Archive of Our Own ^omega

The first time Derek meets him, he's walking through the Preserve after having snuck out of the tunnels to go meet his girlfriend. Or, well. He thinks she's his girlfriend? He doesn't know. He knows that she likes him, that she told him it's a small town and she heard about his- she heard about Paige. She told him she was there whenever he needed to talk, and she was- is.

And then she kissed him, and it felt like such a small price to pay for someone who isn't Pack to sit there and have to listen through all of his misery. She kissed him and she called him sweetie, and it felt good, it did. And, yeah, maybe she's older but... she's nice, and she wants to see him all the time. Which is good.

It's better than being at home where he feels stifled and wrong-footed and so angry. He's just lashing out, he knows, thinks he knows, but then his skin starts to crawl and Philip says something about his fiancee and Laura says something about how her new boyfriend might actually be it this time, because he smells like Mate to her, and he wants to yell and scream and cry and punish them all for their happiness.

Paige had smelled like Mate to him.

Kate doesn't, but- she helps. And that's enough, most days.

The only Pack-member who doesn't irritate him is Peter, Peter who was trying to encourage him to tell her, ("She's a smart girl," he'd say with a knowing smile, "I'm sure she already knows, Der. And I am positive that Talia will say yes if you ask, and then you'll be able to tell her. If Paige doesn't love you enough to accept you for who you are," a melodramatic sigh, a ruffling of his hair, "well then she doesn't deserve you at all, does she?")

Peter who's locked himself away in the library, most days, and when he sees Derek, he always looks so hurt, so guilty, like it was his fault somehow, and Derek wants to tell him, wants to say, 'It was me. Because I'm a coward.'

The first time Peter saw his eyes flash after it had happened he'd whined high and primal in the back of his throat and disappeared for a week. Like he's terrified he'll fuck Derek up more just by being around him, and he's stopped smiling too, as if, if Derek isn't happy, he doesn't deserve happiness either.

Derek hates that.

So he runs away from him, too.

He hears the faint trace of music, fleeting and fragile, carried toward him by wind which already smells of the rain that is sure to be falling tomorrow, and it reminds him so suddenly of Paige that he's knocked breathless, drawn, inevitably, toward it.

It's the high, tang, pretty of strings, but it floats differently, higher, sweeter and quicker than the cello. And there's a voice, smoked-honey, melody-lilt, singing with the instrument.

Derek feels a pull, somewhere deep within him, and his breath hitches when he finds the person singing. They look so ethereal, otherworldly, delicate and beautiful in a divine sort of way. He's got the butt of a fiddle resting sideways on his sternum, strings turned toward the bow that he plays against them, making music ring out, long fingers pressing and lifting against the top of the instrument, flexing, changing the sound. The hand holding the bow works more with his wrist, which looks small and bony, his arm which is muscular but just as thin, all of him moving, his whole body a part of this glory.

He's sitting, eyes closed in concentration or rapture or both, milk-fair skin glowing in the afternoon sunlight that leaks down from the autumnal trees, cross-legged in the middle of a small clearing, and there are animals all around him. Lured just like Derek was, perhaps.

Deer, foxes, bunnies, birds, creatures that wouldn't normally ever intermingle, all drawn to this, all of them just as enchanted, mesmerized by this. By him.

Derek finds himself wholly focused on this boy, covered in attractive moles, adorable upturned nose, shoulder length chocolate brown hair, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, willowy-svelte frame, rocking as he sings with his fiddle, confident and angelic and sure.

Another few notes sing by as his bow thrums against his strings, and then the song is done, and Derek is left feeling oddly bereft without it.

The animals must feel the same way, for they all make mournful noises, deer nosing him as they pass by, foxes brushing tails against his arm and his fiddle, bunnies nibbling on his toes. The boy's eyes don't open until all the animals have left, well, all of them excepting Derek, who's still too awe-struck to even think about moving.

Warm, gooey liquid sunlight eyes meet his through long eyelashes, and then the boy smiles, and he shines iridescent and pure.

"Hello," he says softly, setting his fiddle down in his lap, not bothering to stand.

"Hi," Derek replies, half-gruff, then, because he should, "that was- that was beautiful but... you know this is private property, right?"

The boy throws his head back and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. The sound of it is overwhelming in its childish joy, and his eyes positively sparkle when they land on Derek again.

"Yes," he says, unashamed "I knew." Then he's standing, fiddle and bow in one hand, the other stretched out toward Derek, friendly and welcoming, "My name is Stiles."

Derek doesn't really know how to respond to that, to any of this, and he still feels a little fuzzy from the beauty of his song, a little dazed- so he does the only sensible thing he can think of: he shakes his hand.

"Derek."

"Nice to meet you, Derek," Stiles grins, then, apropos of nothing, "Bring food next time. I'm sure the animals would enjoy it, and so would I, if I'm being honest with you. See you tomorrow."

And then he's leaving, tossing a wave and a smile over his shoulder and then just gone.

His scent, mist and waterfalls and sun-warmed stone, lingers, beatific, even in his absence.

Derek forgets about his date with Kate, suddenly feeling this intense urge to go back home, be with his family, maybe ask Uncle Peter if witches can cast spells with fiddle-music.

The first time Peter meets him, he's trying to help his nephew who has a sudden interest in witches and fiddles, or something like that, the boy hadn't been exactly clear, but it was the first time Derek's so much as talked to Peter since the- since Paige.

To be fair, it's the first time Peter's let him.

The guilt still overwhelms him, that he must've pushed Derek too hard, that he mustn't have been clear enough, that he couldn't see what was running through the boy's head, what he would do. And now he's got blue eyes, just like Peter, which isn't something he would've wished upon any wolf, let alone his nephew. It's par for the course for himself, being his Alpha's Left Hand, his Pack's warrior, guardian, assassin, and spy.

But it never should've been like that for Derek.

That Talia blames him for her son's ill fate is just icing on the cake, and no less than what he deserves, really.

He's perusing the old books on fiddles and their history in mythology in the public library when a girl- he thinks, he isn't quite sure- comes up beside him smelling of mist, water, and air intertangled with brine and cool-warmth. She's young, but the dress she's wearing is modern, elegant, refined. It's crimson, starkly so against her pale skin, complimenting her freckles and moles- the shoulders and neck are sheer, with lace flowers coming down around the seam of the sheer fabric and the solid fabric like a shawl, raining down to her middle, the rest of the dress clings to her form- which is solid, svelte, comely in its own way, androgynous- a solid, soft looking red with long, flowing skirts that sway and then pool around her on the floor when she comes to a stop next to him.

She isn't wearing any perfume or makeup but for the burgundy interlaced with gold that paints her lips. Her ears sport small gauges, faint pink little circles, round and innocuous and girlish. Her hair in looping braids all interweaved with baby's breath, loose russet strands curling down around her face, glancing her shoulders and her collarbone.

She looks up at him and smiles, a pretty, soft sort of thing, and nothing at all like some of the smiles and looks he receives from most women around him, not like he's meat in a butcher's shop, just- fond.

"Hello," she says, and her voice is lower than he expected it, but no less gorgeous. She looks him over, nods to herself, and then slips a book off of the bookshelf that he hadn't even noticed. "I think you're looking for this," she says as she passes it over to him, "you'll like it, I promise."

"Is that so?" He drawls, eyebrow raised, she grins.

"Absolutely. My name is Stiles, by the way, what's yours?"

"Peter," he tells her amicably, then, "isn't Stiles a rather odd name for a girl?"

"I'm not a girl," she- or, he, laughs, soft, not at all bitter, "and it's an odd name for a boy, too, isn't it?"

"I suppose. And, sorry, I just assumed-"

"Don't be. I don't really care either way, gender is as fluid as sexuality, and why box myself in when I can wear designer dresses and look absolutely stunning in them?" He winks, half commiserating in his tone, and half delighted, then he points one dainty finger at the book he'd handed Peter, taps it with a glossy, pitch-black fingernail and says, "You will like it, Peter, really."

Then sashays away, looking, well, absolutely stunning.

Peter has to blink a few times to come back to reality. He continues to research what he'd meant to, but he ends up bringing home the book Stiles had given him as well because who knows? Maybe he would enjoy it?

Derek finds himself going to that clearing the next day, following the strands of music he hears back to it.

He finds Stiles, sitting again, fiddle playing, not singing this time, with just as many animals around him as before. He is a little surprised, however, to find the boy wearing a dress... or maybe he's a girl? He looks like either, both, no matter if he's in a t-shirt and jeans or a dress, so it's honestly hard to tell.

It's a white flowy thing, loose and soft, spaghetti straps, dark blue flowers embroidered around the breast of it, cinched underneath with a thread of braided black leather. He's wearing a choker, too, sheer lace with the same kind of blue flower embroidery so it matches the dress. His hair is up in a simple pony-tail, unlike how it was down, yesterday, so Derek can see the light grey gauges in his ears that have little grey musical notes hanging from them, pulling at his earlobes.

Stiles' lips, full and already pink, look glossy, and sparkle when the light hits them just right. Derek kind of wants to taste them, wants to know if Stiles' lips will taste like chemicals like Kate's do, or like strawberries like Paige's used to?

He shakes his head of the errant thought, reminding himself he's with Kate, not some mysterious kid who plays fiddle in the middle of the woods on weekends.

When the song ends, the animals leave, pleasant and giving Stiles their own goodbyes, just like last time, and Stiles looks up at him, just as warmly, just as enchanting as he was yesterday.

He pats the ground beside him, an invitation, "Did you bring food?"

"My mom's been making pumpkin pie and pumpkin cookies for a week since her Uncle's pumpkin patch was apparently 'lush' with them this year," Derek snorts, sits, offers the brown paper bag up, "so I brought some of those."

"That's perfect, Derek, thank you," Stiles grins, accepting, eyes a-twinkle. As he inspects the contents, Derek finds himself shifting around uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck, the fidgeting eventually brings Stiles out of the bag, mouth full, cheeks bulging, crumbs sticking to his lips, "Wha?"

Derek's eyes widen at the sight, and then he's laughing, because it's just, it's unreasonably adorable and ridiculous, and the guffaws just overtake him, until he's breathless with mirth, and Stiles is slapping at his knee making indignant noises as Derek falls apart with laughter.

"What? What? Why're you-"

"No. No, it's just-" Derek snickers helplessly- "you shouldn't talk with your mouth full."

Stiles rolls his eyes, grabs a cookie and shoves it in Derek's mouth unceremoniously, Derek squawks with surprise.

"Yeah, well," he wipes his mouth clean of crumbs and lipgloss altogether, "you should use your words instead of your eyebrows."

And that's so utterly nonsensical it has Derek barking with laughter again, and Stiles just beams at him, like he's proud Derek's laughing, which... it's been awhile, it's been a long while, but it feels easy, here, now, with him... or her?

"Um. Stiles are you- um, do you prefer-" he's sure he knows the right way to ask this, he's sure someone told him, his cousin, she's trans, and he's sure she said it's not the same for everybody, that it's complicated, but the actual question is simple, just- "what do you identify as?"

Right? He thinks he got that right.

Stiles looks a little surprised that he asked, but not insulted when he answers, "Genderfluid, or, I guess non-binary? You can use male pronouns though, those were the parts I was born with, and I don't mind them. Much."

Derek smiles, relieved, "Cool."

"Hey, you think we'll be in the same classes?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I'm assuming you go to Beacon Hills High, right?"

"Yeah," Derek answers slowly, wondering where this is going.

"And I just transferred there. You're the first friend I've made here, and it would be nice to have a familiar face in new territory, so... Oh, speaking of. Gossip, gimme."

"What?"

"C'mon, there's gotta be stuff going on, high schoolers are crazy, teachers are assholes, give me the down-low, help a buddy out, man."

Derek laughs, shakes his head and grabs one of the styrofoam containers that holds one of his mom's wonderous pieces of pie, indulges Stiles' curiosity, not even having to really provide much, because he only ever manages to get one sentence out before Stiles is babbling on and-- actually providing helpful insights into the minds of his peers. Derek's never thought of the psychology behind jocks being dicks so seriously before. And Stiles has his own stories, about teachers and bullies at his old school that are both intriguing and worrisome in equal measure.

Derek hopes no one tries to bully Stiles here.

Stiles enters the school like a fucking whirlwind, pastel pink dress all form fitting pretty, hair done up with bejeweled butterfly hair clips, lip gloss and tennis-shoes with knee-high satin looking socks.

He proudly introduces himself as male, mostly, transferred from Oklahoma, and very proud to be who he is, with a bow and a flourish.

The only way it could've been worse, Derek thinks, is if he'd been wearing a flouncy rainbow tutu instead. And this, this is a small town, so of course it causes a racket, and Stiles is sent to the principal's office, where he promptly tells the principal he's not in violation of anything, the dress code doesn't say that only women may be dressed as women, and the principal tells him what he's wearing is still a distraction and this kind of prank will not be tolerated.

Stiles tells him it isn't a prank, it's his life.

The principal tries to call his parents, and then...

No one remembers seeing Stiles' parents, or who they were, but they must've been somebody, or rich, or something, because suddenly the principal has no problems whatsoever with Stiles' choice of clothing, and is telling the teachers and various worried parents that this is an inclusive school, and he won't tolerate bullying, even from himself.

The parents who aren't very kind in the face of this sort of thing are outraged, but incapable of really doing anything about it. Every time they try, well, it's odd.

Mrs. Murphey ended up with chicken pox, even though she's been vaccinated and had it before, and then her husband, and their whole family.

Mr. Taylors got the flu, Mr. Harris (an outraged teacher) got a bad case of african cow-lice, and on and on, until everyone realized, even if it was only subconsciously, that if they tried to fuck with Stiles and his comfortability within the school they'd get supremely bad luck.

Bullies were much the same way, well, sort of. What Derek- who was Stiles' first friend, and who had most classes with Stiles, and who somehow felt kind of like Stiles was his responsibility, and therefore his job to protect- and their peers ended up realizing, was that the kid was a berserker. You try to fight him with words? He's got you tied up and bloody in the space of two sentences, somehow knowing every weak spot, silver-tongue clever and, what might've been the worst part, is that he was never cruel, not really. He would be truthful, with a sad smile, warmth in his eyes, and a brutal honesty that still tore you to shreds.

You try to fight him with fists? He's fast, and he wears steel-toed shoes, and he'll fuck you up, kicking and biting and dancing around until his opponent gives up.

The effect of his confidence and his willingness to fight tooth and nail just to be himself was... surprising. The other kids started to like him. All the bullies, all the people who'd been bullied, all the popular kids, all the outcasts, and he was friendly with all of them, kind and compassionate and, somehow, making the people around him want to be better by just being so irrevocably good.

Everyone, by the end of the month, couldn't have cared less what he wore.

It was strange.

It was beautiful.

And Derek had no idea what he'd done in order to get a spot beside this boy, who claimed him loudly and proudly as his very best friend.

Peter reads the book and finds, though it has nothing to do with what he was trying to research, and is instead something of a collection of fairytales, that he loves it, seriously.

And when he goes back to the library to return it, part of him hopes he will see Stiles there, wanting to thank him, and is vaguely disappointed when he doesn't see a familiar face there.

The next day, however, when Derek asks, half-blushing, if he can bring his friend over, Peter is inordinately pleased. Maybe Derek's moved on, or moving on, and maybe, if he's introducing this person to them, he's less afraid of what will happen if he-- Peter pushes the thoughts aside when Talia outright refuses him, feels shame and disappointment and guilt curl in his gut when she gives Peter a pointed glare.

He sees the same emotions plain on Derek's face before it shutters, goes blank, and he's nodding his understanding.

Peter worries, wants to do something, feels like this is some sort of breakthrough for the boy after the trauma he's been through, feels like if he goes near it at all he'll just destroy it again, destroy Derek again.

But after breakfast, before Derek goes to school, he asks if Peter will drive him, which is surprising, but even more surprising is, when they're both in the car, Derek sighing and saying:

"It's not your fault."

"What?"

"What happened to Paige- to me, it's not... You were giving me advice, Uncle Peter, good advice, but I was. I was terrified, and so fucking stupid, and I should've listened to you, but I didn't. I asked an Alpha to Bite her instead, and it got her- it got her killed and I. But it wasn't your fault.

"I don't know why mom thinks it is, or why you do. But I'm the one who..." Derek trails off, sniffles, aggressively wipes away tears that roll down flushed cheeks. Peter swallows against the lump in his throat. Focuses on driving for a moment to get his thoughts under control.

"I'm the Left Hand," Peter says softly, "my job is to offer advice, but it's also... To make sure all the blood the Pack has to spill is on my hands, and to make sure that nobody makes mistakes that could lead them to... And you're just a child Derek, I should've been watching out for you, I should've-"

"-then what about mom, huh?"

Peter is shocked into silence, Derek just stares at him, angry and fierce.

"If you should've known, why didn't our Alpha, my mom? I didn't want either of you to know- because I knew you would stop me. I was being a stupid fucking kid but I was sneaky enough to get away with it, and now someone's dead, and that blood, metaphorically and literally, isn't on anyone's hands but mine!"

"It wasn't your fault either, Der," Peter breathes faintly, "it was a mistake."

Derek laughs, bitter and bone-weary and wet.

"A mistake that got someone killed."

Peter swallows again, watches the road. When they're almost at the school he asks, "Why did you bring this up?"

"My friend," Derek says, "he- he's been pushing me to- talk. He thinks it's 'cause I keep it all in that I'm angry all the time and he... He's amazing, he gets everyone to get along just by. And, I don't know. You were the only one who looked like you actually wanted to meet him, and then mom was being- and you looked- and I. I just figured you should know. That it wasn't your fault."

"Thank you," Peter says, because he doesn't know what else to say. "And I would like to meet him."

"Yeah?" He sounds so achingly hopeful that Peter can't help but smile.

"Yes, of course."

Derek smiles back, sniffles, wipes his cheeks again surreptitiously and nods, "Okay."

Derek tells him after dinner that night that his friend is incredibly pleased to hear that someone from his family wants to meet him, and since the Hale's won't put them up, he will.

"Does this mean we're both going to be meeting his family?" Peter asks with raised eyebrows, and Derek makes a face.

"He's emancipated, apparently, has his own place," Derek shrugs, looks a little rueful and a little wry. "I didn't even know that until today, but he has an apartment and a job and everything."

"Well, he sounds like quite the interesting fellow," Peter decides, not at all mocking, and Derek grins.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

Derek shifts restlessly from foot to foot, Peter stands just behind him and a little to the right, and Derek worries. Worries maybe Peter won't like Stiles or Stiles won't like Peter, but Stiles had wanted to get to know him better, wanted to meet his family and understand what they were like. He also admitted that without a family of his own, he just- he wanted some adults, kind ones.

And Derek had understood. He thinks maybe it was that understanding- and the fact that Stiles still smells lonely, sometimes, and sad, even in a group of people, even when Derek is right next to him- that made him actually push for this. He wouldn't have, for anyone else, for so many reasons, but the main one being that... He still doesn't trust himself, after what he did to Paige, to make the right decisions, regarding things like this.

But he doesn't really trust anyone else, either.

Except, maybe, Peter. Because Peter had been right, always is, and because Peter probably cares for him most out of the whole Pack, even considering his mom, his brother, his sisters. Peter's always tried looking out for him, always been the one who was most understanding of Derek's wolf, which was, even before Paige, a big, raging thing in his head. Hard to control.

Peter's the one who taught him the mantras, taught him that running and sports can sometimes help, Peter's the one who told him to be brave and tell her, and even though Derek was the one who fucked up, Derek thinks his Uncle may have been the one to feel the most guilty.

And, now, here's Stiles.

The one who's teaching himself to open up again, to talk again, to laugh and be himself and just trust.

He'd thought it would be Kate, but his girlfriend is steadily becoming more and more of a peripheral thing, and he's beginning to wonder, as she gets more frustrated and aggressive, making him more and more uncomfortable every time they meet, if he shouldn't just break up with her.

Especially since he's pretty sure he's falling in love with Stiles.

Part of him hates himself for how fleeting his emotions are, is asking, if he can so easily leave Kate and fall in love with someone else, what's to stop him from doing the same thing to Stiles? His thoughts were already so unfaithful, what's to say this isn't the beginning of some terrible cycle, and he'll never be able to settle with anyone ever again? What's to say that these bubbly feelings in his heart that make his blood fizz like champagne- what's to say that isn't even real?

He shakes himself.

Knocks on the door.

Peter thinks he's understandably shocked when the person who opens the door- wearing a dress that has a white bust with black ravens flying around the waist, becoming solid black around his thighs, and sheer black lace around his knees, stopping just short of the floor, his hair down but for several tiny braids that all end in little black ribbons tied in bows- is the boy he met at the library.

"Stiles?" he asks, brow furrowed, genuinely surprised.

He grins, "Der," he says, an excited lilt to his voice (and Peter's surprised, because as far as he's known Derek 'outgrew' that nickname two years ago), "I've totally already met your Uncle."

"You have?" Derek asks faintly, and Stiles grabs them both by the hand, drags them inside a living room/ kitchenette area that seems to have been repurposed into a bedroom as well, it smells like the mist-stone of Stiles, and like incense, but not overwhelmingly so, and like mouth-watering roast.

"We ran into each other at the library," Stiles giggles, and his eyes sparkle in the dim-warm light that his lamp offers, made dim by a cheap lampshade and a pretty scarf draped over it, giving everything a reddish-orange hue. "It's a small town, Der, I'm sure I've met most of your family already, whether they wanted to meet me or not."

Derek snickers, Stiles looks half-smug, squeezes both of their hands before moving to close the door, skirts swishing around bare legs, carpet making soft noises under bare feet.

"Take your shoes off," he orders over his shoulder as he walks past them toward the linoleum part of the floor, the wall that has counters and a stove and a fridge and a sink, all open to the rest of the room. As he's checking on the food he asks, "Are either of you vegetarians? Vegans? Allergic to anything?"

"Nope, nope, and nope," Derek answers with a small smile, toeing his shoes off by the door before going to the small japanese-style wooden table and sitting on one of the various throw pillows and cushions that surround it by way of seats. Peter follows suit.

Other than the table, the large mattress in the corner of the room and the dresser/bookshelf behind it serving as a pseudo-headboard, there isn't any furniture in the room, just the lamp, and Stiles' laptop plugged into an outlet next to the bed, sitting closed on the floor. There're two doors that don't lead outside, and Peter's going to assume one's a closet and the other is for the bathroom.

He'd never thought that a minimalist studio-apartment could be homey, but there it was.

And Derek is smiling, not a fake 'I'm fine' smile, or a half-hearted sort of thing, it's real and pure and lights him up from the inside, sloughing off all those years he'd gained as easy as anything.

"So you did like that book, right?" Stiles asks, bringing a baking pan full of steaming roast that smells faintly of oranges and rosemary to the table before running back to the kitchen to bring three bowls of chestnut rice back to them and sitting down with a grin. "Serve yourselves, all you can eat!"

"This looks delicious, Stiles, thank you. And the book you recommended didn't help me with what I was looking for, but it was a wonderful read."

Derek makes an inquisitive noise, and, despite the fact that he said they could serve themselves, Stiles ends up carving up the roast and topping their rice with it, for Derek, then Peter, then himself as he rambles:

"I said I met him at a library, right? Well, he was looking at mythologies and stuff, and there was this obscure book I'd found that my mom used to read to me when I was little, and somehow I just felt like it would be perfect for him, so I kind of shoved it at him. To be honest I'm a little surprised- a happy, pleased kind of surprised- that he even took it home and read it at all.

"Although... what were you looking for Peter?"

Peter answers, all smile, completely serious, just to see how he will react, "Something about witches and fiddle-magic. For Derek."

What he doesn't expect is for his nephew to groan, his earth-oak scent filling with embarrassment as he buries his face in his hands; for Stiles to just guffaw, laughing until he's wheezing and literally lolling sideways toward the floor. Peter reaches out to steady him unthinkingly, and Stiles leans into the contact, beaming at him beatifically and squeezing the hand on his arm when his mirth has died some.

"You thought I was a witch, huh?"

Derek glares at Peter, Peter's eyebrows raise.

"I'm assuming you're the fiddler, then?" Peter drawls, though he is genuinely curious.

"Yes, he's the fiddler," Derek growls, tucking into his food, presumably to hide the delicate pink dusting his cheeks, which just turns bright red after he takes the first bite and makes an absolutely indecent noise.

Stiles' grin is smug, "Are you going to ask your Uncle to look into cooking magic, next?"

"Oh my god shut up," Derek grouses, but the effect is ruined by the fact that he's too focused on eating and moaning around the food to really be angry.

Stiles laughs, "No talking with your mouth full!" He crows.

Peter nods archly, "He is right, mind your manners, dear nephew."

Stiles bursts into more laughter, flailing, "Oh my god," he breathes, and Derek rolls his eyes. Peter shakes his head, a smile curling at the corners of his own mouth as he takes his own first bite.

He doesn't make a sound, but it's a very, very close thing.

It had been interesting to find out that most weekends, Stiles sat out in the Preserve and played fiddle, sometimes sang, and that whenever he did, Derek, more often than not, brought food to him, and they'd have little impromptu picnics after his concert for the animals was done.

Even more intriguing was learning, after having been invited the next weekend, that they hadn't been metaphorical about the animal part of it, considering how all the 'woodland creatures' were reacting to his music, Peter couldn't help but think that the fairy tale correlation was extremely apparent, and that maybe Derek hadn't been overreacting in thinking that Stiles' fiddle was magic, somehow.

It was certainly spellbinding when he played.

The song, more resigned than bitter, stays in his head long after the sandwiches they'd brought have gone, long after conversation has lulled, long after they bid Stiles a simple, sweet sort of goodbye.

It gets stuck there and makes him think, oddly, of the Argents.

Hunters so dead set on one idea of what werewolves are that trying to get them to just listen, understand that they're not some caricature of monstrous evil, is a lesson in futility.

He thinks about it long into the night, and he wonders, wonders how much Stiles knows, or what he must've been through, to know at least in part, what this sort of bias feels like. And then he thinks of the boy's dresses and his pride and his smile and the way he's dragging Derek right out of his shell like he'd never built one at all.

He sighs, closes his eyes, remembers a tiny lonely apartment, no family or photographs in sight, and decides that if Stiles needs them- he and Derek- to fill that gap, they will, should, he deserves so much more than he has.

Witch or not.

The next few months were kind of amazing, in Derek's opinion. Peter would drive him to school, and after, he drove both Stiles (who usually walked) and Derek to Stiles' apartment. There, they would hang out for awhile, Peter joining them more often than not, though sometimes he did just drop them off; they talked, did homework, Stiles would sometimes sing and fiddle for them, almost always cooking dinner unless he was caught up with work.

He worked freelance as a songwriter, not necessarily writing songs for famous people or anything, but he was contracted to two record labels and he wrote songs for the artists they supported, sometimes co-writing with other lyricists, sometimes co-writing with the singer themselves.

"It doesn't bring in much," Stiles had told them one night over some obscure dish that was both very good, and, according to Stiles, very healthy, "but it brings in enough."

Once, after dinner, Stiles had brought out this old, old boom-box. It was pastel blue and ancient, everything on it was in Polish as far as Peter could tell, and Stiles had grinned and told them he was Polish, and even though he couldn't read the words anymore, they were so faded, he knew what the buttons did.

He'd had this CD case, jean fabric, embroidered with colorful flowers, a strap so it could almost be a purse, but when he unzipped it, it was full to bursting, every CD slot filled with two CDs. Most of them, 'champagne CDs' he'd called them, were beige with little martini glasses on them and lines for writing, blank CDs that Stiles had apparently burned music he liked onto, writing the names he had for the mixes he made in his sharp, charmingly sloppy scrawl.

"Why do you call them champagne CDs?" Peter had asked.

"Because they were my mom's first," Stiles had replied, wistful and a little sad, "and when I was little I didn't know the difference between a champagne glass and a martini glass- that along with the color, I don't know why, but that's just what I called them. I used to ask my mom, 'are we playing champagne today?', and she'd laugh and laugh and- even when." Stiles swallowed, shook his head. "She still always laughed when I asked her that."

Stiles' eyes had gone watery with unshed tears as he put one of his CDs into the CD-player, clicking a button on the boom-box that had music filling the room, which smelled like incense and Stiles and long-suffered grief and loneliness, but even more so like hope, like Derek and Peter, like comfort, like home.

And Stiles had stood, sniffed a little, grabbed both their hands and hauled them up from where they had been kneeling beside him on the carpet.

"We are playing champagne today," he'd said with a fond grin, "and you two are both dancing with me."

"Both of us?" Derek had made a face, "How?"

Stiles had shrugged, wrapped an arm around Derek's waist, the other weaving up around Peter's back, and had twirled them all with a wonderful, beautiful sort of laugh, "Who knows!"

They'd all gotten so dizzy eventually they'd collapsed all on top of each other on Stiles' bed, Stiles still laughing, until Derek had no choice but to laugh along with him, Peter grinning and shaking his head at them both fondly.

It had been a really, really good day.

And it had helped him cement his decision somewhat but... he still wasn't sure.

"Peter?" Derek calls out as he enters the basement library half a week later, indecisive and nervous.

"Hmm?" Peter hums in question from one of the big, comfy sofa chairs in the middle of the bookshelves, gathered on a rug around a coffee table. His Uncle's reading some books for his college classes, Derek thinks, and feels a little twinge, hoping that Peter hasn't been negating his studies over the past two months.

He clears his throat nervously, moving to sit in the chair next to him.

"I, uh, I have a girlfriend," he starts, careful.

Peter's eyes snap to him over his book, which he decidedly puts down, slowly, as if to keep from startling him, like he's a frightened animal or something, which- okay, maybe not entirely an exaggeration, considering how anxiety is bubbling in his stomach and twisting him all up in knots. Peter raises an eyebrow in question, but waits for him to continue patiently and Derek can only be grateful for that.

"I- she was nice to me, after, after Paige, and I guess, I just. But I don't think I was. I mean, I thought, I thought I was in love with her. For a little while, but now, there's..."

"Someone else?" Peter guesses delicately, accurately, and Derek barely suppresses a wince.

"Stiles," Derek breathes, and Peter offers a bit of a knowing smile, though it's a little faint.

"He is easy to love, isn't he?"

That stops Derek in his tracks for a moment, and he stills, then, tentatively, "You too?"

Peter gives him a long, unreadable look, then takes a deep breath, like he's going to say something, something important. Something like yes. But then his jaw clamps shut, hard, and he shakes his head, more at himself than anything.

"He's too young," Peter dismisses quietly.

"So am I," Derek sighs, shoving his hands through his hair.

"What do you mean?" Peter asks, eyebrows furrowed.

"My, my girlfriend she's..."

"Older?"

"Yeah."

"And you don't want to go out with her anymore?"

"It's more than just that. What if this is all just, like, some weird rebound-cycle after effect of Paige? What if I only think I'm-" he gestures to his chest, doesn't say the word, can't bear to, although it's him being unable to say it that makes him realize Peter did, in his own way, and he has to swallow hard before he can continue- "with Stiles. Like I thought with-"

"But it doesn't feel the same, does it?" Peter interrupts, gently, and Derek blinks at him dumbly. The older man laughs softly, "You wouldn't be so worried if it felt the same, Der. You're scared for Stiles, that if this isn't real, what you're feeling, you'll just end up hurting him by pursuing it. You're not worried at all what breaking up with your girlfriend will do to her, and it even seems like you weren't in love with her when you started dating. You just wanted someone, someone who wasn't Pack, someone to understand you in a different way, and that's okay, that's normal.

"But from what I can tell, you've been in this relationship long enough to convince yourself you might love her because you think you should. That doesn't mean that you do, or you did. And it's only because you started to have feelings for Stiles that you realized it wasn't what you thought it was- because familiarity and love don't feel the same. One just can't compare to the other."

Derek listens, and thinks, really thinks about what it feels like to be with Stiles compared to what it felt like being with Kate, even in the beginning, even now, and he realizes that he never felt electricity buzz through him at her touch, never felt safe and whole and home just because she was there, never felt joyous from being with her, never traced her face with his eyes because he wanted to keep it in his memory forever, never ached to feel her hand in his, never missed the sound of her heartbeat or catalogued all of her scents.

And then something else dawns on him, leaves him blushing and a little breathless, because those feelings for Stiles only intensify when Peter is there, and they leak over onto him, onto this man who...

For a moment he just breathes, feels his heartbeat speed up, thinks hard about all the different ways you can love someone, about how, now, whenever Stiles brings out his boom-box they all end up dancing together, how it only ever feels complete when it's all three of them, it still feels good when it's just him and Stiles but it's not... not the same.

"If I were asking different advice, right now, if I were asking what to do because I was in love with someone older... what would you say?"

Peter looks incredibly confused by the sudden turn in conversation, but answers firmly and unhesitatingly anyway, "I'd tell you to talk to them, and if they're interested, really hash out with them what you're comfortable with, and to make sure that they know that actually having sex should wait until you're eighteen, no matter what."

"So, then, as long as Stiles is comfortable, it shouldn't matter that he's younger, should it?"

"Derek I... what are you even saying?"

Derek hesitates, just for a minute, then he gets this picture of Stiles in his head, daring anyone to look at him funny, and he just- leans forward, wraps a hand around Peter's forearm and tugs him closer, down a little, before pressing their lips together, soft, tender, chaste. Then Peter gasps, surprised, and Derek licks, tentatively, inside, curious, emboldened when Peter shivers, moans quiet.

Peter shifts, moves his hand to cradle the back of Derek's head, like he's something precious, before he's reciprocating, his tongue sliding against Derek's, sucking, nibbling, crushing the mewls he pulls out of the younger boy with his mouth.

When they pull apart they're both breathless, panting, open-mouthed, Peter looking as dazed as Derek feels, a blush creeping high on his cheeks, blue eyes blown with wonder and heat, and Derek can't help but grin at him, before recapturing his lips, more confident this time, soft and sweet.

"Who knows?" he says, and then gets up, and walks off with a smile plastered across his spit-slick lips.

Peter's still reeling from the kisses they shared the next day as he drives Derek to school. There's an amalgamation of confused emotions storming within him but, above all, the brightest is this terrified, excited, blistering sort of hope.

And he doesn't really know what to do with that.

"Pull over?" Derek suggests quietly when they're a little over two blocks away from the school. When Peter does Derek immediately snatches the hand closest to him and laces their fingers together, taking a few deep breaths, steadying himself.

"I'm going to break up with her today, tonight. And then, tomorrow, I want. I want us to talk to Stiles, together." He says the last word like it's full of meaning and anticipation and affection.

Peter finds himself needing to take a few deep breaths of his own.

"Are you sure about this, Der?" He asks, softly, tenderly.

Derek looks from the window to their hands, in his lap, and runs the pad of his thumb over Peter's knuckles before his eyes slowly draw up to Peter's, that eternal swamp-water hazel that drowns. Then he smiles. Smiles like he used to when Peter would hold him after nightmares when he was a child, when Peter read him stories and sang atrociously off-key lullabies, when Peter would give up on his homework and play with him after he'd begged and whined long enough.

The way he'd smiled at Paige.

The way he smiles at Stiles.

Like the sun has just risen and it's all due to them, like he feels so safe he can let all of his guards down, like he's happy because they're there, and because he thinks maybe they want to be. It makes Peter's breath catch in the back of his throat.

"Yeah," Derek breathes, and he looks beyond bright, like the realization of it has put all those broken pieces of him back together again, iridescent in his confidence, in the love that's pouring off of him in overwhelming waves, "I'm very sure."

He smiles shyly down at their hands, turning Peter's over so that he can trace the bones of his fingers, tickle-soft, before he frowns, shifts his hand away, unsure.

"Unless- unless, you aren't? I mean, if you don't want this I'd understand, I mean we're-"

His scent is suddenly copper-brine, and, after seeing Derek so happy, Peter just- he can't, especially when, he thinks, he is sure. Maybe not as sure, but sure.

"I want it," Peter says firmly, reclaiming Derek's hand in his, "I want you, I want him, I want this. I can't even believe I'm saying it, but I do."

Derek squeezes his hand, smiling again, a dark red painted across his cheeks as he murmurs, "Good."

Peter leans over the space between them, cupping Derek's chin with his free hand to get the boy to look up at him, before closing the distance. Derek's mouth is warm, tastes like the bacon they ate this morning, the bitter of orange juice, and Peter chases the taste until Derek is trembling, moaning against his lips, his tongue. When he pulls back Derek wraps a hand around his arm, keeps him close for long enough to nose his way down his jaw, nuzzling against his neck, scenting him.

Peter bites back a fond smile, kisses Derek on the forehead.

"You'll be late," he reminds him, and Derek nuzzles in deeper.

"See you after school, Uncle Peter."

"See you after school, dearest nephew."

Peter can feel Derek smile against his neck before the boy's leaping out of the car and running off. Peter has a moment, as he slides over to close the passenger door, to be extremely thankful for his tinted windows.

Stiles opens his door to them the next day wearing a short black skirt, a white t-shirt and a long, loose black cardigan that sways around his smooth, supple calves, his hair up in a messy bun revealing the clear gauges he's wearing, and he looks rumpled, smells sleep-warm, like they just woke him up, but he still smiles as he invites them inside.

"So what brings you two over this beautiful Sunday morning?" Stiles asks as he moves to his fridge, scratching the top of his head absent-mindedly, "Either of you want something to drink? Sweet-tea, orange-juice, soda, or- I could put coffee on, but it might take a minute. My coffee maker's shit, but you know this." He offers said machine an accusatory glare and Peter smirks, Derek fidgets nervously beside him.

"Considering the fights you get in with it every other day? Yes, I'd say we do. And I'll have some of your tea." Peter has maintained that Stiles makes the best sweet-tea he's ever tasted since the first cup he'd tried. Derek doesn't like tea much, but he's inclined to agree. Not that he could stomach much of anything right now.

Stiles returns to them with two cups of tea, one for Peter and one for himself, taking Derek's silence for the 'no, thank you,' it is.

"Ah! You forgot to take off your shoes!" Stiles tuts, pointing, and Peter snorts while Derek shrugs sheepishly, both of them toeing off their shoes by the door before Stiles is dragging them to sit on the edge of his mattress, Derek on one side and Peter on the other.

"Soooo," he starts, slurping a sip, knocking his right shoulder into Derek's before knocking his left into Peter's, he looks at both of them in turn, "what's up?"

"We wanted to talk to you," Peter says pleasantly, taking a sip of his own tea.

Derek takes a deep breath, remembers how easy it had been to break up with Kate once he'd realized how much he loved Stiles, Peter, and how good this could be. He knows it's selfish to want this, but he does. And when he'd told her, honest, that he was sorry, but he'd fallen in love with someone else... she'd sneered at him, called him awful things, and told him no one would ever love him before storming off.

Derek had never felt such intense relief before in his life.

And now? Now he's so nervous he feels sick with it, but he also feels love-struck and gooey inside, has ever since he kissed Peter the other night, ever since he'd realized this was something he could have. And maybe Stiles will reject them, maybe his heart will end up broken, but-

He has to try.

He has to.

"I like you," Derek begins, "like, want to kiss you and hold hands with you, like you. And Peter likes you, in that same way, and Peter and I, well, it's as complicated as it isn't, but we'd like to- to date you?"

Stiles is staring at him, mouth agape, his cheeks a bright, burning red, "Derek Hale, are you asking me to be your boyfriend?"

"Well- I- yes?"

Stiles turns to Peter, "And I'd be your boyfriend, too?"

"That is what he's proposing."

"And you two? Would you be?" Stiles asks, flail pointing, plastic cup full of tea sloshing dangerously in his hand, Peter surreptitiously grabs it before he spills any.

"We'd be complicated," Derek repeats, small smile curling his lips when Stiles giggles.

"You would be that," Stiles shakes his head with a sigh, looking both of them up and down with disbelief and something akin to awe. "Okay. Okay, I am. That would be." Stiles huffs a laugh, "So amazing. Like, together? We three can rule the world."

Derek snorts, Stiles' eyes sparkle, and Peter smiles fondly at both of them before clearing his throat to get their attention.

"I'm older, than both of you. So, dates notwithstanding, I'm not touching either of you until you're both eighteen."

"Okay," Stiles agrees, then narrows his eyes, "wait, are you saying we can touch each other? And by touching, do you just mean sexually? Because I want to kiss you, both of you, like, now, and all the time. Also, you'd still be exclusively ours, right? Because I won't stand for infidelity. And just because you're not touching, doesn't mean you can't watch, right?

"Or do something like, I don't know, platonic dominance? Because I'd be totally into that."

Peter and Derek are both blinking at him dumbly at this point, shocked, Derek's fairly sure that all three of them are blushing, no one more so than Peter, but as embarrassed as Stiles may be, he's unabashed and unashamed about it all, and begins laughing when they've been silent statues for over three minutes.

"What? I'm a kinky bastard and I abuse all the loopholes. Besides, we're in a relationship now, these are valid questions."

"No, yes, you're right," Peter breathes faintly, the beginnings of a genuine grin on his lips, "just very, very direct."

He takes a deep breath, looks at Derek, then Stiles, before deciding to slide down to the floor, smoothly taking place on the carpet in front of them, looking at both of them very earnestly.

"Yes, I think you two should be able to touch each other, and kissing is fine, but I will back off if I feel like I'm losing control. I'd be 'exclusively yours', as you say, I'm not one for cheating, thank you. As for watching... I think I'd like that, actually. Platonic dominance, if that's something you'd enjoy, is something we'll have to discuss."

"We're definitely discussing that, then," Stiles grins, then he's unceremoniously hauling them both onto the bed with him, half drunk cups of sweet-tea forgotten on the carpet, "but not right now, right now, we sleep, because I am-" a yawn- "very, very tired, and you're both very, very warm, and-" an excited little squeal- "because I am totally allowed!"

Derek huffs, but snuggles in close, his arm reaching across Stiles' hip, hand landing on Peter's arm, all their legs tangling together.

"Yeah," Derek agrees, "you are."

He hears Peter sigh, soft, content, and then their heartbeats even out, overlap, and sleep takes them.

Peter wakes up first, Stiles curled into his side and Derek spooning up behind the boy, he runs his hand through Stiles' hair, looks over him at Derek who's making small, innocent, snuffling noises in his sleep, and can't help the smile that steals over his face.

"You're smiling," Stiles murmurs sleepily from his shoulder, looking up at him through his eyelashes, honey eyes warm.

"I'm always smiling," Peter whispers back, and Stiles shakes his head with a hum.

"Nuh-uh, this is different," Stiles tells him, wriggling, and then shuddering when Derek wraps his arm more firmly around Stiles' waist and grinds. "Wow," Stiles breathes, gleefully, snickering into Peter's shirt, "he's having a good dream."

Derek nuzzles into the back of Stiles' neck and whimpers, suddenly smelling so heavily of arousal that Peter's breath hitches, and then he moans, "Peter," panting, canting his hips up into Stiles again, and Stiles gasps, hands fisting in Peter's shirt.

"A really, really good dream," he amends, soft, choked, pressing his own hard-on against Peter's hip with a mewl, "Ah-nn, we should, mmm, wake him?"

Peter takes a few deep breaths, barely restraining from palming himself through his jeans right there, crawls over Stiles to Derek and kisses his nephew sound, pressing inside his mouth, devouring a gasp, sucking on his tongue and scraping his teeth against his bottom lip until Derek's reciprocating, wrapping his arms around Peter's neck, morning breath be damned.

"Dreaming of me, were you, sweetheart?" Peter asks breathily when they part, and he doesn't miss the way Derek sucks in a breath at the name. They both look over at the completely pornographic whine that escapes Stiles then, who has apparently shoved his hand down his skirt and started stroking himself at the sight of them kissing.

"See what we've done to him?" Peter asks Derek with a smirk, and Derek whines.

"Der," Stiles keens, "touch me, please, please, touch me."

Derek swallows, eyes wide and dark with heat. Peter noses at his jaw, kisses him there, "Go on, baby, you know you want to," he whispers in Derek's ear, nibbles his earlobe, eliciting a sharp, needy gasp.

He falls back, watches with an almost predatory interest as Derek crawls over to Stiles, their lips pressing together, opening to each other, soft, sloppy wet noises with gasped pleas and mewls and whimpers of pleasure passed into each other's mouths.

Derek's hand slips down underneath Stiles' waistband to join Stiles in stroking his cock, both their hands bunching up the thin, black fabric against soft, milky skin in an absolutely obscene way, and Peter moans at the sight, unbuttoning his jeans and taking his own throbbing erection in hand, precome already beading at the tip.

It doesn't take long for the boys to strip themselves of all their clothing, writhing naked against each other as they kiss and mewl and moan until Stiles arches up, reaches for something in a dresser drawer, fumbles a little, comes back with a bottle of vanilla scented body oil.

"Der," Stiles breathes against his lips, handing him the bottle, "I want you to fuck me. Please, Der, please. Need you inside."

Derek gulps, nods, slicks his fingers up with the oil, the fragrance of it not so crude and chemical as lube, and not at all overpowering, it mingles with Stiles and Derek's scents, with Peter's, with the incense that Stiles always has burning, with the heavy musk of arousal.

Peter watches, comes closer to see better, as Derek presses a finger inside, teases Stiles open as he kisses his neck, sucks a mark there, Stiles runs his fingers through Derek's hair, looks up at Peter and smiles, soft and warm and sweat-slick, affection and sex making his eyes gleam, the heat of it all making his cheeks a deep blushing red, it has to be the most glorious thing he's ever seen and it makes him shiver, groan.

Derek looks up at the noise, leaves Stiles' neck to kiss Peter, sweeping his tongue across the seam of his lips, making a quiet little noise when Peter kisses back, hard and deep and demanding. He can hear a slick sound, another finger, feel Stiles grab onto his leg for support as he lets out a keening cry, starts to tremble.

"More, more, Der, please, more," Stiles whimpers, and Peter leaves Derek's lips to find Stiles'.

"Not yet, baby," he murmurs, kisses, bites at pretty pink lips, "he needs to open you up, first. Don't wanna hurt you."

Stiles whines, gasps a plea to the gods when Derek finds his prostate, and begins to wriggle and writhe, fucking himself on Derek's fingers, half delirious with pleasure.

"Add another finger, nephew," Peter instructs softly, kissing his own marks over the ones Derek made previously, "he's ready, now."

Stiles makes choked, panting-moans, like he can't get enough air, too focused on the external stimuli until Peter tells him, "Breathe."

Derek scissors him open as best he can, his fathomless hazel eyes always on them, before he slicks up his dick, removes his fingers, which has Stiles immediately whining and whimpering and desperate.

"Don't worry," Peter soothes, "we've got you. We've got you, darling."

He moves back a little, to watch as Derek enters him, both of the boys' faces flushed and open-mouthed and lust-addled. He twists his fingers through Stiles' hair, plays with it as he plays with himself and observes, smiles when Stiles half hums and half keens.

Derek thrusts inside slowly, shallow at first until he bottoms out, Stiles moving his hands to Derek's ass to keep him there, hold him steady, both of them trembling with pleasure and exertion. Derek kisses him, a slow, sweet, passionate sort of thing that makes Stiles' breath hitch, his eyes flutter, and then he's groaning as Derek starts to move again, nails digging into the flesh of Derek's ass.

"Ahh-ha-nnm, wanna--" Stiles cries out when Peter tugs on his hair, shivers, has to blink the glaze of submission that instantly has him going semi-pliant in Derek's arms away in order to think again.

"What is it you want, little one?" Peter purrs, doesn't miss the way Derek's hips stutter.

"Mmm, I wanna ride him," Stiles half mewls, pushing Derek further in and grinding his hips up in a way that has Derek groaning, a wrecked, lost sound before Stiles wraps his legs around the other boy, twists, shoves with determination, the mattress creaking loud and reluctant as Derek's back thuds against it, Stiles securely on top of him grinning in pure triumph.

Derek's eyes look blown as his gaze rakes over Stiles like this, on top of him, sweaty and glorious, then they're fluttering shut with another groan as Stiles grinds his ass down, hard and intent and purposeful. Stiles takes both of Derek's hands, laces one with his as he brings the other up to a nipple, grazes Derek's knuckles over the pebble of it, which is enough to make his whole body shiver, and Derek cries out, his hips canting up as he scratches lightly, makes Stiles whimper, convulse, before setting himself in a tight, needy, rapid sort of rhythm.

Stiles throws his head back with a moan as their hips roll together, finding that sweet spot with every thrust, and then he reaches a hand out, blindly finding Peter and pulling him in, pulling him close enough to kiss, sliding their tongues together, fast and urgent as Stiles' heartbeat starts going faster, his hips start thrusting and grinding down deliciously quick and hard and erratic. Desperate.

Peter drags his fingernails up Stiles' back, cups his neck to deepen the kiss before twining his fingers in Stiles' hair and pulling. Stiles gasps, convulses and twitches and trembles, buries his face in Peter's shoulder and holds onto him as his orgasm drowns him, one of his hands still holding Derek's.

The smell of his come, sticky and spilled out all over Derek's belly must be enough to take him over the edge, because a second later he's coming inside of Stiles, who makes a little wanting mewl against the side of Peter's throat before he kisses him there, bites and laves and sucks and whispers, raspy and blissed-out:

"Come for me, please. Peter, I wanna see it, please? Come for me."

Peter gasps when, as Stiles moves to nip his earlobe, Derek presses an open-mouthed kiss high up against his thigh, and then he's coming, both boys watching him, wide-eyed and pleased.

"Fuck," he breathes, and Stiles giggles against him before he climbs off of both of them, come dribbling out of his ass when he bends over to snatch a cup of sweet-tea off of the floor.

"Well," he says, draining the cup in one go, "I'm going to take a shower," he lifts his cup in a silent 'cheers' motion, eyes aglow, "who's with me?"

They both were, of course, how could they not be?

Later, when they're driving home, Derek wonders, "Will we smell too much like we just...?"

Peter frowns, scents the air, and shakes his head, "We smell like incense and Stiles, but not like we just had some of the most vigorous, intriguing sex I've ever been party too."

Derek grins, "That good, huh?"

"Yes, dear nephew," Peter drawls, smiling wide himself, "that good."

Derek's quiet for a few minutes, thinking, considering.

"Will we ever tell them? The Pack?"

"Do you want to?" Peter asks, quiet and sincere.

"Yeah. Yeah, this, being with you and him, I'm happier than I've been in- in awhile, I don't want to hide that from them, but..."

He hesitates, and Peter takes his hand in his, laces their fingers together, silent reassurance.

"I see the way mom treats you," Peter sucks in a breath, surprised, never having expected that to be what Derek's concerned about, "the way they all treat you, sometimes. And I don't get it, I've never gotten it, and- I mean, what if we tell them and they just blame you again, or- or worse. Mom's a lawyer, Uncle Peter, she could do worse."

"They-" Peter stumbles, indecisive about his words in a way he never is- "I'm the Left Hand, assessing threats, killing them, playing politics, cleaning up messes, having blue eyes. That's my job, along with advising the Pack however I can. The things I have to do, they're- sometimes they're terrible things. And I'd do it all again- no matter the sins I pile up or the blood on my hands- if it meant keeping you all safe. I don't regret any of it, but.

"None of the Pack really knows much about what I do, Talia and I try to keep it from them- after all, the point of dirtying my hands so much is to keep the Pack clean of it. So they just see a mysterious post and blue eyes that none of them have and a willingness to do things, terrible things, none of them ever would. They balk from it, and I don't blame them for that.

"Talia herself has seen what I can do, what I have done for the Pack, and she knows my responsibilities, so not only is she even harder on me when I fail them but, I think I scare her, sometimes, with how far I'm willing to go. I scare myself, sometimes."

"You don't scare me," Derek tells him, earnest and steadfast. Peter smiles at him, but it's a small, sad, broken sort of thing.

"You don't know what I've done."

"No," Derek concedes, leans his head on Peter's shoulder, closes his eyes with a sigh, "but I know why you've done it, and I know who you are, and I love you, all of you, even your darkness," Derek swallows, Peter tries to remember how to breathe, "so it doesn't matter what you've done. You'll never scare me."

Peter squeezes his hand again, and they drive in a heavy silence for a while. When they're much closer to home Derek breaks the silence by deciding: "We won't tell them, not until I'm eighteen. We won't tell them about you or Stiles. I know that's how he would want it, too, he wouldn't want anyone to know unless they knew everything."

"Der, we're wolves, the outcome might not be as bad as you think."

"It doesn't matter, Uncle Peter. Wolves and humans, both," he looks up at Peter from his place on the older man's shoulder, "lash out at things they don't understand, don't they?"

Peter's grateful for the red light, he really is, because he couldn't have stopped himself from kissing Derek just then if he tried, "Yes. Yes, they do."

Derek stays leaned into him, holding his hand, until they're in the driveway of their house, and when he lets go, reluctantly pulls away, he says, very, very quietly, "I have blue eyes, too."

"I know, sweetheart," Peter says, grave and worried and soothing all at once. "I know."

"I wholly agree with Derek," Stiles says the next day when Peter runs into him in the library, one of the rare days he's wearing some comic-inspired t-shirt overlaid with plaid, baggy jeans and neon green vans. It astounds him that the boy can be an absolute fashionista in women's clothes and a practical idiot in men's, but he's somehow adorable in his own obliviousness/confidence in either.

"You know, you two could date as you please without-"

"Nope," Stiles declares, popping the p, eyes determined and settled, like liquid sunlight, when they move from a book he was perusing to settle on him. "I belong to you as much as I belong to Derek, and if I can't say that, then I'm not saying anything at all. Besides," he winks as he closes the book, slides it easily back in its home on the shelf, "we're all good at keeping secrets, aren't we?"

Peter narrows his eyes, "And what secrets are you keeping, darling?"

Stiles grins, his eyes sparkle with amusement and mischief, as he shrugs faux-innocently, "None."

His heart tells the lie, and Peter raises his eyebrows. Stiles laughs.

"You know what this means, though?"

"What?"

"You're going to be spending a lot of money on gas. Because we're totally going on dates, I may be able to wait for you to touch us, well, touch us more, until we're eighteen, but I'm not waiting that long for ridiculous, sickening romance. Seriously. I'm even planning on kissing you both on top of a ferris-wheel at some point. It'll be so sweet and cliched your teeth will rot."

"Really, now?"

"Oh, definitely," Stiles grins, and then he gets distracted by a gaggle of kids, upset and whining about the fact that the regular storyteller has apparently called in sick and there's no replacement, so story-time is canceled. Stiles runs over before Peter can really stop him, and then, upon seeing Cora and Cat among the group of children, Talia among the mildly frustrated adults, he decides to just stay back, see what he's going to do.

"Hey, hey, now," Stiles calls out soothingly, garnering everyone's attention, and then he's slipping his fiddle case off of his shoulder and unzipping it, revealing the instrument inside. "I know you're all here for a story, but, the lady who reads them? Well, she went off to fight a dragon! So, instead of being sad that she isn't here, why don't we all wish her luck, alright?"

The kids, some wiping away tears and sniffling, all murmur in agreement, still a little disappointed, but a lot more on board with that fantastical idea than any mundane reality. The parents all seem to be holding their breath, and the librarian they were all ganging up on has wisely decided to make a hasty retreat while she still can.

"Now," Stiles says, brandishing his fiddle and his bow with a flourish, "I myself couldn't take her place, her voice is much better suited for reading than mine, but I can sing, and I can," he slides his bow across the strings, a note that's high and reedy and delightful filling the room, the children gasp, the parents sigh, laugh, relieved and understanding, "fiddle.

"So, how would you like for me to play for you today?"

The kids cheer, the parents settle in for the half hour they'd meant to spend here anyway, and Stiles tosses a blinding grin directly at Peter before he begins. He weaves songs about dragons and love and flowers, about magic and flight and wonders, and by the end, he's got them all, ages notwithstanding, wrapped around his little finger, Peter included.

He finds it interesting that after everyone's gotten up to leave, Cora and Cat stay for a beat, and he stifles a laugh when they both run up to Stiles and hug his legs, beaming and babbling about how amazing that was, and what's a fiddle, and will they see him again. Stiles bends down and pets their hair, then looks up at Talia, full of mischief.

"Well," he tells them, "that depends on your mom. I'm afraid I won't be playing at the library again, but I'm sure Derek wouldn't mind at all if his friend came over to visit and played with his lovely twin sisters, although, from what he's told me, his mom doesn't want me to come visit, so, really, you'll have to talk to her."

Talia's eyes widen, the girls turn from Stiles to her with their best double dose of pleading puppy dog pouts, something she has always been incredibly weak to.

"So," his sister breathes, faint, "you're the friend Derek wanted us to meet."

"Yep," he says, popping the p, reaching out to dutifully shake her hand, "the one who wants Derek to stop moping over the fact that he can't meet them."

"Well... I'm sure we could arrange something."

The twins squeal, Stiles' smile is victorious and full of teeth, "I'm sure we could."

Stiles waits until around two minutes after they leave before he bounds over to Peter excitedly, laughing.

"Did you plan that?" Peter asks, half awed, half incredulous.

Stiles shrugs, "We may not be telling them we're dating yet, but we will. I'm just... preparing them, and I can't do that unless they get to know me, now can I?"

"You manipulated Talia, with the twins, do you know how impressed I am right now?"

Stiles blushes, "Impressed enough to kiss me in a public place, rules be damned?" He asks pointedly, eyebrows raised, and Peter laughs, shaking his head.

"Close," then he sighs, licks his lips, smirks when Stiles' eyes track the movement. "It's not you they're going to have a problem with."

"No," Stiles agrees, suddenly serious, his eyes feel like a scorching heat that could burn through Peter's very soul if they wanted to, and Peter's mouth goes abruptly dry. "But I know what will happen to Derek if he loses his family, and I will not allow stupidity or prejudice to be the reason for that loss. We'll be together, at the end of this, and by the time I'm done they will damn well accept it."

"That sounds like quite the oath," Peter breathes, and Stiles smiles at him, soft and proud.

"It is."

A few days later, Derek's dragging Peter to Stiles' apartment, incredulous and delighted. He doesn't even give Stiles a second to breathe when the door swings open, just tackles him into a hug and starts kissing him as he rambles:

"You did it, you did it, I can't believe you did it. They actually want to meet you! Mom says I can bring you over tomorrow, how did you even?"

"He's a devious little fox, aren't you, darling?" Peter coos, gently pushing them further inside and closing the door behind them, Stiles laughs, explaining what he'd done at the library in between kisses from both of them, and that, yes, it had been planned, right down to the exclusive concert tickets he'd slipped to the usual story-time host. Having connections in the music industry can be incredibly useful, apparently.

Derek looks sufficiently debauched and astounded by the end of the explanation, "You're serious? You did all that just to meet them?"

"Well, it's important to you, isn't it? Besides, I figure if they see the three of us together, before we tell them, maybe it'll get them used to the idea. I don't want this, this relationship that makes us all happy, I don't want it to be the thing that makes you lose them, either of you."

Derek leans in to kiss him again, Peter wrapping his arms around both of them and kissing them each on the cheek, "You're amazing, you know that?" Derek sighs, and Stiles grins evilly.

"Don't be so sure about that."

Derek immediately frowns, "What are you up to?"

"A date," Stiles crows, "a park, people, social interaction, all the things."

Derek groans, "Why can't we just stay here?"

"Because it's a beautiful day outside, and our lovely beau has a car, and there's an event with street performers the next town over. Come on, come on, come on! Let's go! It'll be fun, I promise!"

"Who says I'll drive you anywhere?" Peter asks, teasing, and Stiles throws him a look.

"I will hot-wire a car," he threatens, eyes narrowed in challenge.

"... Alright, I'm driving, let's go."

Stiles grins, triumphant, loops his arms in both of theirs and drags them out the door, down the stairs, to Peter's car, pushes the man into the driver's seat and the boy into the passenger's before he plops himself into the back with a 'whoop!'

Stiles tells Peter where they're going and then spends most of the drive singing along with songs on the radio, pestering Peter and Derek until they're all singing, terribly, obnoxiously loud, and laughing at themselves the majority of the drive, the easy camaraderie easing whatever tension Derek might've been building, although he still hesitates slightly when they finally get there two hours later.

Stiles pinches his cheek lightly, and sighs when Derek turns to look at him.

"I know you have trouble around large groups of people, Der, and I know you don't like to talk to people you aren't comfortable with, and you don't like new places. But, think, these past few months we've been friends? I got popular fast- which was incredibly surprising, mind you- but I kept you with me, didn't I? Even though we were with all those people at school, the only person I ever wanted to hang out with was you, and every time it became too much for you, I'd notice, and I'd make sure you got a break, however I could, right?"

"Y-yeah," Derek stutters, brow furrowed like he hadn't actually thought of it that way until now, and Stiles smiles gently at him.

"And whenever you couldn't handle talking to someone I'd either get them to leave you alone, wait you out whether they liked it or not, or, if I absolutely had to, I'd answer for you, right?"

Derek's mouth opens, closes, his eyes full of sudden clarity as he breathes, "Right."

"And I've seen Peter do it, too, I bet he even helps you out when you're at home, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Derek says again, eyes flitting over to Peter, warm and a little shy, bright with raw affection and gratitude.

"So, will you trust us to take care of you? This is our first date, Der, it's meant to be fun for all of us, and it will be, I promise. Just trust us, babe, we'll take care of you."

Derek blushes, beautiful and innocent, and smiles with a sigh.

"Okay," he says, and opens the door, "let's do this."

Peter waits a beat to open his own door, kissing Stiles sound and thankful.

"You really are amazing," he tells the boy, who beams all beatific grace before bounding out of the car after Derek, Peter not far behind.

It isn't your regular park, that's for sure. There're giant plastic chess pieces on a large mosaic chess board with actual street chess tables under a wooden stand-alone awning alongside it, another area that looks like a playground, behind that a creek and a hiking/ bike trail, all of it attached to a small bookstore and museum connected altogether by a wide back-alley with a brick floor, tables and chairs and street-vendors and various street performers setting up for the event that'll be starting within the next half hour or so.

Stiles didn't bring his fiddle, saying he didn't want to participate, just watch, and though there are a lot of people around, most are keeping to their own groups, except for the old guy begging at random people to come play chess with him and the little girl running around selling flowers to everyone she sees.

Stiles' hair is down, all curly around his shoulders, and he's wearing his clear gauges again along with a light pink halter-top summer dress that fades into a maroon around his legs, and it's only then that Peter notices he's not actually wearing any shoes, which he points out with a judgemental eyebrow raised, and Stiles just scoffs.

"I never wear shoes unless I have to," Stiles informs him and Derek confirms this statement with a huff.

"Yeah, even at school he goes barefoot sometimes, just wears really long dresses or skirts so no one will call him on it."

"I'd think they'd call him on the dresses, actually, with all the rampant bias and whatnot."

"Oh, they tried," Stiles laughs.

"And?" Peter prompts, intrigued, Stiles just grins, swats them both on the ass and runs off to the large chess set, calling them over.

Peter raises his eyebrows at Derek, who just shrugs and follows after him.

They end up playing chess in the most ridiculous way possible, taking full advantage of the giant chess board that may or may not have only been meant as decoration, Stiles and Derek on one side Peter on the other, Stiles and Peter snarking at each other and Derek more capable of moving the heavy pieces than either of them, occasionally snickering at their antics, but more genuinely interested in the game. They end up with quite a crowd by the end of it, Peter still winning despite the fact that he was only half paying attention to the game.

Derek and Stiles take their loss in good humor, Peter buying a flower for both of them, and by then it's mostly dusk, the street lights already on and the performers just beginning to play.

They listen to an acapella group do a rendition of What I am by Edie Brickell, which Stiles makes them dance to, all three of them gleefully swaying and twirling around each other, laughing and giggling whenever they stumble over each other.

They watch and cheer for a duo band that consists of an accordion player and a harpist, Stiles delights over the magician, who Peter and Derek try not to roll their eyes at, their keen senses belying every trick, and they end up buying barbecue kebabs drenched in some sort of smokey sauce, Stiles somehow managing to make a mess of his face and hands whilst simultaneously keeping his dress pristine, Derek trying his best to help clean him off only resulting in making a mess of himself until Peter decides to take mercy on them both and drags them and a wad of napkins over to the waterfountain.

When they're both clean, and all of their thirst is quenched, Stiles, flower in his hair, face flushed with excitement and exhaustion, eyes melting with something akin to love, smiling softly, pulls them both into a long, comfortable, snuggling sort of hug.

"This... has been the best first date ever," he sighs, sounding completely content, and Peter smiles into his hair.

"Mmm," Derek hums in agreement. "Thank you, for dragging us out today. I know- if I'd been on my own... I never would've gotten this far, and it's. Everything has been awesome."

"I even think he found out he likes chess," Peter crows happily.

"Maybe, a little, but I suck at it."

"I'll teach you, dear nephew, and don't be so hard on yourself. You're already better than I was when I was your age and that was the first time you played."

"That was the first time you played, Der?" Stiles breathes, pulling away to look up at him in astonishment and awe, Derek flushes, nods, and Stiles grins dopily, "You were amazing!"

Then Stiles kisses him, languid and sweet, before turning to Peter, "You have to teach him how to play, you absolutely have to!"

Peter leans down to capture Stiles' lips with his, chasing after Derek's taste, lingering on Stiles' tongue, "Oh, I will," he promises, "no worries."

Derek goes to sleep that night feeling full of butterflies, like he's walking on air, like he still can't catch his breath.

He wakes up feeling much the same way, and Peter catches him in the hallway on his way downstairs for breakfast.

"You've been smiling since last night," his Uncle points out in a hushed whisper, grinning.

"So have you," Derek says quietly with a gentle laugh, and Peter's eyes sparkle much like Stiles' always do, making them look like the sun refracting off of ice in the middle of winter, when he lifts Derek's chin up with a knuckle to steal a chaste kiss.

"It looks good on you," he murmurs against Derek's lips, before sauntering down the stairs, and Derek can't help but smiling all the wider.

Talia isn't so sure about Derek's friend, still too worried about the raw aching wound that Paige must have left in the boy, terrified that he'd be goaded into making another mistake by Peter, but, somehow, after being haggled by her daughters for nearly a week, she agreed that the Pack could meet him.

As soon as she'd said that, her son, who had been miserable since gaining his blue eyes, morose and quiet and caved in on himself in grief, had smiled. It wasn't a wide or too meaningful thing, and it didn't even hold a light to what his smiles had been like before, but it was something.

So maybe inviting Stiles over was a good idea?

She still wasn't too pleased with how excited her Left Hand was about it, though.

Derek had never told her what had happened with Paige, not really, she'd had to rely on testimonies from Deaton and Peter and, even, the Argents. From what Deaton and the Argents had told her, Peter had insisted that Paige wouldn't even look at Derek if she'd known he was a wolf, and that had led to so much agitation and fear that it eventually pushed Derek into asking Ennis to give her the Bite.

Peter told her a very different story, but- her trust in him, over the years, has dwindled greatly. She knows how capable he is, of controlling his heartbeat and his scent, of killing, of being ruthless. The first hunter he'd killed for the sake of Pack- he'd been fourteen.

And with Derek, right now, just barely three years older than Peter was then, well...

The Argents told her that maybe this had been Peter's fucked up way of conditioning the boy to be the Left Hand inherent.

Deaton had told her that maybe Peter had planned for it to go differently, or maybe he was just lonely, wanted another blue-eyes in the Pack.

She herself honestly doesn't know what to think, just that- just that she can't trust him, or his Pack-Bond for that matter. The moment he'd taken that first life he'd put up a barrier within it, and even as the Alpha she could barely feel the ghost of him sometimes. He'd said he'd done it to protect them, but... what if he hadn't? She knows how devious he can be, knows the psychopathic tendencies he and his wolf must carry to be capable of the role he was born to.

But she knows a part of her blames him, already, for what happened to her son, has been lashing out at him, punishing him, and she can't seem to stop herself.

As the day progresses, Peter seeming incredibly... happy? about the fact that Stiles is coming to visit, she gets more and more agitated, her Betas responding to it, wary and weary and snappish.

Peter, despite her feeling uneasy, decides to drive Derek home- as per usual- which subsequently means that he's driving Stiles back as well.

Considering her hesitation and indecisiveness, the last thing she expects when the car pulls in is laughter. She's still standing in shock by the door, because she's sure it's been nearly a year since she last heard her child laugh like that- bright and sunny and joyful- when they come stumbling inside.

Derek is grinning, open, vulnerable, elated, cheeks red, eyes lit up from the inside, Peter behind them, smirking, triumphant, but he's more open, too, and both of them smell right, like their scents are finally made whole by the mist and incense aroma that flows off of Stiles.

Stiles is standing beside Derek, in a dress, which is extremely unexpected, although it does look beautiful on him. It's a spaghetti strap black willow gown that comes down in a layered skirt that pools out around him on the floor and flows when he moves with an off the shoulder long-sleeved crochet overlay, his hair up in some sort of complicated wind-swept braided style bound together with baby's breath and pearl-white clips, white gauges in his ears with ornamental white fethers hanging from the gauges, grazing his shoulders, his lips are painted a deep, velvet, matte red, his milk white skin and brown freckles all contrasted and accentuated perfectly.

He smiles at her, holds out a hand, and she notices his fingernails are painted a peach-white, "Heya, Mrs. Hale."

"Hello," she greets back faintly, before regaining her composure, "you look lovely, Stiles. Dinner will be ready in a little while, if you two would like to get your homework done before then?"

"Sure, and after dinner I can teach the twins about the fiddle, some?"

"That sounds delightful Stiles, thank you," she returns with a bit of a strained smile, shaking the proffered hand, stilling in shock when Stiles takes advantage of that to haul her into an easy, comforting sort of hug.

"Cool," he says warmly, pulling back before she really has a chance to react, and then, without any further preamble, he's looping one arm in Derek's and one arm in Peter's, eyes sparkling as he drags them along, "you guys are showing me your basement library, like, right now. I mean, a library, in the basement! Do you realize how lucky you are? All I have is a shitty studio apartment, you've got libraries." He sounds beyond gleeful, and Talia ends up keeping half an ear on them as she cooks.

"I think your apartment is nice," Derek soothes, and Talia hears a soft smack.

"Oh, hush, you. My apartment is glorious, shitty, but lovable, but it's not- I mean-" a little squeal, and then the swish of a skirt and the pitter-pats of quick footfalls- "library! Oh my gods, this is, oh my, I'm- I'm in heaven right now. Can I die here? I'd totally happily die here."

"I think we'd rather you not die, anywhere, thank you," Peter drawls, only half sarcastic, and Talia blinks in surprise.

"Yeah," Derek says softly, solemnly, and then there are a few more footsteps, the rustle of cloth being rubbed together and, muffled like it's being spoken into cloth:

"I'm gonna be here for a long time, Der. I'm not gonna leave you, either of you."

"I know," he sighs, "sorry, I was just-"

"Don't apologize for that, Der, not ever. I get it. I've got you. Now come on, let's read."

"You can read, I'll be... busy over here."

Stiles snorts and Derek huffs a laugh, good humor back as easy as anything. A few minutes, continued squeals and delightful noises from Stiles later, she hears Peter say:

"You alright, sweetheart?"

"I'm okay," Derek replies, and since when has Peter started calling him that? "Just. I don't know why, Stiles has said stuff like that before."

"I know," Peter says, and he sounds wry, "I've heard him. But, you reacted very strongly this time, you've reacted before but never... Do you have any idea why?"

"No... Maybe it's just because he's here? It just-" he snickers helplessly- "hit closer to home?"

"Bad puns aside," Peter says archly, though his tone is teased soft around the edges with amusement, "you might actually be right. He's getting closer to us, and he's starting to feel more like Pack, so the fact that he's in our house, with our Alpha just upstairs, it makes the comment feel more real. Harder for you, and more importantly, in this case, for your wolf to ignore. Even I felt it, though not as strongly as you."

"Okay, yeah. That makes- that makes sense."

A moment later, Stiles is saying, "You alright, Der?"

"Uncle Peter talked me down, I'm fine. Just-"

"- bad memories," Stiles says, a statement, not a question.

"A little."

"I think the three of us are going to be cursing my terrible brain to mouth filter for the rest of my considerably long, long life."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Derek sounds like he's smiling again.

"Nor would I," Peter says, softer than normal, the same way he talks to Derek when they're alone, the way he used to talk to Talia when they were much younger.

"Great! Now read this to me."

"Why should I?" Peter asks, half teasing.

"Because it's in german- polish, spanish, french, russian? I'm game, but I've never gotten around to german, and I know that you know it, so read it to me."

And how on earth does he know that? In fact, why is it that Peter seems just as friendly with Stiles as Derek is? Isn't today the first time they've met?

"You're a polyglot?" Peter sounds surprised, impressed.

"Yep," the p is obnoxiously popped, then there's a grunt from Derek a huff from Peter a thud, then, in a sleep-soft murmur "now read to us, chéri, or I'll start kicking."

Talia isn't entirely certain what he means by that.

"You're such a brat," Peter says, but there's only fondness in his voice, and then, surprisingly, he's reading, in german first, before he translates, although it does seem to go quiet after a while, only flipping pages and pencil scratching to be heard.

When she goes down to the basement to tell them dinner's ready, she finds out why. Stiles is sitting in Derek's lap head on his shoulder, legs stretched out in Peter's lap, fast asleep and half clinging to the boy he's sitting on. Derek's hand is still absently in Stiles' hair, his other holding Stiles steady by his hip, his own head on Peter's shoulder, snoring slightly. Peter, the only one still awake, is actually managing to do his college class-work without disturbing either of them.

He looks up when she comes in, eyebrow raised in silent question.

"Dinner," she reminds softly.

"Ah," Peter says, then shifts, turns a bit, "Der," he smooths a hand through Derek's hair and he leans into the touch, "sweetheart, wake up."

Derek blinks his eyes open, smiles sleepily up at Peter, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," Peter smiles back, a gentling hand running down Stiles' arm, "come on, little one. Dinner's on, rise and shine."

"Fuck you," Stiles groans, cuddling into the both of them, and Derek laughs, Peter snorts.

"Derek's far nicer than me, darling, I'm sure he'd just let you sleep there until the dogs came home, I, on the other hand, have no qualms picking you up and dropping you in that lovely, freezing cold river- it's just outside, di-"

"No! Nope! I'm up, I'm up, I'm up. Fucking awake and bright eyed and bushy tailed and shit. Der, you would've saved me right? Wouldn't have let your mean old Uncle drop me in the river?"

"Hey!" Peter calls indignantly, "I'm not old."

"No," Derek laughs, at the same time, "you'd have been on your own."

"Ugh," Stiles groans, "I hate both of you."

The lie would've been obvious even if Talia hadn't been a werewolf, and, feeling oddly wrong-footed in the face of this easy, intimate display, she clears her throat loudly, making her presence known.

Peter and Derek's eyes flash up to her, Derek blushing brightly, whereas Stiles squawks, jumps, flails until he's falling off of both of them unceremoniously toward the floor. Derek and Peter both catch him, without even looking, pulling him in, close, slightly protective.

"Jesus christ with a hacky sack and homemade pies baked by the holy motherfucking ghost, where the hell did you come from? What are you, a ninja? Derek didn't tell me you were a ninja," then to Derek, who's trying and failing to keep himself from laughing, "is your mom a ninja, Der? Because friends tell friends when their mothers are ninjas, it's- that's a rule somewhere-" and then Derek's just outright laughing, and Stiles is swatting him- "don't you laugh at me, big guy! I'm serious! Is she- are you a ninja, Mrs. Hale? These are things I need to be made aware of."

"No," Talia says, chuckling herself, even Peter is shaking with suppressed mirth, the three of them finally getting up from the couch they were occupying, "I am not a ninja, Stiles."

"And you would totally tell me if you were, right?" Stiles asks as they climb up the stairs, "Because I would not judge you, I am down with the ninja, yes I am."

Talia just throws him a smirk and Stiles gapes at her before hissing, "She is totally a ninja."

Dinner goes much the same way, Stiles babbles and rambles all throughout it, he's sarcastic and funny and clever, and though he acts the idiot sometimes, it's easy to tell, just by watching him, that he isn't one. He's closest with Derek and Peter, their friendship, camaraderie, and the way they smell like they belong to each other- it's odd, new, different, but it actually settles her wolf somewhat, like he's already Pack.

She isn't expecting him to push for washing dishes with her after, telling Derek and Peter in a hushed tone that all the wolves can hear that it's okay, he just wants to talk to her.

She is immensely surprised- and is beginning to get the notion this child will never cease to surprise- by what he ends up saying.

"Stop blaming him."

"Excuse me?" Talia bristles.

"Look," Stiles sighs, "I know what happened to Paige. Not every detail, but enough, through what I was told and what I've seen since. It isn't Derek's fault, it isn't Peter's fault, it was a terrible, terrible thing, and a chain reaction of events that spiraled out of control before anyone could stop them, including you. So stop misplacing your guilt on your little brother, and talk to them both for christ's sake, heaven knows they both need to talk to someone, and you," he points, "are their best option.

"So suck it up, Talia, be a good mom, a good big sister, and talk to them about the traumatic thing they've fucking experienced, the thing that still gives Derek nightmares and that still has both of them drowning in guilt and self-hatred. Tell Der to use his words, tell Peter not to be so fucking stoic, it's not like his honesty will break you, and tell both of them they don't have to suffer through it alone, or I swear to the gods I will take them away from you.

"I will give them so much love and acceptance and freedom that- if you keep going the way you're going, pushing them away- when I tell them staying is unhealthy? They'll believe me, because I'll be right," his eyes scorch her, pierce her as they stare directly into hers, and it feels as if he's looking directly into her soul, laying all her sins bare, "am I making myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes," she breathes, and feels her wolf submit under something more powerful than she, not something she's felt since she was just a Beta, and she doesn't have any idea what it means. "You are."

"That's my girl," he praises with a grin, drying the last dish before walking confidently back into the dining room. Talia wanders in after him and realizes, all of the wolves, they all just heard that. Peter and Derek are both looking at him with awe and unabashed, raw adoration, while the rest of the wolves seem shocked, a little intimidated, a little confused, and a little offended.

"What?" Stiles asks Peter and Derek innocently, and both of their hearts skip a beat at exactly the same time.

"Nothing," Peter says, just as innocent, but his eyes are still full of emotion, even as he turns away. Stiles raises his eyebrow at Derek, who's still gaping, and the other boy swallows with a click, smiles a little dopily, and, in that moment, 'I love you' is written all across his face, plain as day.

"Nothing," Derek echoes, barely more than a breath, before returning to his unfinished homework, dark red blush creeping up his cheeks. Stiles smiles warmly at both of them, shakes his head, tells the twins he's going out to the car to get his fiddle. As soon as he's out the door, Laura, Arlow, and Teagan start in on her, but she stays them with a flash of her eyes.

"He was right," she says firmly, and her son and her little brother look up at her, for a moment she sees it, what Stiles had been talking about, the exhaustion in their eyes, the broken, helpless, hopelessness that lingers there, and the need, the want, before both of their expressions, in much the same way, shutter, go closed off, blank, and her heart shatters.

"He was right," she repeats, swallows down the emotions that threaten to drown her, "and the three of us need to have a long, long talk one of these days, hmm?"

She doesn't wait for a response, just walks over and places a hand on both of their shoulders, Peter sucks in a deep breath, and she realizes just how long it's been since she's touched him, scent marked him. What kind of Alpha is she?

"I don't blame either of you," she says, and means it, swallows again when they both let out distressed little whines, purely animal, "and I love both of you, and I promise... I promise to be better."

The rest of the Pack seems astonished.

She leaves it at that when she hears the front door opening, and Cat and Cora and Mikey are suddenly much more interested in shouting over each other about fiddles to be interested in boring adult-talk, and most of the adults too annoyed by the sudden increase of noise and the sudden overwhelming aroma of childish glee to maintain it any further, anyway.

It's not fixed, what's been done, and it won't ever be the same.

But it's a start.

Peter wakes up that night to the snick of his door being opened, and then the soft thump of it being quietly shut, the smell of oak and petrichor with the slight hints of mist and river-rock that lingers on both of them, now, tells him it's Derek.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Peter murmurs sleepily, shifting to sit up on his bed, only to feel it dip a moment later as Derek climbs in.

"Couldn't sleep," he whispers, tugging Peter down to cuddle with him, Peter goes easily, wraps his arms around his nephew, presses a kiss to his forehead, waits for him to open up, knowing that silence and patience works better than questions and pestering. Unless it's Stiles' version of pestering, which isn't an art Peter is inclined to even try mastering.

"What Stiles said today..." Derek tries to begin, trails off, unable, apparently, to find words. To be fair, Peter isn't doing much better, so he just says:

"I know."

"He cares about us. I mean I knew that, but he- and he was right, about all of it, like, he knows us all better than we know ourselves and instead of- I mean he could use that against us, couldn't he? The way he's so insightful, I mean, he used it against her, and I've seen him use it against bullies, in that same cruel-to-be-kind way, but instead he just- he takes care of us. He loves us."

"Yes," Peter breathes, because Stiles said it himself, in a way, "he does."

They settle after that, sleep, dream of milk skin and cinnamon constellations and sparkling sunshine eyes, of chocolate hair and dresses and laughter that's knowing and teasing and sweet all at once, like birdsong.

Peter and Derek find themselves with a new routine, most nights still spending at least an hour or two at Stiles' place before going home, except Wednesday night, which is officially spent having faux-therapy sessions with their Alpha, with Saturdays spent going out on dates, and Sundays catching up on anything they've neglected over the week.

A lot of misunderstandings end up being unwittingly cleared up. Peter and Derek explaining, fully, what happened, both their parts in it, both of their thought processes whilst it was happening and directly after. Peter explaining what exactly being the Left Hand means for him, and what it's cost him, and, in doing so, inadvertently telling her why he's kept his Pack-Bond blocked, not having wanted anyone to suffer even 1% of what he's burdened with on a daily basis.

Derek explaining his guilt, his nightmares, how them both being blue-eyes has brought them closer, but so has Stiles. Stiles, apparently, has brought them all closer, because after Talia started casually touching and scenting Peter again, as soon as she stopped pushing him, and Derek indirectly through him, away, the Pack stopped too, all of them reacting to their Alpha's care.

It's been... incredible, and so, so much better than it was.

Stiles, of course, doesn't even claim recognition for what he's done, just grins dopily whenever they start talking about their family being so good to them.

And things are really, really wonderful.

There's just one problem.

Stiles has no idea that they're wolves, although he seems to take their disappearances on the full moons in stride and he seems to have various magical properties himself, it still seems like he doesn't know, and considering how close the three of them have gotten, it just hurts the longer they don't tell him.

It's taken out of their hands, however, when some mad Darach, working with hunters, of all things, takes them by surprise during one of their dates, casting some sort of deep sleep spell on the three of them, and capturing them all in one fell sweep.

When Peter wakes, Derek's still out cold clear on the other side of the room, and Stiles is in between them, further back, against the wall, awake. The boy is standing, a rusted metal collar around his neck with a chained lead that ends in a metal loop on the wall, there's enough of a give for him to walk a few paces forward or to sit, but not much more than that, and his wrists are shackled together in front of him.

The room is mostly solid metal, the scent of rust and ocean-brine and fish cloying, too-thick in the air. Peter gets up quietly, shares a look with Stiles who only seems bored and unimpressed, no uptick in his heartbeat at all. The boy thrusts his chin out, directing, since Peter isn't chained up he can look around, which begs the question why isn't he? Why is Stiles?

He hits the mountain ash barrier the moments he steps toward the door, a line that cuts them off from the other half of the room, and he growls, pushing against it. Derek starts stirring at the noise, wakes up fully when the door thuds open.

"Oh, good!" A woman with long, silken black hair crows. She's got velvet grey eyes, too-pale, unblemished skin, a narrow nose, sharp chin, long neck, and reed-thin lips painted blood-red. She's pretty, in a child-like, angular sort of way, "You're awake! I was getting bored."

"Who the fuck are you?" Peter seethes, and she just smiles, twists her wrist around, then flattens out her palm, and shoves it down in the air.

"Down, boy," she coos, and suddenly his knees have hit the ground, Derek, who'd been scrambling to get up, see what was going on, shoved into a kneel by the same invisible force. "No barking."

Peter tries to talk, finds himself unable to, so he growls, glaring at her.

"What do you want?" Stiles asks, mostly calm, although his heart is beating faster now and he seems... angry? for them. But not too terribly surprised.

"I want the Hales to suffer," she purrs, and her eyes are wide, her grin too big on her face, manic. "And I've been observing these two, I know that hurting you will destroy them. And then they'll be mine. It'll only be a matter of time, after, for their Pack." She laughs, hollow, biting, mad, "I'll kill them. Kill them all."

"Okay," Stiles says easily, "may I ask why?"

"No!" She screams, shrill, and it echoes off of the metal walls, reverberates tinny and distorted. She licks her lips, schools her features as she smooths her skirts. "Show him what you really are, boys."

Peter strains under the weight of his wolf, pushing against his features, clawing it's way up and out of him against its will, against his, but the shift comes, whether they want it to or not, for both of them, and they're both growling at her now, though they both turn to look at Stiles who seems... incredibly unconcerned and impassive about the revelation.

"You see what they are?" The Darach asks, sounding smug and self-satisfied, "Do you see the monsters they are? What more reason do I need?"

She stalks forward, frowning at Stiles' reaction, which obviously wasn't the one she was expecting.

"Unless... you already knew? Did they tell you what they were?"

Stiles blinks at her, "Are you trying to scare me?" And fuck if it doesn't sound like he's taunting her.

The Darach frowns, mutters an incantation that slides Stiles forward as far as he will go, "Circle him," she orders them, "growl at him, snap at him. He's your prey."

Peter hears Derek whimper as he moves, against his will, to comply. Peter swallows down his own fear as he screams at his body, his mind, to listen to him, hating losing this much control, his own free will, nothing right now happening of his own volition, and it feels so incredibly like a violation. It sickens him. Terrifies him.

But Stiles just stands still, calm, serene almost, "It's not working." He sing-songs, goads.

"Bravado," the Darach accuses, then, eyes narrowed, "scratch him!"

And they do, gods, but they do. Claws out, one swipe from both of them, Peter's against Stiles' arm and Derek's against his shoulder, blood bubbling out of the wounds, neither of them too deep, but, still the rich, sweet scent of iron and copper cuts through whatever mist aroma could be smelled over rust and sea.

Stiles doesn't even flinch, his eyes never leaving the woman in front of them.

"You're afraid," she crows, delighted.

"Yes," Stiles allows, honest, voice colder than Peter's ever heard it, "I'm afraid. I'm always afraid. But not of them. Never of them."

Peter can hear his heartbeat, so fucking steady, so fucking sure, and Peter has to wonder if maybe the Dark Druid was right. Not about them tilling Stiles, but just, about him already knowing, it's not as if it isn't something he hasn't wondered before.

Unfortunately, that isn't going to make this any easier, because when the Darach, rattled and furious, shrieks, "Kill him!" They're helpless to resist.

He hears Derek howl in agony, hears himself cry out, whine, when they're claws both cut into his stomach. And then, somehow, the shackles have disappeared and Stiles has a hand on both of their wrists.

"I've never been afraid," he says, and suddenly Peter's getting flashes, memories, not his own, but Stiles'. Of himself, burned and scarred, older and feral, kidnapping Stiles, offering him the Bite, toying with his friends, killing Laura, being burned again by Stiles' hand, killed by Derek after having murdered another person on a long list of-

Hunter. Kate Argent, pedophile, seduced Derek, used him to burn the whole Pack.

And then Peter's resurrected himself, not so feral anymore, but still so, so cruel, still half-feral. Then the Alphas, Deucalion, Jennifer, Nogitsune, Stiles possessed and going insane and terrified. Then Allison, dead, Scott, hating, time passing, barely more than a year, but enough to find magic that overflows within him, enough to be attacked by faeries, enough to have spoken a spell at the same time one of them weaved one around him.

A mistake, pure and simple, and then he's woken up here, his body younger, just by a bit, hair longer, and in another time entirely. The only thought that had even occurred to him was that he had to save them.

That he's fallen in love with Derek and Peter both, well- another mistake, granted; but a good one.

And it was inevitable, anyway, wasn't it?

"Of either of you," he finishes, the flashes of information clouding Peter's vision for a few more blinks before it's cleared again, Stiles using his grip on their wrists to push them back, only the tips of their claws having made it past skin, nothing at all fatal like it might've been had they not been stopped.

"Nor am I afraid of you," Stiles snarls, cuts a hand through the air and the mountain ash is suddenly gone. The woman stares at where it had been in horror.

"I-it doesn't matter," she laughs, stutters, tries to regain some of her earlier confidence, "they still have to do what I say."

"Do they?" Stiles asks, eyebrows raised, and Peter knows, suddenly, that those memories, jarring and horrible and painful, four whole years jammed into one tiny, little moment, were what snapped them out of it, gave them back to themselves.

"No," Peter growls, suddenly every ounce the killer he was trained to be, prowling toward her, "we don't."

Without her weird voodoo powers, it takes barely a moment to kill her, it's just a matter of backing her up against the wall and snapping her neck, easy as anything. When he turns back Derek's still staring at Stiles in dumbfounded shock, Stiles smiling back at him sadly.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he says softly, "about the, you know, time travel thing."

Derek barks out a bitter, surprised laugh, though it sounds wretched and wet, "Why? Why are you sorry? After everything we've done to you- Peter tried to kill you, more than once, and, and I may not've gone that far but I- I was your Alpha," Derek breathes, "and I was so terrible to you. You'd save my life and I wouldn't even- hell, I didn't even tell you you were Pack... And you were so lonely Stiles. You were hurting and terrified and, you were tortured, no one even noticed."

Stiles smiles, a heart-achingly painful sort of thing, murmurs, "There was a lot going on at the time."

Derek takes a step back from him, eyes tracing the scratches they were made to leave, searching for all the other injuries they both now know he endured, and he asks again, "Why? How can you love us? Forgive us all that?"

"Because there's nothing to forgive," Stiles says, suddenly fierce, and he walks forward, grabs Peter by the hand, drags him over to Derek and then takes his hand, too, he searches both of their faces, determined, vehement, "neither of you have done anything. And neither of you will ever have to go through that, not ever, because we're going to get the hell out of here, and when the time comes, we're going to kill Kate and Gerard Argent, and when you, you big idiot, turn eighteen, we're going to tell the Pack that we're totally and completely and helplessly in love with each other and then I'm going to spend the rest of my fucked up life with you, because I want to, because I do love you, and I'm never going to stop loving you, and maybe those claws of yours could never hurt me but if you leave me over some stupid bullshit that makes no sense, I will be devestated, you hear me, Hales?"

Stiles' voice cracks on their namesake, eyes glistening with unshed tears, hands trembling in theirs, but still holding on so tightly.

"I love you," Peter says faintly, because he does, has for a while now, and it's so obvious he's loved back, loved with such ferocity, how can he not say it? Now, after everything, how can he possibly not? "And I hear you. Loud and clear, Stilinski."

Stiles laughs, watery and relieved, and then Derek's hugging him, breaking the collar still around his neck surreptitiously in the process. "I love you, too," Derek is murmuring, chanting, "so much. Love you. I love you. Both of you. I love you, I love you, I-"

Stiles is a sniffling, tear-soaked, blood-stained mess, Derek unable to stop himself from the outpouring of emotions now that it's started, and Peter just steps forward and wraps them both in his arms.

"We're all idiots," he informs them, "there are still hunters outside, you know."

"Nuh-uh," Stiles sniffles, "we three will totally rule the world. We're not idiots, we're awesome."

"Can't rule the world until we get past the hunters," Derek points out in a murmur, but he only cuddles deeper into the embrace, Peter squeezing them both, nuzzling into Stiles' hair with a sigh.

"Oh, well," he says, "they can both wait."

Stiles giggles.

_Epilogue

Barely a month after that incident, Kate tries to burn the Hale house down, anyway, lack of a spy be damned. Stiles, Derek, and Peter catch her, use her as a lure for her father, and then kill both of them without any further hesitation or ceremony.

Chris, Victoria, and Allison move back to Beacon Hills after that, but they follow the Code and agree to stick to the treaty they've long-since had with the Hales (although Stiles has said that keeping an eye on Victoria probably wouldn't be such a bad idea, and Peter's inclined to agree).

When Derek turns eighteen, they tell the Pack about their relationship, and considering Talia was pretty well prepared (Stiles always being all over the two of them, the three of them almost always together, and how close they all were), not to mention the fact that the whole Pack was enamoured with Stiles by then, it ends up being an easy thing for them to accept, especially since they're all more inclusive and understanding of Peter, nowadays.

And that Stiles knows about werewolves turns out to be no big surprise, with how he acts around them, though the fact that he has magic is more unexpected. That he's a part of the Pack ends up being a foregone conclusion, and not too long after, he's being moved into the Hale house, Derek and Peter and Stiles all deciding to share a room so as not to take up too much space, and, well, for the other obvious reasons.

They don't end up ruling the world, but their regency over Beacon Hills isn't questioned by anyone, not even their Alpha.