident spark and emissary liked me. And I have learnt that the best way to make someone like you is to give them something nobody else can or has.”

That sounded... reasonable.

Perfectly reasonable.

Too reasonable.

“You have spent the past few weeks evading us and tricking the pack.”

“I have spent the past few weeks studying you and the pack,” she corrected, a smirk on her face. “And making sure you didn’t put your nose somewhere it did not belong.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, even as he became aware of Derek closing in quickly.

“This is Hale land,” he pointed out. “Shouldn’t we be making sure you don’t put your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong?”

“And you are doing an amazing job at it,” said Belinda. “Really, I mean this completely non sarcastically. You guys have some pretty powerful wards up around here. Your pack house is completely hidden, and the few times I tried to follow one of you, it was like the land itself wouldn’t allow me. I’m assuming this was you?”

'Potentially' was not the answer she probably wanted to hear, so Stiles just smirked winningly, making a mental tone to figure out just exactly what was his spark doing when he wasn’t paying full attention to it.

The thing was fuelled by belief, and he had the house spells he had picked up, but there was a difference between that and what Belinda was describing.

“Stiles,” called Derek, rushing towards him and saving him from any further explanation.

He looked very tense, and did not stop until he was standing half in front of him, eyes flashing threateningly.

“My apologies,” said Belinda, quickly making more space between herself and Stiles. “It was not my intention to harm your–”

“You are the witch in the woods,” interrupted Derek. “The one Peter said has a bond with a land.”

“Peter talks a lot,” she said, smiling a little. “And rarely does he explain anything. How about the two of you join me for a quick lunch and I can explain everything? I promise I do not mean any harm.”

Derek did not move from where he was standing, but glanced to the side to make eye contact with Stiles.

Or eyebrow contact.

Or whatever the something he did with his face where he didn’t say anything but made Stiles perfectly capable to read ‘are you okay and do you trust this?’ in his face and equally able to respond ‘yes, I’m in love with you, and she’s not a threat’ with his own.

Of course, the ‘I’m in love with you’ part was silent.

Derek did not look exactly pleased, but then again, he worked hard to never let people guess what the hell he was thinking about.

“Fine,” he told Belinda. “We–”

“There is a Waffle House not too far from here,” she said, with her same mischievous smile in place. “Shall we go there?”

+++

Stiles would have liked to say that he knew what was coming before it happened.

However, he would have been lying.

He most certainly had not seen the way Ezra lit up at the sight of Belinda and tackled her in a hug coming.

“Nana!” he called, smiling brightly. “I thought you said you were going to be busy out of town until Wednesday!”

“I told you!” said Stiles, slapping Derek’s arm. The werewolf grimaced, but couldn’t really argue with facts. “I told you so, I told you so, I so fucking told you so.”

“You didn’t say that she–”

“I said there was something deeply suspicious about this place,” he reminded him, repeatedly poking him with a finger. “I told you something was off and that I did not trust it one bit. I told all of you guys, and you didn’t believe me. And I was right. I was right!”

“You are a very unattractive winner.”

“And you are a sore loser,” said Stiles, turning back to an amused Belinda and a confused Ezra with a winning grin. “It’s okay. You guys are new here, but I am often right, and Derek here is often wrong. He just forgets about it, sometimes, and still tries to bet against me.” He made a flourish with his hands. “As you were. You were about to tell me more about how right I am by explaining who and what you really are?”

“It’s okay,” said Belinda, when Ezra’s eyes went wide in surprise. “I told you about the pack in the town already.”

“Yeah, but– oh.” Ezra looked at Derek, and realisation swept over his eyes. “Oh.”

“I fucking told you I heard him growl!” shouted one of his sisters.

Imani appeared a second later, looking smug as hell. “Pay up, asshole.”

“A lot suddenly makes sense,” said Ezra. “I just thought you were in a cult.”

“Cult was more likely to you than a pack? Not judging, of course – many people in school think or used to think that we are in a cult to this day.”

“You always come in a group, you show up in the middle of the night, and everyone listens to him all the time.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t see what else I could have thought.”

“Yeah, but he listens to him only,” said Imani, pointing between Derek and Stiles. “He has him wrapped around his finger. And only an alpha’s mate can do that.”

Stiles decided to take that moment to start attempting to hack out a lung as that would possibly save him from the utter mortification of the woman’s statement.

Mortification that Derek was either immune to or chose to further by not disagreeing with her words, and just clapping him on the back.

“How about you guys go back to do what you need to do and I speak to the Hale Pack about keeping our business growing? Thank you.”

Stiles heard them giggle, but he was still too busy trying to die on the spot - or kill Imani, he wasn't picky - to do anything about it.

Or about Derek steering him in direction of the booth instead of letting him perish in peace.

“Sorry for my grandchildren,” said Belinda, taking a seat in one of the empty booths. Now that Stiles looked around, this was probably the emptiest he had seen the Waffle House. “They are a... loud group.”

“We are in a pack,” said Stiles, clearing his throat and pretending his face wasn’t as red and as hot as he felt it was. “We are used to this.”

“How about we skip the pleasantries and talk about who you are, what you are doing here and why?” cut in Derek.

“Derek is not a fan of pleasantries,” explained Stiles. “Or of conversation in general, you see. Especially conversations that start because I am always right and he is always wrong–”

“Stiles.”

He just grinned at him, feeling very very smug.

“My name is Belinda,” started Belinda, without any further ado, “But my witch name is Arlotta.

“I was a friend of your mother, but I am not here because of that.

"I might not look it, but I am an old witch," She definitely looked it, but Stiles was polite enough not to mention it, "An old witch who has lost a lot, and who has made plenty of enemies. The kind of enemies that would love to learn that I was cursed by a demon and am probably at the weakest I have ever been, fresh for the taking.

“I have done things in my life that I would do again, and things that I am not very proud of,” she admitted. “I never veered into black or dark magic, and one glance at me will tell you that. I am willing to sit through any assessment from anyone you feel is competent enough to carry it out.

“But I have killed.” 

She said it very easily and candidly, like it was not something that would, in normal circumstances, end with her in jail.

Stiles supposed there was little reason to worry about jail when she was talking to an alpha and an emissary with their own share of blood on their hands (Scott might not believe in violence or death as an answer, but Derek and Stiles did; and no matter how hard Derek tried to keep Stiles away from that side of him, Stiles would willingly walk through fire for him.

Watching his six forever? Child’s play).

“I have killed the hunters who killed my children,” she added, glancing at her grandkids. Ezra was argued with Dallas, and the ones that were usually hiding in the kitchen were sat at one of the booths, heads bent over each other’s phones.

They looked happy, but Belinda’s expression was filled with melancholy.

“I did all I could to keep them well fed and safe. I sent some of them away, but, in the end, they just came back to me.

“So I took care of them. Of course I did, they are my grandkids, and nothing is more important to me than they are.”

They could empathise.

“But I lost my coven in doing that, and I lost many friends. I have lost more friends and gained more enemies, and I am now at the point in my life where there is nothing I can do to ensure their safety.

“But Beacon Hills...” she looked outside the window. “I did not return, following Talia’s death. But I kept an ear on the ground for the surviving family and pack.” She turned back to Derek, and smiled. “You did a good job, Derek.”

Derek’s expression did not change.

But when Stiles hesitantly pressed his hand over his thigh, he untensed under the touch like melted butter.

Belinda went on, oblivious. “I heard of you defeating hunters, kanimas, the alpha pack, a darach and more. I heard of the Nemeton growing every day healthier through the stable touch of the emissary, the land growing stronger, Beacon Hills becoming safer.”

Safer was a bit debatable, but Stiles nodded. They had been working their hardest to make sure the town was safe.

“You are not a witch, but you are a spark. You face as much if not more threats than I would. So I came here, seeking asylum, believing I would gain it. I already have a bond with the land, and I have much to offer your emissary, and your pack. Definitely more than Deaton can.”

The word 'presumptuous' was on the tip of Stiles' tongue, but for now he knew it wasn’t his time to speak.

He was more than willing to play translator for Derek, but he would never truly disrespect his position (... in front of strangers, of course; in front of the pack was a completely different story altogether).

The wolf watched her closely.

"The demon who drained you," he said, "That's what's been attracting monsters, as of late."

She nodded, hesitating only for a moment. "I have been trying to get rid of them by myself, but you guys are very fast."

And just like that, Stiles was right about the witch, right about coincidences, and right about the Waffle House.

Honestly, it was like the pack wanted to fail, choosing not to believe him when he spoke.

“And if we ask you to leave?”

“I will leave,” said Belinda, easily. “I might be a trickster, but I mean no harm to you or to the town. I tested you by staying away, and tricked you, even though I was trying to help, and perhaps that has now coloured your perception of me. But if you ask me to go, my family and I will leave.”

Derek nodded, not giving anything away.

For his part, Stiles found it very funny how she didn’t even bother apologising for her actions.

It worked for her brand.

“I have one question,” he then said, when Derek looked at him expectantly.

“Just one?”

“Why a Waffle House?” he asked, ignoring Derek. “Of all the places you could have used as cover...”

“Ah,” she said, expression turning wistful. “My kids, before they died... they really loved Waffle House. They used to bring the grandkids with them and me on Sundays, and we would have an amazing family breakfast. I guess, subconsciously, I wanted to honor that tradition.”

“Oh,” said Stiles, touched. “That’s a–”

“Lie,” said Derek and Belinda at the same time. She looked particularly amused by Stiles’ immediate outrage, and her eyes twinkled when she winked. “I just couldn’t think of anywhere else where things would be just as crazy. Can you imagine this conversation having happened anywhere else?”

Well... she had a point.

What other diner could exist where the pack walked in bloodied in the middle of the night and the server just brought them a menu?

“I will need to discuss this with my pack,” said Derek, in a much more diplomatic way than Stiles had expected of him. Belinda, as much as he liked her and did not think particularly dangerous, had gone out of her way to make sure she did not appear overly trustworthy.

And she was not as charming as Stiles had been back in sophomore year.

But Derek was also not who he had been then, he reasoned, watching as the werewolf nodded at the old woman and stood up.

He was not different, not exactly.

But he had grown.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Watching you have to live with the fact that yet again I was right and you were wrong brings me great joy,” he quickly said, just to see that annoyedly exasperated expression return to his face before he could have any further realisation. “In fact, have I yet said that I was right and you were wrong? Cause I was right, and you were wrong.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” said Derek, aggravated. “I just–” he paused as Ezra appeared in front of them, looking nervous.

“You guys are leaving already?”

“Yep,” said Stiles. “So many people rely on me to tell them that I am right and they are wrong, you see. And I’m running late already.”

“So... does that mean you guys are not coming back?”

“Not coming back?” Stiles scoffed. “The fact that I was right doesn’t make you guys’ food any less delicious, and the annoyance at the fact that I am, as usual, always right, won’t stop the others from coming here and feasting.” He frowned, and turned to Derek. “Dude, we would be defeated so easily if our enemies knew that our weakness is Isaac’s stomach.”

Derek did not even smile – probably still hurt about the fact that Stiles was, as usual, always right.

“So I’ll see you again?” asked Ezra, sounding strangely hopeful.

He hadn’t looked particularly attracted to Derek, so what gave?

“Well, yeah,” he said, trying not to look too suspicious of the guys’ intentions. “We watch out for Beacon Hills. And, until our esteemed alpha decides otherwise, you guys are part of Beacon Hills.”

“I was hoping for... a little less duty and a little more pleasure,” said Ezra, still with that hopeful look on his face. Then, before Stiles could start deciding if his attraction to Derek was reason or not to vote to kick them out of town, he continued with, “I’d love to see you again, Stiles. Maybe without me serving you waffles and breakfast, for a change.”

Wait.

People who were into Derek didn’t name drop Stiles.

People who were into Derek didn’t stare at Stiles the whole time.

People who were into Derek didn’t act like they were asking Stiles out.

People who were into Derek didn’t almost ask Stiles on a date.

Was that trying to ask Stiles on a date?

Maybe not. Maybe Stiles was overreacting. Maybe–

“Maybe, even outside this place.”

Stiles stared at him, wide mouthed.

Because holy shit, that was totally asking someone out on a date.

That was totally asking Stiles on a date.

That was totally Ezra asking Stiles out on a date.

Holy shit!

It wasn’t like Stiles had never been asked out on a date.

Stiles had gotten asked out on dates before.

It was just that usually he knew it was coming before it came. And usually it happened on sketchy stakeouts in the Jungle or because Stiles was trying very very hard to impress someone into asking him out to trick them into outing themselves as a supernatural creature.

It didn’t happen because he was coming to a diner and talking amiably to the guy who served his waffles.

And it didn’t happen with guys as attractive as Ezra.

Because Ezra was attractive.

He was more than attractive.

And in any normal situation, Stiles would have been delighted by the attention.

Hell, he would have probably said yes, just to see what happened.

Who wouldn’t want to go out with a hot guy who made delicious waffles and who research had already proven that was completely non threatening?

In normal circumstances, Stiles would have said yes, and potentially humped him here, in front of the rest of his family.

In normal circumstances.

But this wasn’t a normal occurrence.

Because Stiles wasn’t alone, or with Scott, or Erica, or even Lydia.

Stiles was with Derek.

He was with Derek.

Derek, who was standing next to him, looking suddenly tense as hell.

Derek, who had told him he was important the day before.

Derek, who Stiles had been half in love with for years, and who sometimes spoke and acted and said things that made Stiles wonder.

Derek, who everyone – Lydia Martin and non-Lydia Martins – insisted had feelings for him.

Derek, who was really the one and only person Stiles really wanted to go out with.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling at Ezra. “You’re awesome, and superfun, and we’ll definitely come back to this place but–”

“I get it,” said Ezra, with a smile of his own. It didn’t look particularly surprised, especially as he glanced at Derek. “No hard feelings.”

“Cool,” said Stiles, a little awkwardly.

What did people who said no to a date with a hot guy did after saying no? Stiles had never been in this situation before. What was he meant to do? Was he supposed to wait for him to leave? Was he-?

"See you around," said Ezra, winking at him and walking off towards the counter. 

His sister put a hand over his shoulder as soon as he got close enough, shaking her head in disbelief, and Stiles decided he should probably leave before Belinda found out and decided she hated the pack and wanted him dead specifically.

"Come on," he said, pulling Derek with him towards the door.

They didn't get far.

“Why did you say no?”

“Oh wonderful,” said Stiles, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get into it right now in the parking lot.”

“Stiles,” said Derek, grabbing him by the shoulder. It wasn’t a particularly painful hold, and when Stiles turned around, he saw the werewolf looking both pained and confused as he stared at him. “He likes you. You said you liked him. But you said no. You said... why?”

He looked confused. And about a thousand other feelings that his eyebrows were making very hard to read, but Stiles could see the hope loud and clear.

And really, that was what sealed it for him.

“You make things so much more complicated than they need to be, Sourwolf,” he told him. 

Then, before he could protest, he pulled him forward by the collar of his jacket and kissed him.

It wasn't a particularly memorable kiss.

Stiles' kissing experience was pretty limited, and the angle was more than a little awkward.

But it was kissing Derek Hale, and Stiles had been dreaming about it for years, and when he felt the brush of Derek's stubble against his chin as the man pushed closer to kiss him back, he decided there and there that kissing Derek was always going to be a 10 and Derek was not built to kiss badly.

If he nearly died when he felt their teeth clash together or the little sound Derek made in his throat when he swiped his tongue over his lips, that was his business and business alone.

When he pulled back, Derek looked shocked, the most uncomposed Stiles had ever seen him, and even more hopeful than before.

Was it bad that it made him want to ruin him right there?

Would Belinda really mind the indecent exposure that Stiles wanted to perform?

“Stiles–” started the other, but really, Stiles had not just taken such a chance to risk getting his hopes crushed in the parking lot of a witch’s Waffle House.

“Remember that I am always right,” he told him, severely.

And Derek...

Derek smiled.

He smiled, with no regards for the health and safety of Stiles and other normal human beings around him.

And then he kissed him.

Stiles decided he could get used to this type of shutting him up.

“Your dedication scares me,” said Izzy as the pack trudged inside of the Waffle House, covered in a lot of things Stiles did not want to discuss. “And the fact that you now refuse to clean yourselves up and pretend you're normal humans just makes me upset.”

“Why bother when you know what we are and what we do?” asked Isaac, dropping almost face first on the table. “Food, please.”

“Trolls,” said Stiles, as way of explanation. She nodded in understanding, and then he bypassed the empty chair completely to drop on Derek’s lap.

“This is not what I wanted,” said Lydia, pointing at them in annoyance. “When I urged you to get together. This was not what I signed up for.”

“Which is why I never tried to get in the middle of their will they won’t they dance,” said Jackson, resting against Erica’s shoulder. The fact that she was half passed out was the only reason she was allowing this. “I knew nothing good would come from the two of them smooching faces.”

“I think they’re cute,” said Allison. 

“You’re only saying this because you don’t have super hearing,” said Scott, shooting Stiles a glare. “He’s punishing me.”

“I 100% am,” agreed Stiles, a little more cheerfully than the rest of them. “Please remember sophomore and junior year of high school, and you’ll understand.”

“They deserve it,” agreed Boyd, as Scott pouted. “We do not.”

“All of you but Isaac have been in committed relationships with each other since I met you, so you all deserve it,” said Stiles, ignoring the weight of Derek’s face smushed in his neck. “And Isaac deserves it because he sucks.”

Isaac did not lift his head, but he did give Stiles the finger.

He did however raise his head seconds later, as Ezra and Imani started towards them with several stacks of waffles and breakfast food already fuming.

“What the–”

“Nana said there were trolls in the woods and you might need a pick me up,” she explained dropping several plates in front of them. “She added a special pick me up in the syrup as well, as a thank you for letting us stay.”

“Don’t need to thank us,” said Scott. Well, Stiles assumed he said that – he was already stuffing his face with terrifying speed alongside the other wolves. 

Even Derek had pushed him a little to the side to get to the food.

“Rhubarb,” said Lydia, who had instead gone for sniffing the syrup. “And maple.”

“And magic,” added Imani, winking. “She always adds a bit to make everyone’s day better, but she added a little healing salve to this batch and left it to the side for you guys.”

“The syrup had magic,” said Stiles, immediately grinning. “Interesting. Reminds me, once more, about how I am always right.”

The entire pack – Derek included – groaned. 

But Derek did not push him off and even put some hashbrowns in front of him, so Stiles considered it a win.