rubykatewriting: (Teen Wolf: Derek & Stiles Closeup)
[personal profile] rubykatewriting
Author: [ profile] rubykatewriting
Title: The Strong Scent of Evergreen
Pairing: Derek/Girl!Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Derek and Stiles start something new. "I am, you know," she whispers against his mouth, and he tilts his head in question. "Yours."
Spoilers/Warnings: Can be found here.
Notes: Title comes from the song "Passenger Seat" by Death Cab for Cutie.
Disclaimer: Not mine. So not mine. No harm intended.

When the Wolf Moon comes at the beginning of January, Derek shows them some of the rituals Laura had kept up over the years. She had hoped they would eventually have a pack again, one day when they weren’t running; although looking around at the rag-tag members of theirs, Stiles wonders if Laura would be just as thrilled as Derek or laughing her butt off. From the few times Laura has come up between them, Stiles gets the impression that her appreciation of the absurdities of life hadn’t died with their family, and even Derek had been different with her, if only because he couldn’t pull the same intimidation tactics with someone who had once seen him running around the house in only a Superman cape and matching Superman underwear.

The more comfortable Derek becomes as Alpha, the looser he gets with the details, and sometimes it is all Stiles can do not to pester him with question after question. She can’t disappear down the research rabbit hole as easily as before. Partly because when she isn’t at school, with the pack, or having rare family time with her dad, Derek is keeping her occupied doing stuff far more fun that research. (She doesn’t want to even think about that one time Lydia called her Number Five, and while she was more than a little impressed at the reference, “No disassemble!” has become a common refrain from Jackson ever since.)

The worst part is that she’s been itching to contact Dr. Fenris again, but Scott nixes that idea: “Yeah, Derek would be thrilled about you going outside the pack.”

She glares up at him from where she lays in the grass; it’s lunch and just warm enough outside to eat on the lawn. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere, lacking any sense of self-preservation, utterly oblivious to danger?”

If there’s anything more annoying than Scott’s obliviousness, it’s when he actually gets it. When he looks at her, and he’s that shy little boy she met in kindergarten who recognized within her that same loneliness he felt. The little boy who was more than willing to share his purple crayon because she was going through a grape juice phase and everything had to be purple. “Did you ever tell him about that photo the doctor had?”

Stiles blanches at the very thought. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Did you tell him about Fenris at all?”

“God no.” She snorts. “For awhile it was about, you know, continuing to breathe and not be dead. Now…”

Scott nods. “Yeah.” He gets quiet, and it’s like the old days when they would spend hours in his room or hers, sometimes just being with each other. She listens to him breathe, in and out, and now he can hear her heartbeat or breathe her in and know almost exactly what she’s feeling. It’s weirdly comforting. He turns, catching her eye, and smiles. “I’ve missed this, too.”

“We used to get so bored, wishing for anything to happen…”

“God we were dumb.”

“There should have been paste involved. Then we’d at least have an excuse for just how fucking stupid we were.”

He touches her hand. “I wonder if he’d like that photo though. He doesn’t have anything like that left.”


It takes her half an hour to work up the nerve to get out of the jeep. The house looks different in the early afternoon sunlight. A little more rundown, shabby around the edges, and it’s fitting, considering the man who lives there. She stays next to the truck, jiggling her keys, and maybe she should just give up this very obvious bad idea. It’s not too late for plausible deniability. He doesn’t even know she and Scott ever found this guy, ever talked to him. She can continue lying and this never has to come to light.

But she can’t let go of the idea of that photo. It’s barely anything and yet the knowledge of its existence won’t let her go. Even if he gets mad, she wants so badly to bring him back a piece of that life before it was burned up. She can’t imagine having nothing left of her mother.

Dr. Fenris makes up her mind for her. He opens the door and steps onto his porch, arms crossed. It feels like this moment has been inevitable from the moment Derek became more to her, or maybe she was always going to return here for her own peace of mind. The doctor had seemed so broken, and part of her loved that Scott gave him something, some scraps of proof if only because it was sad to see a person like herself, one always questioning, searching, that damaged. When she meets his gaze, even from this distance, she thinks he’s been waiting for one or both of them to return, too. He doesn’t seem any less wary, but he seems less inclined to point a gun at her. She crosses the street and strides up the front walk.


In hindsight, the whole party thing was probably a bad idea. Adding tequila shots that probably number more than both of her hands was just straight up stupid. Allison is giggling at something Lydia said, and Stiles feels like it would be poor form to not giggle right along with them. Friends laugh at stuff their drunk friends say, right? It’s like the code. Or whatever. At least with Allison and Lydia, the drunkenness is mutual; she will wake tomorrow morning so hungover that death will seem preferable, but this time she won’t be alone.

Stupid werewolves, and she may have said that aloud because Allison and Lydia repeat it, loudly, in a singsong, as they stumble down the street towards Lydia’s mom’s house. Fortunately, since the populace of Beacon Hills seems to be under the impression that if they simply ignore all the weird shit, said weird will magically stop happening, she doesn’t shush them. Hell, Stiles sometimes thinks they could take out a full page ad in the paper, outing the werewolves and the hunters, and the biggest piece of gossip making the rounds afterward would be the way Mrs. Pyle still seems oblivious to her husband’s canoodling with his dental assistant.

It’s the night before the full moon, so the boys are off training. They’re almost back to Mrs. Martin’s house when the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stands up. Her skin prickles and she reaches out to squeeze Lydia’s arm, unconsciously turning her back towards the car parked on the street. “Do you –”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish before three werewolves are standing in a loose tandem, clearly ready to rope them in should they try to run. She’s not sure when she started to recognize them on sight – before or after Derek marked her – but the energy they’re putting out is like a neon sign screaming OTHER. Something about the way the bigger of the three looks at Stiles gives her the impression she’s the one he wants, and she takes a slight step forward, placing herself between him and her friends. Stiles watches as he approaches – blond, mouth a cruel twist of scars that go all the way up the left side of his face into his hairline, and nauseatingly tall. He sort of hunkers down so he can see directly into her eyes and then he leans into Stiles’ personal space, scenting her.

“So this is Hale’s bitch?” His voice is gravelly, even as a human, and she imagines his growl is the stuff of nightmares when he’s fully changed. He inhales her again. “Still human. Is he planning to turn you, little bitch? Make lots of little puppies with you?”

Stiles averts her eyes, her senses overwhelmed by the reek of him; it’s a mix of sweat and grease and it comes off of him in waves. It is so completely opposite of the freshness of Derek’s scent, and that, and his obvious enjoyment of her terror, has her stomach roiling. It’s the first time she’s felt legitimately terrified in so long she’s afraid she’s going to piss her fucking pants. Allison has her by the back of her jacket, urging her back, and for some unknown reason, the big werewolf is letting her. That’s when she hears three very distinctive growls, so familiar and comforting, and thankfully Lydia is by her side in time to catch her as her knees go out from under her.

The werewolf’s eyes have moved to somewhere just over her right shoulder and up, and his mouth is even more hideous when he tries to smile. “Hale.”

Stiles flinches as Derek lands on the roof of the car behind her. “Mooney.”

“See you’ve been busy expanding your pack.”

Stiles sees Scott come up on her left hand side, and she hears the low hum of Jackson’s growl from her right.

“As is my right,” Derek says, and she feels a flutter in her stomach. A sense of calm where before there was fear eating away at her insides. The idea that something terrible was going to happen and he wouldn’t be there. That she would lose him, but more than that, the he would lose her. Another person taken from him, and god, she needs to touch him, to feel him inside and out. Then his hand is on her shoulder, fingers finding his mark, and relief is a physical thing, bolstering her.

“These are mine, Mooney. Beacon Hills is mine.” Derek hops down onto the pavement in front of Stiles, as if he has no care in the world, and the taller werewolf takes several steps back. His two henchman fidget, eyes swiveling between Scott, Jackson, and Derek, and who wouldn’t get nervous when the beta in a group with a couple of omegas thinks he can take on an Alpha? (Stiles doesn’t even want to think about how she knows, inherently, that Mooney is a beta aping the posture of an Alpha.) Derek’s hand immediately bunches in the front of her sweater, and she places hers on top of his, needing contact like air. “She is mine. If you even look at her again, I will cut you in half and no one will ever find the pieces.”

It doesn’t take them long to disappear, but Stiles barely notices because she’s too busy throwing up on Derek’s boots. One more humiliation to add to the many before it. Derek doesn’t seem to mind; he has Jackson grab a bottle of water from his car so she can rinse out her mouth, and uses the rest to wash off his boots.

“Better?” he asks, and his smile would seem more sincere if she didn’t know him. Fear is etched into every line of his face, and she wants to hug him, hold on, and just live inside of him for a little while or maybe forever. He cups the side of her face, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away the snot under her nose, and when did they get here? She’s gross and achy with fatigue, but she just wants to strip naked and lay with him, skin on skin.

She simply moves into him, pressing close until she stops shaking.

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