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The sky was dark when they left the diner, the moon blocked by heavy clouds. A chill hung in the air, and Stiles smiled when a hand pressed on the small of his back, guiding him toward the parking lot. Even though they'd been together for ten years now, it was something he always did—like Derek needed that connection, no matter how small. The warmth of Derek's palm sent a tingle through Stiles's body, goosebumps rising on his skin.
"Did you want to head straight home?" Derek asked, his hand leaving Stiles's back to intertwine their fingers.
Stiles gave Derek's hand a gentle squeeze, savoring the familiar touch. "Yeah. I'm ready to crash after today."
It'd been a long day at the Sheriff's Department. A typical day included patrolling and responding to calls, but today had been busier than usual with four bank robberies. Four! What made it worse was that Stiles knew something supernatural was at play. Each bank claimed the person robbing them was an employee, but every suspect had an airtight alibi, including one who had been in the hospital for a planned surgery.
Stiles sighed, ready to go home and curl up on the couch with Derek. Unwind. He'd get a good night's sleep and start fresh tomorrow, researching to try and figure out what was happening. Derek would help, of course. He always did, no matter how strange or difficult the supernatural problem they faced. It was the life they chose when they decided to stay in Beacon Hills, with a Nemeton drawing in whatever monster of the week that caused mayhem and chaos in their little town.
But Stiles wouldn't trade it for anything. This was his home, and Derek (and the pack) was his family. Together, they would face whatever came their way, just as they always had.
With a content sigh, he leaned into Derek's side. The soft glow of the streetlamps cast a warm light over the path, and the gentle rustling of leaves was soothing.
So, naturally, that was when everything went to shit.
Derek tensed beside him, squeezing his hand as he pulled Stiles to a stop. His nostrils flared, as if he scented something in the air, and his eyes burned alpha red.
The sudden shift sent a prickle of unease running down Stiles's spine as he followed Derek's gaze, scanning the parking lot. The peaceful atmosphere had shifted. They were no longer alone.
"What do you—"
See, he wanted to ask, but Derek cut him off with a warning growl, pushing Stiles back.
Stiles rolled his eyes. While he loved Derek's protectiveness, he also hated when Derek got all overprotective. It reminded him of the pool incident when they faced the Kanima, and Derek shoved him back, trying to keep him out of harm's way. But he could handle himself, dammit! He'd more than proved that over the years; however, before he could argue, a figure emerged from the shadows, stalking toward them, revealing an eerie mirror image of Derek.
What the actual fuck? Stiles's mind reeled in disbelief at the sight of the doppelganger, struggling to comprehend what was happening.
"Uh…please tell me you have a secret twin I didn't know about." Honestly, it wouldn't surprise Stiles if that were the case. Hell, he didn't know about Cora until she'd shown up in Beacon Hills, so Stiles wouldn't put it past Derek to have a secret twin. But the feral growl rumbling from Derek's chest told him this was no long-lost sibling. This was a threat, and Derek was ready to protect him at all costs.
The figure stalked closer, its movements predatory and unnatural. Stiles's heart raced as he recognized the same intense alpha glow in the doppelganger's eyes. He could only hope that was where their similarities ended—that whatever this shapeshifting creature was, it didn't somehow possess the same strength, speed, and abilities as Derek.
Stiles swallowed hard, his mind racing for a way to help Derek. But before he could voice his plan, the doppelganger lunged forward, claws outstretched. Derek roared, shifting into his beta form as he met the creature's attack head-on—fangs bared, claws extended, eyes blazing with rage. The sound of their clashing filled the empty parking lot, and Stiles was determined to find a way to help Derek before one of them was seriously injured.
He sprinted toward Derek's Camaro, hand outstretched to open the trunk, where his trusty bat was stashed. But before he could reach it, a sharp pain shot through his side as the doppelganger's claws raked across his flesh. Stiles cried out, his urgency mounting as he stumbled and clutched the wound.
"Fuck!" Blood streamed through Stiles's fingers as he fell to his knees.
Derek's fury was palpable as he shifted into his full alpha form, fur rippling across his body, his clothes falling to tatters on the ground. He lunged at the doppelganger, now a hulking black wolf, and sank his teeth into its shoulder. It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie as the creature howled in pain, thrashing and clawing at Derek, but his grip was unyielding.
Of course, it was. The minute it had attacked Stiles, there was no way Derek would hold back—unleashing the full force of his alpha power. The creature didn't stand a chance.
Stiles watched in awe as Derek tore into the doppelganger until the creature's struggles grew weakerweakerweaker. Its bones cracked and popped, the sound sharp, until it finally went limp in Derek's hands. Its body morphed, claws falling away, hair receding from its face as it shifted back to what Stiles could only assume was its original form—a pale, sinewy alien-like creature with limbs just a bit too long, spindly fingers, sunken eyes, and sharp fangs.
Derek released it, chest heaving as he shifted back to his human form and rushed to Stiles, kneeling beside him. He gently examined Stiles's wound, his brow furrowed in worry, despite his own face and torso being streaked with blood. "Shit, this looks bad."
He pressed his hands against the deep gash on Stiles's side, trying to stop the bleeding.
"Tis but a scratch," Stiles said, the grimace on his face betraying the bravado in his voice. No one would blame him, considering the sharp and throbbing pain in his side. It distracted him enough that he couldn't even admire all the tan skin and muscles on display as he checked Derek over for injuries. But, naturally, all his wounds were already healing thanks to his supernatural abilities.
"Did you seriously just quote Monty Python while you're lying here bleeding?" Derek's eyes narrowed, his expression both concerned and exasperated, clearly not amused by Stiles's attempt at humor. "We need to get you to Deaton, now."
He scooped Stiles into his arms as if he weighed nothing—something that both irked and turned Stiles on. It reminded Stiles of the FBI raid from so long ago when he'd been injured and Derek had carried him to safety. It had been the catalyst for their relationship.
Usually, Stiles would put up a mild protest, which was more fond than anything, but not this time. Not when the movement jostled his side, making him wince. The adrenaline from the encounter was wearing off, leaving him drained. Or maybe that was the blood loss.
Either way, he leaned into Derek's embrace.
"Home. I wanna go home," Stiles murmured. All he wanted was their bed. To be surrounded by the comforts of home.
"But—" Derek started, but Stiles cut him off.
"Please, Derek. I just want to go home." Stiles's voice was soft, laced with exhaustion. He knew Deaton needed to check his wound, but the idea of their bed and the safety of their home was all he could focus on.
Derek hesitated for a moment, then sighed. As much as Stiles wanted to make a quip about having Derek wrapped around his little finger, it probably wasn't the best time, so he stayed silent.
"Fine," Derek said, shifting Stiles in his arms and hurrying toward the Camaro, "but I'm calling Deaton to meet us there."
Stiles sighed in relief, resting his head against Derek's chest until they reached the car. Derek gently placed him in the passenger seat, ensuring he was secure before rushing around the hood to the driver's side. The engine roared to life as Derek called Deaton, and he sped toward the preserve—toward home—his grip on the steering wheel tight with worry.
"I'm alright, big guy," Stiles promised. This wasn't the first time he'd been injured, and considering their lives, it definitely wouldn't be the last. But he knew that didn't make it any easier, not for Derek.
When they pulled into the driveway, Deaton wasn't there yet. Derek carefully helped Stiles out of the car and carried him to the house. Once inside, he left the front door unlocked and took Stiles to the living room, lying him down on the couch without a care in the world for the mess they would leave behind.
Derek carefully ripped Stiles' shirt off with his claws. His brows were pulled down in a frown as he examined Stiles's wound, his touch feather-light. Stiles winced slightly but knew Derek was doing his best to be gentle.
"We need to call my dad and the pack." That…thing…was still out there, and they couldn't just leave it for some unsuspecting person to find, dead or not. The people in town weren't stupid; they knew Beacon Hills was special, that there were things that went bump in the night. But as the saying went, ignorance was bliss.
"I'll let them know," Derek said, phone already in his hand.
His voice was a low murmur, and his eyes never left Stiles's face as he spoke with the Sheriff, filling him in on what had happened and assuring him that Stiles was okay.
Stiles reached up, taking Derek's hand and gently squeezing it in reassurance. He hated seeing him so distressed. His life had already been hard enough—a veritable shit show of trauma and loss. Stiles knew Derek blamed himself for every injury Stiles or the pack sustained, even when it wasn't his fault. He wished he could take away Derek's guilt—ease the burden on his mate's shoulders.
"Yeah, here he is." Derek handed Stiles the phone and mouthed, 'I'll be right back,' before heading into the kitchen.
Stiles managed to suppress a groan as he put the phone on speaker, already anticipating his father's worried lecture.
"I'm okay," he said before his father could launch into a tirade.
A familiar sigh came through the line, one that spoke of years of worry and frustration, and Stiles could picture his dad pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "You're always 'okay,' kid. But Derek said you were injured. Bleeding. That doesn't sound so 'okay.'"
"He's exaggerating, Dad. You know how Derek is. I get a papercut and he freaks out," Stiles said, trying to downplay the severity of his injury. "It's just a scratch, really. I'm fine. Derek's just being overprotective, as usual."
Stiles winced as he shifted on the couch, the pain in his side flaring up. "Okay, maybe it's a little more than a scratch, but Deaton'll get me all patched up and I'll be good as new."
"Stop moving," Derek chided, stepping out of the kitchen with a washcloth and a large bowl filled with water. He kneeled beside the couch and began gently cleaning Stiles's wound. It was a gnarly-looking gash, but Derek's touch was gentle and soothing. Black tendrils snaked up Derek's arm as he took Stiles's pain, leaving Stiles a little woozy.
He leaned into Derek's touch, relishing the comfort it provided. His father's worried voice continued on the line, but Stiles barely heard it, focused instead on Derek's gentle ministrations.
"Hey, Sheriff?" Derek interrupted. "Deaton just pulled up. I'll call you later, okay?"
Derek ended the call and turned his attention back to Stiles.
"Wait," Stiles's voice came out sluggish, a side effect of Derek's werewolf mojo. "First, you should put some pants on." Because Derek was still naked, and Stiles could be a possessive bastard. He didn't want anyone but him to see his mate's bare skin. "Also, I forgot to tell Dad that the thing, whatever it was—" he took a deep breath, then let it out in a gust "—was the thing. The…thing…the banks."
Because that made total sense. God, Derek taking his pain was better than any painkiller Stiles had ever taken—a magic morphine that fogged his brain.
"You think the shapeshifter was behind the bank robberies," Derek stated. Either because he knew Stiles well enough to follow his line of thinking or because Derek had a bad habit of avoiding inflection when asking questions.
"Yeah, that." Stiles made an appreciative sound as Derek walked over to the laundry basket sitting in the corner and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top.
"I'll let your dad know. Right now, I just want to make sure you're taken care of." Derek kissed his forehead as Deaton walked in the front door.
"How's my favorite patient?" Deaton asked, setting his bag on the coffee table.
"Don't lie. Your favorite patients are puppies and kittens," Stiles replied, wincing slightly as Deaton examined his wound. "Derek's taking good care of me."
Deaton chuckled, his skilled fingers probing the injury. "I bet he is, Mr. Stilinski. This looks like it needs a few stitches, but it's not too deep. You're a lucky one."
Derek hovered anxiously, watching Deaton's every move. "What do you know about other kinds of shapeshifters?"
"Was that what did this?" Deaton asked, a brow raised.
Stiles nodded. Despite his best efforts, a sharp hiss of air escaped his lips when Deaton began stitching the wound. "Yeah, but not like one I've ever seen or heard of before."
Stiles hissed again, then sighed as Derek's hand found his, the pain easing. "It looked alien, but it could shift into people. It looked like Derek. And I'm pretty sure it's been impersonating people all over town."
Deaton nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. "I've heard of such creatures, though they are quite rare. And dangerous, considering they can mimic any person they encounter. As you discovered."
"Will he turn?" Derek asked, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip.
That wasn't something Stiles had even considered, but now all he could think about were the different ways someone could be turned into a werewolf. One of which was being scratched. Not that Stiles had anything against being a werewolf, but he'd prefer it to be on his own terms.
Thankfully, Deaton shook his head. "No. For one, it's not deep enough. But even if it were, while the creature could transform and take a werewolf's beta form with claws and fangs, it's not an actual werewolf. The injury it inflicted will heal normally and without any supernatural effects."
Derek visibly relaxed at Deaton's reassurance.
Deaton finished stitching up the wound and applied a bandage. "There, all done. No showers or baths for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I'd suggest a careful sponge bath if needed. Just take it easy for the next few days and let that heal."
"I'll make sure he rests," Derek said, his hand gently squeezing Stiles's. He turned to Deaton, his expression serious. "The Sheriff will be bringing the body to your clinic so you can examine it."
"Excellent. I'll take a look as soon as it arrives," Deaton replied, gathering his supplies. Once he was packed, he headed for the door. "Call me if you have any other concerns."
With a final nod, he left the house, leaving Derek and Stiles alone once more.
Derek turned his attention back to Stiles, his gaze filled with concern.
"How are you feeling?" he asked softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Stiles's forehead.
Stiles leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as he savored the comfort it provided. "Better. I told you I was okay, though."
"Yeah, well, your version of okay is different than mine."
"Your version would have me wrapped in bubble wrap and kept in a padded room," Stiles teased, cracking one eye open to look at Derek. "But I appreciate your concern. I know you worry, especially after everything that's happened. Anyway, are you okay?"
Tonight wasn't the first time Derek had killed someone, but Stiles knew that taking a life, even in self-defense, weighed heavily on Derek.
"I'm alright. And I'm not that bad." Derek trailed his fingertips across Stiles's brow, down his nose, and over his cupid's bow. The delicate touch sent tingles down Stiles's spine. "I love you, Stiles. You mean everything to me, and I just want to keep you safe."
And what could Stiles say to that except, "I love you, too."
Derek cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks tenderly, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Stiles's lips, conveying the depth of his affection. "Don't fall asleep yet. Let's get you changed and into bed first."
"Think we can get the blood out?" Stiles asked, glancing at the couch as Derek helped him stand.
They probably could, but Stiles didn't really want to think about all that right now. He'd rather curl up beside Derek and sleep.
"I'll take care of it," Derek assured him, sweeping Stiles into his arms.
Now, Derek's strong arms cradled him as he carried Stiles to their bedroom and then into the ensuite bathroom, where he carefully undressed Stiles and cleaned him of any traces of blood with a washcloth. All Stiles had to do was stand there as Derek helped him into a soft T-shirt and sweatpants before guiding him to their bed.
"I'm going to clean myself up real quick," Derek whispered against his temple, taking a moment to inhale deeply, like he was breathing in Stiles's scent—something he always did. "Be right back."
Stiles sighed contentedly as Derek pulled the covers over him.
Derek was always so attentive and caring, definitely a change from the gruff and hardened exterior he used to project. A man who had once been a loner, now surrounded by a pack and a mate who loved him unconditionally.
Stiles snuggled deeper into the covers, the sheets soft and cool because Derek bought ridiculously expensive one hundred percent mulberry silk sheets with a momme weight of nineteen. He still wasn't sure what that meant.
His eyes drifted shut. "M'kay. I'll stay right here."
"You do that," Derek said with a chuckle, the sound fading as he walked into their ensuite bathroom. In the distance, the shower sputtered to life, and the soothing sound lulled Stiles into a light doze. But he woke when Derek returned, sliding into bed behind him and carefully pulling Stiles into his arms.
Stiles melted against Derek's warm, solid frame, feeling safe and content. He made a pleased sound and snuggled closer when Derek gently kissed the back of his head before breathing him in. "I love you."
The pain from his injury faded as Derek's warmth enveloped him, and Stiles smiled.
"And I love you," he breathed, letting the steady rhythm of Derek's heartbeat lull him into a peaceful sleep.