Work Text:
After the sacrifice, after the Alpha pack and the darach and the nemeton, things changed.
Stiles changed.
He barricaded himself away for a week and when he finally emerged from his house, he was -- different. Most people would focus on the earrings -- two chips of some unidentifiable dark gem pierced through his earlobes -- or the way he's gone pale, skin losing the subtle tan he carried from hours of lacrosse practice and lightening to a milk-moon glow, something close to fae.
Derek, though, maybe because he's a born 'wolf, maybe because he's a former alpha, maybe because he's always been slightly obsessed with Stiles, focuses on Stiles' scent. It's different, deeper and darker and wild, something filled with power, enticing and terrifying in turns. Stiles' scent makes him want to hunt, makes him want blood in his mouth and a warm, willing body to fuck into, makes his mind go thin and the beast inside of him take control, sends him into something mindless that wants to kill or rut-- until Stiles looks at him or touches him or says his name in a soft, affectionate manner he's always stepped around the edges of before but now embraces wholeheartedly.
It would scare Derek if it didn't feel so right.
He wonders, sometimes, why Scott and Isaac and Allison tend to shy away from Stiles, why Lydia and Cora circle around him like he's something special they have to defend with teeth and words and their very lives. He thinks that Peter understands exactly what Derek feels , though, and that's why Peter's made himself stunningly scarce.
--
"To what do I owe this honour, nephew?" Peter asks, leaning against the door to his apartment. It's a subtle way of blocking his den from Derek but it also leaves them close enough for Derek to pick out the shaky threads of control in Peter's scent and muscles.
"We need to talk," Derek says. Peter rolls his eyes, opens his mouth to no doubt issue some witty one-liner, but Derek adds, "About Stiles." Peter's mouth closes, his eyes flare 'wolf-blue for just a moment, and he steps back, silently inviting Derek inside.
Derek heads for Peter's kitchen; it's small, like the rest of the apartment, but the size only makes the place feel cozy instead of cramped, especially combined with the decor and the wood furniture, the scent of herbs and roasted meat permeating the air. Peter follows, gets Derek a glass of water before sitting down across him at the table.
"What about Stiles?" Peter asks.
There's something under the question, some concern or worry, so Derek says, "He's fine, as far as I know." Peter settles, and that right there is enough for Derek to know that his uncle's reacting to the changes in Stiles as much as Derek himself is. "You were planning on leaving once the Alpha pack did," he says, slow and cautious. "So was I. So was Cora. Except the thought of leaving Stiles makes me want to hunt. Cora nearly threw me out the window when I suggested it. And you're still here, too." He pauses, gives Peter an opportunity to deny that he's only remaining in Beacon Hills because Stiles is here. When Peter has nothing to say, Derek leans forward. "Do you know what happened to him?"
Peter shakes his head. "I wish I did," he admits. "It'd be easier to find a way around the way he --." He stops abruptly, and lets out a sigh. "He tames the 'wolf. Sends it snarling, but tames it in the next breath."
Derek licks his lips. "Is he -- is there a -- did he become our alpha when we weren't paying attention?"
"I don't think so," Peter says. "The bonds don't feel the same. They're -- I never thought I'd say this, but they're deeper, somehow. More substantial. They tie us to Stiles in a way that an alpha bond never could."
"Impossible," Derek breathes. There's nothing deeper than an alpha bond, not to a 'wolf.
Peter shrugs. "I thought so as well. But I tried leaving, Derek, and I couldn't. Even when your mother was alive, I could leave the territory. Not for long, and not comfortably, but it was possible. This time, I couldn't make it past the city limits. I stood at the borders of Beacon Hills for three hours, trying to lift a foot to step outside the boundaries, and when I gave up, the only thing I could think to do was go apologise to Stiles and beg forgiveness. Beg, Derek."
The thought of that sends chills down Derek's spine. He's not sure if it's in horror at the thought of his proud, cunning uncle reduced to something like that or in fury that Peter would ever want to leave Stiles behind. He doesn't realise he's growling, little intermittent rumbles coming up from his chest and out through fangs, until Peter tells him, "Calm, nephew. I only wanted to see if it was possible to leave. I --," and he pauses, shakes his head. "I wouldn't have stayed gone."
"We should talk to him," Derek says, once it's clear that Peter's done. "Ask him for an explanation."
"You think he'd give us one?" Peter asks, eyebrows raised.
Derek doesn't even have to consider it. "Yes," he says.
Peter nods, slow, and says, "Well, then. Let's pick up your sister and go see Stiles."
--
Stiles' bedroom smells like -- like teenage boy and magic and blood, like the woods and clear moonless nights and flesh. The scent is so thick, deeply embedded in the furniture and carpet and walls; Derek gets jealous of Stiles' bed for carrying as much of Stiles' smell as it does.
The three Hales perch on the edge of Stiles' bed, shoulders and thighs pressed tight together. Stiles sits in his desk chair, eyes them for long, quiet moments, silent and still. It's such a change from the rambling, fidgeting, flailing teenager that Stiles used to be.
"What are you?" Derek finally asks.
Stiles snorts. "I'm a survivor," he says, bitterness dripping from his words. "A sacrifice. A -- a dream."
"What does that mean?" Peter asks. "Whose dream?"
"Yours, once upon a time," he answers, turning dark, too-knowing eyes on each of them in turn. "Are you --. Are you three mine?"
Cora snorts. "A stupid question, Stiles. Of course we are. Lydia, too. We just want to know how. How did going in that ice bath end up with you like this?"
Stiles stands up, walks to the window and looks outside. Something about the curve of his neck, the scent of him, makes Derek want to bite, bite and kneel and whisk Stiles away to a place where he can be happy. He thinks he can smell the same sort of desire from Cora and Peter.
It's been so long since the three of them agreed on anything. Of course they'd agree on Stiles.
"I connected with the nemeton," Stiles says. "Bonded with it. Before I woke up, I -- there was darkness. There was a web. I fell, fell so deep." His voice goes soft, filled with the kind of pain that makes Derek yearn. "Through all the jewels until I landed on the Black. The strands, they -- and then there was Ebony. Twilight's Dawn. So dark." He turns, then, abrupt, and pins golden eyes on them -- pure gold, nothing human in the colour. Derek bares his throat without thinking about it. "A clean darkness," Stiles says. "A pure darkness. Night. The way it feels to hunt below a sky with no moon. That's what I felt. That's what I became -- what I am."
"There's a legend," Peter says, speaking into the ringing silence that followed Stiles' pronouncement. "An old story that only the oldest packs remember, and even we don't remember much. That 'wolves came from another land. That there were -- the same land as unicorns and massive dogs and giant spiders. There was a Gate, or maybe a portal; we've forgotten so much that --. But," and he exhales deep before saying, "there was a promise of magic we didn't yet have the ability to understand. There was --."
Peter stops there. Derek realises he's frowning because he doesn't remember this story and he used to beg his grandparents for all the old tales. He looks at Cora, who meets his gaze and shrugs one shoulder, shaking her head as she does.
"There was a dream," Stiles says. He takes a step toward them and all three of the Hales stand, throats bared. Stiles smiles and, for the briefest moment, so quick that Derek isn't sure if he saw it or his eyes were playing tricks on him, he sees antlers on Stiles' head, sees wings coming from Stiles' back, sees claws instead of fingernails and fangs instead of teeth, sees a tiny spiral on his forehead and endlessly dark gems embedded into the hollow of his throat like he was born with them.
Peter drops to his knees. Derek feels the urge to do the same but he fights it, ends up sinking slowly and unsteadily. Cora's still standing but she's whining high and long in her throat.
"What are you?" Derek asks.
Stiles gives him a shadowed, midnight smile. "I'm dreams made flesh," he says. "And I'm your queen."