#Single Review: Spit Takes Hogwash | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stereksecretsanta · 5 years

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Merry Christmas, @Princessabitchessa!

To my giftee, @Princessabitchessa, this is a round-about way of delivering on some of your favorite troupes, and I hope you enjoy the ride. Happy Holidays!!

Read on AO3

*****

Count your Blessings (instead of sheep)

John

Judge John Stilinski doesn’t intend to eavesdrop, but his robes are hanging from a hook on the back of his office door, and the hushed, heated whispers in the corridor draw his ear like a moth to a flame.

“I can’t let you do this, Derek,” says a soft voice edged with ivory and steel. “I won’t let you do this. You could go to jail.”

“Then I go to jail. We’ve talked about this, Laura, and you know it’s the only way. Peter promised to check himself into a treatment facility, and we’re going to hold him to it. After today, no matter what the verdict, it will all be over.”

John flips open the file folder of documents in his hand, thumbing through the records until he sees the case titled Hale, Derek (DES alpha) vs Argent, Katherine (DES alpha). He’d only breezed over the case before lunch. Something about an assault at a bar; two alpha’s fighting over an omega. John had reviewed the arresting officer’s statements, but hadn’t read the omega’s deposition. He flips to it now, sees the name Lahey, Isaac.

John should open the door, make his presence known, but the girl, Laura, laments, “This is all my fault.” Tears threaten her voice. “If I hadn’t asked you to keep an eye on Peter, you’d never have been at the club in the first place. And it will never be over, Derek. You’ll be forever labeled as a violent alpha. Your chances of finding a mate will be—“

“Stop.” He doesn’t raise his volume, but the alpha command is evident. “My mate is dead, Laura. I don’t want or need another. If my going to jail ends this insanity, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“Even though you’re innocent?”

The blood freezes in John’s veins, the papers between his fingers crunching like ice when he squeezes his fist.

“I may not have committed this crime,” the man called Derek says, “but I’m far from innocent.”

__________

Hale v. Argent is the sixth hearing on his docket, after two drunk driving cases, an arson, a petty theft and, finally, a flasher. John bangs his gavel, nicking the varnished wood and causing half the courtroom to startle in their uncomfortable chairs.

At the defendants table sits Derek Hale, one of the two whispered voices from the corridor. The young alpha can’t be a day over thirty, with piercing eyes and jet black hair. He wears a look of hopeless determination that, for some reason, makes John think of his deceased wife, Claudia. Behind him sits his sister, Laura, the second voice from the hallway. David Whittemore lords over the prosecution table, slick and smarmy as usual.

“Counsel and parties in the case of Hale versus Argent, approach the bench.” John takes great satisfaction in the furrow of confusion carving across David’s brow. Laura, hands white-knuckling the railing separating the gallery from the court, looks like she will be sick all over the floor.

“I’ll cut straight to the point,” he says, once David and Derek stand before the podium. “Derek Hale did not commit this crime.”

Whittemore and Hale start speaking at once, trying to talk over each other.

“Be quiet,” Judge Stilinski demands, and he’s no alpha, but every mouth in the room snaps shut. “For whatever reason, Mr. Hale seems determined to take the fall for the assault of the alpha, Katherine Argent. But witness testimony is telling a much different story.” He turns to Derek. “Care to shed some light on what happened last month?”

“I’m an alpha. Ms. Argent is an alpha. We were out at a bar, both perused the same omega, and got into a fight over him. The witnesses were drunk. They don’t know what they saw.”

“Your Honor, this man is—“

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet, Mr. Whittemore?” John’s voice cracks like a whip. “Don’t make me hold you in contempt.”

John Stilinski scrutinizes Derek’s face. The alpha stares back, green eyes desolate and challenging. “Nope. I don’t buy it. I’m a father, Mr. Hale. When he was young, my son and his best friend found themselves involved in all manners of mischief, and whenever something bad happened, my son Stiles would always take the fall for his friend Scott. Even when he was blameless. That’s exactly what is happening in this situation.”

Derek’s face is a stoic mask, but there’s panic seeping out from underneath. “I’m pleading guilty. How much jail time do I need to serve?”

Judge Stilinski shakes his head. He opens the case folder and flips over a document so it faces Derek. It’s an intake form for the regional food pantry. “No jail time. But after you’ve served some time here, you might wish I’d locked you up.”

Whittemore squeaks in protest. “Community service?! My client was in the hospital! The Hale’s are vicious animals and—“

“Your client was in the hospital for eight hours. Most of that time was spent sitting in a chair in the emergency waiting room. And, Mr. Hale,” the judge continues as if the Argent lawyer never spoke, “you will attend mandatory counseling sessions and, in addition to that, one year’s probation. If you fail to serve at the food pantry three evenings a week for six months, you’ll be back in front of this bench before you can blink. And trust me, I’ll find out if you step even one toe out of line.” Judge Stilinski leans forward, mock whispers to Derek. “I’ve got a very dependable man on the inside.”

He smashes a stamp dripping red ink onto several pages of paper. He hands over the first paper to a slack-jawed David Whittemore. “Give this to Pamela at the front desk.” The second paper he hands to Derek. “Have the therapist sign this form and return it to the courthouse at the end of your sessions.” And the third. “Here is your work order at the food pantry. Give this to the director. I’ll let him know you’ll be coming. Everyone settled?” Stilinski clutches the gavel, eyeing the mumbling Argent lawyer like his fantasy is clobbering him over the head.

“My client will be extremely dissatisfied with this verdict, your Honor. My office—“

“Your client is a liar,” Judge Stilinski proclaims. “You’re all liars. Get out of my courthouse.”

The courtroom is a blur of bewildered faces and astonished rumbles, none more confounded than Derek Hale himself. But that’s not who John’s looking at. Even the ugly scowl slashing across David Whittemore’s face is ignored.

John focuses instead on the tears of relief in Laura Hale’s eyes.

__________

Later, after he’s eaten a salad he wishes was a steak, and the dishes have been washed and left to drip in the drying rack, John sits in his ancient recliner, and thinks about the mischievous son he’d mentioned to Derek in court.

When the prenatal blood tests had come back showing the rare omega designation, there’d been no one more shocked than John Stilinski. Not a single omega graced the branches of his family tree. Hell, he’d never spoken to one until he’d sat next to Claudia his first day of college. “It’s a blessing,” his wife whispers, skin and smile radiant despite the nurse lecturing them on the fragile health of some omegas, their predisposition to diseases.

“A blessing is not what I’d call him,” John jokes, when his wild boy comes home day after day covered in dirt, when he bounces off the walls, radiating energy. “I thought omegas were naturally demure?”

Claudia smacks him on the arm. “That’s a bunch of sexist hogwash. It’s not about being reserved or shy or meek. Omegas are fierce, curious, intelligent and loyal. They’re strong.” Then she smiles, the same smile that enraptured him in sociology 101 on his first day of college. “Besides, I’m an omega. Have I ever been demure a day in my life?”

“It’s a blessing,” John chokes out, day after day as his son grows angry and distant, unable to process his grief over the loss of his mother.

“It’s a curse,” Stiles spits back. “It makes me weak. My body isn’t my own. It’ll betray me, like it did mom.”

“No, son” John moans. “I was married to an omega for twelve years, and she was the strongest person I’ve ever known. One day… one day you’ll see.”

Tonight, John picks up the phone, dials Stiles’ number.

“What’s up, daddy-o?” he answers. John closes his eyes, sees Laura Hale’s tears of relief painted on the inside of his eyelids, hears the desperate self-sacrifice in Derek Hale’s voice. His son’s not a typical omega, but he is a ley line, attracting lost souls, and Derek Hale has ghosts. John sees the same haunted look in his son’s face whenever he visits. He prays he’s making the right choice.

“Stiles,” he greets, all business. “I’m sending someone your way.”

Erica

Erica’s walking to the break room when she sees the new guy—Dustin? Darren? David? It’s on the tip of her tongue…Oh yeah, Derek!—holding a mop and bucket, standing stock still in the doorway of the community gymnasium. She swivels, her gut telling her to change direction, march over and confront the rumored-to-be-violent alpha and ask why he’s just standing there staring at a bunch of kids. Is he a predator, too?

The halogen bulb above Derek is flickering on and off as she stomps over in righteous fury. She’s been nagging Stiles to fix it for weeks. Erica is ten feet away from him when the bulb flashes back on, light glinting off the wetness at the corners of Derek’s eyes. Erica stops short.

His face as he looks at the kids running around the basketball court begrudgingly reminds her of her fiancé, Vernon Boyd. It had taken her six months to work up the courage to talk to Boyd, the quiet, standoffish chef Stiles had hired for the pantry cafeteria. Boyd is huge and gruff, and it took three dates before he cracked a genuine smile for her. At first she’d had some doubts whether they were compatible, but on the fourth date he brought Erica home to meet his grandmother, the woman who’d raised him and his little sister. The moment Boyd leaned over to scoop his grandmother out of her wheelchair to place her tenderly into bed, Erica looked at his face and knew. He was the man she wanted to marry. The brusqueness had been hiding someone gentle, thoughtful, and intelligent. Derek is looking at the children the same way Boyd looked at his grandmother; with a little bit of longing for better days, and a lot of love.

She shows up in Stiles’ office doorway. “You need to come see this,” she hisses, motioning him to hurry out from behind his precarious stack of paperwork.

“What, exactly, am I looking at?” Stiles asks, as she bodily pulls him into the hallway. The light is flickering again. “Damn it Erica, I’ll fix the stupid lamp, I promise.”

“Not the light bulb, dumb-ass,” she murmurs. “Him.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, when he sees Derek watching the children. “Oh.”

“I guess you can never know someone, or what they’ve gone through to get here,” she muses. “I would have pegged him as allergic to children as you.” Stiles is suspiciously silent. She glances over, and he’s watching Derek with the same open yearning.

Oh, she thinks. Oh.

Derek

“Anger is a perfectly normal, healthy human emotion. We’ve all felt it. But when it becomes too powerful, and we allow it to get out of control, it can be destructive. We can’t always remove the things that anger us, but we can learn to control our reactions to it,” Dr. Morrell informs Derek.

“I don’t have anger issues,” Derek tells her again, rubbing his eyes. He’s been saying it since their therapy session started almost an hour ago. “I saw a situation that needed to be handled, and I handled it. It was a one time thing. I’ll never do it again.”

“You handled it with violence,” Morrell stresses, as if he needs reminding of his Uncle’s face contorted in rage, more animal than human. “A level of extreme violence, to say the least. Aggressive external reactions are a result of internal events. I strongly believe your anger with Kate Argent was fueled by something.”

Yeah, it was fueled by her setting fire to my family, Derek thinks, and Peter being too drunk to bottle up his hatred. He can feel the ire creeping up his neck, but is desperately trying to maintain control in front of Dr. Morrell. She sees right through him.

“During your mandated therapy sessions with me, we’ll get to the root cause of your anger, Derek. Sometimes patients have no idea what is causing their heightened emotional responses but, more often, patients already have some idea of what lies at the heart of the matter. It could be emotional trauma or grief.” Dr. Morrell levels a searching look at him. “What about you, Derek? Do you already know what it could be?”

A wisp of slick black hair and thin, translucent skin flitter across his vision. Red flames lick the night sky. Derek blinks and the images disappear.

“No,” he lies. “I have no idea.”

_________

Derek is certain he was never meant to be an alpha. He really sucks at it. “You’re so lucky,” his big sister Laura, a beta, used to grumble. “Alpha’s have it so easy.” And at first, Derek thought that was true. His mother was an alpha, and instilled in him pride at being part of only fifteen percent of the population with that designation. Being an alpha meant strength, stamina, good health and good looks. Alpha’s were charismatic, got high paying jobs—they were sought after. It meant he was capable of soul-bonding, while the majority of the population was not. Only omegas could soul-bond as well, but they were even more rare than alpha’s, making up only four percent of the population.

But being an alpha had its downside, which Derek learned at the age of fifteen when a jealous alpha set fire to his family home, killing his parents. Being an alpha meant he was constantly challenged, assumed to be a violent meathead, only capable of thinking with his cock.

When Laura calls him to say Uncle Peter headed to the local bar, Derek knows there will be trouble. For a beta, Peter has somehow made replicating every awful alpha stereotype an art: he’s brash, violent, and angry. Derek has had to pull him out of bar brawls too many times to count in the last year, and tonight Derek’s had enough. Peter needs help, more help than Laura and Derek can provide.

When he walks into the bar, Peter is trying to steal a young omega from Kate Argent, whose red eyes flash as she grabs the omega’s arm. Derek doubts Peter has any interest in the curly-haired young man at all, but Peter would like nothing more than to start shit with the Argents, who they know—but can’t prove—set their house fire.

“Let go,” Derek commands, stepping up to the threesome. The omega’s eyes go round as dinner plates. Kate Argent snarls. Peter looks at Derek like he’s a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for an alpha,” Peter sneers, then launches himself at Kate, the omega trapped in the middle be damned.

__________

He shows up at the community center at four in the afternoon on Monday, flashes his work order and is directed down the hall to the food pantry and kitchen. A guy named Scott, also an alpha, greets him. He’s weary, but friendly enough, and directs him to the rooftop garden, where their director is pulling vegetables for the upcoming dinner rush.

He steps onto the sun-baked roof through a steel door, and is immediately assaulted with the scent of an unbonded omega. There’s a young man bent over a raised garden bed, plucking lettuce leaves and herbs with his ass in the air like he’s presenting. Derek’s salivating, going hard inside his briefs in seconds. What the hell is happening? It’s the kind of ludicrous, knee-jerk reaction seen in sappy romantic comedies (or more aptly, pornography), and he’s never had this strong of a response to an omega before, not even to Paige.

This man is the director of the food pantry? Why on earth would Judge Stilinski send him here, to work under an omega, when he’d been accused of a violent crime? He tries to back away, crashes into the rooftop door, and the omega glances over his shoulder with big brown doe eyes.

The omega stands, wiping his dirty hands on the back of his jeans. The action does not go unnoticed by Derek. As he moves closer, the man’s scent gets stronger; sweat, gingerbread, pine and sugar. He smells like Christmas morning, like everything good Derek can remember about his childhood, before it was all burned to ash.

Derek nods in greeting, but doesn’t stick out his hand because an unbonded alpha touching an unbonded omega is taboo. “I’m Derek. Derek Hale.” He pulls the work order from the pocket of his leather jacket, the corners crinkled and worn from being shoved angrily inside the confined space, and thrusts the pages toward the omega. When the man reaches for the note, their fingers brush, and they both pull back fast, almost ripping the dog-eared document.

After a cursory glance, the omega’s pretty lips pull into a sarcastic smile. “My name’s Stiles Stilinski. I’ve got one question for you, alpha. Will you have trouble working for an omega?”

Derek bristles. “My name’s Derek not al— wait. Did you say Stilinski? Like the judge?”

Stiles’ spine is now an iron rod, shoulders squaring for a fight, and Derek’s never met an omega with such a chip on his shoulder, or one so quick to physically challenge an alpha. “He’s my father,” Stiles snaps. “And for some reason, he hand picked you to come work here. But I’m the one who built this program; I may be the only omega here but I’m the person in charge. So tell me, Derek, is taking orders from me going to offend your red-blooded alpha sensibilities?”

It’s Derek’s turn to straighten. “I’ve no interest in causing problems. I’ll serve my time, do what you need me to do, and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

Stiles smiles and, though it’s sardonic, it still stalls the breath in Derek’s lungs. This is the first day of the longest six months of Derek’s life. “That’s what I like to hear, dude. Now come on.” He thrusts a bag of lettuce into Derek’s hands. “We have work to do.”

__________

A month and a half in, Stiles’ sarcastic smiles and comments turn genuine. It’s like an icecap melting; Derek barely notices the trickle until he’s drowning in the flood. Despite his gruff exterior, everyone at the community center decides he’s an ‘okay dude’, and pull him into the fold. Scott is still a bit standoffish, but it’s natural since they are both alphas, and Derek knows Scott has Stiles’ best interest at heart.

He’s helping Stiles in the garden again—his favorite project, if he’s honest— hands submerged in the cool, fragrant dirt, furtively sucking in deep lungfuls of Stiles’ baked gingerbread scent. “Your uncle sounds awful,” Stiles comments on their conversation, placing a carrot in their basket.

Derek shrugs. “He’s in pain, but doesn’t know how to handle it. I’m glad he went to a facility that will help him with his anger. He’s getting therapy, finally working through losing our family.”

Stiles clears his throat and wipes sweat off his brow, smearing it with dirt. “And you’re in therapy too, right? As part of your sentence? Uh… how’s that going?”

“It’s going okay,” Derek says sheepishly. “I’m not very good at therapy.”

Stiles laughs, all crinkled eyes and wide, generous mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize therapy was something you could be bad at.”

“It’s difficult to talk, to share, especially when the memories are depressing.” He places a potato in the basket, and Stiles places two fingers on his wrist, right over his scent gland. Right over his pulse.

“You do just fine when you’re talking to me.”

__________

He’d tried therapy once before, about a year after the fire, but found he couldn’t talk. Looking at the psychologist, every word flew out of his head. Not long after his failed attempt, Paige had come into his life, and her love temporarily patched over the gaping hole in his soul.

“Do you think that’s why you felt like you couldn’t deny her?” Dr. Morrell asks, pen poised over her notepad. “When you wanted to stop trying to have a child? You couldn’t say no because you didn’t want to lose her love?”

The fourth time it happened, it was so early the doctors informed them it was called a ‘missed miscarriage,’ and it was ended surgically before Paige’s body even detected the loss. The time prior, she had required a blood transfusion, and the relief, guilt and shame Derek felt knowing it was all over practically before it began, was palpable. The same emotions wrap themselves agonizingly tight around his ribs as he sits in the therapist’s office years later, until he feels like his heart might collapse under the pressure.

“Why don’t we reconsider having a child?” Derek had broached before Paige’s next heat. She gaped at him with wounded eyes.

“Don’t you want a baby, anymore?” She’d sobbed.

“Yes, yes, of course.” The words stuck in his gullet. “But how many times do we try before we stop? It’s like a roulette wheel; we keep spinning but our number never comes up.”

Her eyes flashed like lightning, a wild summer storm full of heat. “How dare you, Derek? This isn’t a game!”

“Isn’t it, though? We are gambling with your health, and we’re losing everything. You heard the doctor say this might be a genetic issue. When do we say enough is enough?”

She’d grabbed his hands in hers and pleaded. “Once more? Just one more time. I promise, if it doesn’t happen, then we will stop.”

A better man, a better alpha, would have implored Paige to be grateful for the blessings life had bestowed on them. A better alpha would’ve refused. But in the face of her anguish, Derek learned he was not a better man.

It’s been four months of therapy, and Derek knows he needs to start being honest if he wants to heal, if he wants a real chance at finding happiness again. “I couldn’t tell her no because I wanted a baby. I was desperate for a family, because of all I’d lost.” He looks at Dr. Morrell, grimaces. “But instead, I turned my marriage bed into a graveyard, and I filled it with bodies.”

__________

Everyone is avoiding eye contact when Derek walks in Friday afternoon. Erica is practically bouncing on her heels. “What the hell is going on? Did we accidently get an extra shipment of cookie dough ice cream?” Chocolate chip cookie dough is Stiles and Erica’s favorite flavor. Derek prefers cookies and cream.

Scott sticks his head around the corner. “Stiles wants to see you in his office right away.” Derek’s heart picks up speed.

He pauses outside the office door, hearing hushed voices and smelling something odd. Stiles’ scent is still there, warm and inviting, but there is another smell, vaguely familiar; fresh grass and lavender, hints of apple. Another omega is in the office.

“Come in,” Stiles calls when Derek knocks, and he pushes open the door. He’s correct; two omegas turn to look at him. One is Stiles, and the other is Isaac Lahey, the omega who’d been caught between his uncle Peter and Kate Argent that fateful night in the bar.

There’s new emotions darting across Stiles’ features, and Derek wants to chase them, but he can’t right now because Isaac smiles at him, shy and grateful, and says, “Hello, Derek. I came by to thank you.”

__________

The calendar is calling out to Derek each morning, warning him he only has a few weeks left of community service. Only a few more weeks with with Erica and Boyd, with Scott and everyone he’s come to care about at the community center. Even worse, his days with Stiles have an expiration date.

He wants desperately to be brave, to punch out on his last day and turn to Stiles and say Let’s get coffee or Have dinner with me? But it’s been so long since Derek has connected with anyone; he’s terrified. Six months ago this whole endeavor felt worse than a jail sentence, but now he thinks maybe Judge John Stilinski knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Derek here.

He crosses off another day, heads out the door, and prays for a miracle.

Scott

Kira, the world’s cutest barista, waves at him from the counter before the bell above the glass door finishes chiming. “The usual?” she shouts, and the six people on line in front of him turn to scowl menacingly at Scott. The coffee shop is bustling during the lunch rush today and Scott, stepping over to the pick-up counter, is shamefaced. But his guilt disappears when Kira skips over, huge, sunny smile on her lips, and hands over the recycled cardboard tray with four warm drinks nestled in the cup holders. There’s a wet cappuccino for Stiles, a mocha with extra whip cream that has Erica’s name doodled on the side, a large black coffee for Scott and Boyd’s caramel macchiato.

“You tell Stiles he shouldn’t be drinking this much caffeine. Too much can trigger an early heat,” Kira scolds for the hundredth time. She’s a gender studies major in her senior year, writing her thesis on environmental health risks to omegas, and Stiles had gotten so exasperated listing to her well-meaning lectures he started sending Scott on the daily coffee runs.

“I want to enjoy my illicit addictions in peace,” Stiles told him, handing over a slip of notebook paper scribbled with everyone’s order. “Besides,” he’d said with a grin, “she’s your type.”

Scott smiles at her, and it’s so sappy two people in line roll their eyes, and another mimes barfing all over the tile floor. “Early heat, right, I’ll tell him.”

There’s way too many people trying to order, the baristas scurrying around behind the counter like chickens with their heads cut off, but Kira still leans over the counter, silky black hair falling out of her messy work bun. “And how’s the new guy making out? Derek, the alpha?”

He’s been there three months, so he isn’t new anymore. When Derek first started, Scott had bemoaned his presence loudly and repeatedly to Kira, who listened with a sympathetic ear but never failed to remind him everyone deserves a second chance. Now he thinks of Boyd, slapping Derek on the back, and of Erica’s giggle when Derek grumbles about the broken dishwasher. He thinks of Lydia’s knowing smirk as they all notice Stiles stand taller when Derek walks into a room, smooth down his hair and tug at the wrinkles of his plaid shirts. “Ah… he’s fitting in, I guess.”

Kira smiles, megawatt, and smacks Scott in the bicep. “See? I told you it would all be okay.”

“Hey! Buddy? Want to get your shit and go sometime this century? Some of us don’t have all day to watch your piss-poor attempt at flirting,” a disgruntled customer growls. Kira blushes, but the smile never slips from her lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you,” Scott mumbles, backing out of the café door.

He stops in front of the community center, stares at the cardboard cup bearing Stiles’ name. He doesn’t see the black ink; instead, he sees the pink blush of Stiles’ cheeks when Derek is due to come in. Omega’s only go into heat twice a year, and Stiles had barely been back to work a week when Derek started. He jerks the cup from the holder, and tosses in the trash can. Too much caffeine can trigger an early heat. He hears the words in Kira’s sweet, melodic voice.

“You can never be too careful,” Scott grumbles.

Stiles

Thirty seconds after Claudia takes her last shuddering breath, the heart monitor flattens, and the nurse walks into the hospital room.

“She’s gone,” the nurse says, and Stiles will never admit it, but mixed in with the grief is a weary sense of relief.

The doctor patiently explains to Stiles and his father that frontotemporal dementia is genetic, and omega’s can be especially susceptible. There’s no need to panic, but Stiles will need to be monitored closely his whole life. Without his mother there to run her fingers through his hair and remind him omega’s are exceptional, his designation becomes a death sentence. “Any resulting children would also require monitoring.” The doctor’s words take root in Stiles’ eight-year-old heart, and grow thorns.

__________

The new guy is due this afternoon, the alpha his father asked him to take in. “This isn’t a halfway house for all the criminals you want to rehabilitate,” Stiles had bemoaned, but of course he couldn’t deny his dad.

He loses track of time up on the roof, the mindless, repetitive task of weeding and harvesting in the garden soothing him into complacency. At first he doesn’t notice when the alpha steps out onto the roof, since he’s so focused and also upwind. But when he does notice…

Derek is nothing like any alpha Stiles has ever seen. For one, there’s desire in his green eyes, but instead of the typical flaunting and posturing, it’s followed by a flash of fear. He’s strong but gentle, thoughtful but quiet, and he pulls every long buried instinct in Stiles up from the roots.

And he’s attractive, gorgeous, the most beautiful man Stiles has ever seen.

Stiles is going to fucking kill his dad.

__________

Stiles falls into the staff room, dying of hunger, and throws open the refrigerator with a bang before promptly remembering he forgot to bring lunch today. Shit.

“Ugghhhh why?” He laments, stomach rumbling.

“What’s your problem?” Lydia asks. Stiles turns and sees she’s sitting next to Derek at the lunch table. She’s picking at a leafy green salad topped with chicken, cranberries and walnuts. Derek has a ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. Stiles salivates.

“I forgot my damn lunch.”

Without a word, Derek hands him half his sandwich. Stiles should politely decline. He doesn’t need an alpha to take care of him, like he’s some damsel in distress. Besides, he doesn’t even like ham. But before he can help himself, he snatches it from Derek’s grip, takes a huge bite and moans around the mouthful. “Er ma ga, tha’s so goo!”

Derek’s ears turn a charming shade of red, and Stiles wants to bite theminstead. Shit shit shit.

__________

Derek is scouring a piece of food caked on the stove top in the pantry kitchen, and Stiles is not admiring the play of back muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt as he scrubs. He’s certainly not ogling the cut of Derek’s bicep. Nope. This is not what he’s doing. He’s helping out Erica and Boyd, staying late to give them the night off together.

It’s so hot in the kitchen.

“So,” Derek say, and the word startles Stiles from his muscle watching stupor. The conversation flows easily between them, but Derek is hardly ever the instigator. “What led to you becoming the director of the food pantry? Was this something you always wanted to do?”

Stiles turns back to the dishes soaking in the sink. “I wanted to do anything a typical omega wouldn’t, and running this center, being people’s boss, is anything but typical.”

“You’re certainly bossy.” Stiles can hear the smile in his voice.

Maybe it’s the fact they’re facing away from each other, but it’s easy to throw the words over his shoulder, the pseudo-anonymity making him brave. “After my mother died, I was angry. I spent years perfecting all the ways I could spit in the face of my designation. I can’t believe I didn’t give my father a heart attack. Landing this gig killed two birds with one stone; my credentials beat two alpha candidates for the position, and to my father’s relief I’m doing something steady instead of rebelling.”

“Do you still hate being an omega?” Derek asks. His voice is louder, and Stiles swivels, see’s Derek is facing him now, soiled cloth flung over his shoulder.

Stiles pivots back to the soapy silverware. “Some days, yes. Others, no.” He plops a sparkling fork onto the drying rack. “Fighting your instincts all the time is exhausting. I guess I’ve started to… reconsider some things.”

“Like what?”

He dries his hand on a dish towel, and faces Derek. “I’ve kept people at arms length, especially alphas. I’ve never even… but maybe I’d like a relationship. A family. I never wanted to have kids because I didn’t want to risk them being omegas too.” He looks away, focusing on the digital display of the microwave, arms crossed and shoulders hunched around his ears. “You must hate people like me, renouncing a family when you and your wife wanted a child so badly.”

Derek moves into his line of sight, forcing Stiles to look him in the eye. It’s an alpha power play. Stiles should loathe it. “I could never never hate you,” Derek whispers. He reaches a tentative hand toward Stiles’ neck, broadcasting every move, allowing Stiles room to rebuff him. When Stiles doesn’t flinch away, Derek slides his fingers over the gland behind Stiles’ ear, co-mingling their scents. As soon as the alpha pheromones permeate Stiles’ senses, his whole body relaxes, a feeling of calm washing over him. It feels so good, so right, Stiles could cry.

He closes his eyes. “Yeah, I could never hate you either.”

__________

Wednesday morning of Derek’s final week, Stiles wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a bus. His joints ache, he’s running a low grade fever and his head is pounding. But he doesn’t want to miss the last few precious hours with Derek, so he drags his ass out of bed and into work.

“You look terrible,” Scott helpfully supplies when he stumbles in.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” Stiles snarks. “It’s the golden rule.”

“Last week you said the golden rule was anyone eating chicken nuggets had to give you half. You haven’t been drinking extra coffee have you?”

Stiles slams the office door in Scott’s face. Screw him.

But by lunchtime Stiles knows this isn’t the flu. His stomach is cramping, he’s sweating profusely, and his hole is feeling suspiciously wet. He’s going into heat almost a month early. He bangs his head down onto his desk. He needs to go home, now. He’s going to miss Derek. He isn’t going to get to say good-bye.

When he stands up, slick trickles down his leg. Fuck. He gathers his belongings, knowing he’ll be out of work until Monday, and throws open the office door, only to find Scott and Derek standing on the other side. One look at Derek, one lungful of his scent has Stiles weak-kneed, and only years of stubborn pride and practice keep Stiles from falling forward into Derek’s arms.

“I called him, Stiles,” Scott says, sheepish but determined. “I could tell you were going into heat when you walked in.”

“I wanted…” Stiles’ mouth is so dry the words croak. “I didn’t want to miss seeing you. I wanted you to know—“

“Derek, can you drive Stiles home?” Scott asks. “I don’t think he can drive himself, and I need to stay here, keep the pantry open and get ready for the dinner rush.” It’s a bold-faced lie. Erica and Boyd could easily run the show. Scott winks at him. “Go home, Stiles. You stink.”

“Will you be okay in such a confined space?” Stiles asks Derek on their way to the parking lot.

“I’ll be fine,” Derek says, sliding into the driver’s seat, “knowing you’re home safe. Trust me. I’ll take care of you.” Six months ago, Stiles would have shanked an alpha who said those words to him, but he knows Derek means them. He knows Derek will drop him at home, respect Stiles’ body and his wishes, and accept taking care might mean leaving him alone.

The ride is quiet except for Stiles’ directions and Derek’s shallow breathing. When they pull into Stiles’ driveway, Derek shuts off the car, placing both hands tightly around the steering wheel. “I’ll help you inside, get you set up, and I’ll go. Unless you don’t want me to come in? I can stay outside, if it makes you more comfortable.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. Here it is, the moment of truth. He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s a pathetic omega begging for a knot, but it’s a price Stiles is willing to pay. “I’d be comfortable with you coming in. I’d be comfortable with you staying, too.”

Derek looks at him, and Stiles doesn’t see pity in his eyes. He doesn’t see conquest. He doesn’t feel weak or out of control. He feels powerful and special. He feels strong. Derek makes him feel that way. What he sees is mirrored sadness, hurt and fear, and more importantly, the dawning realization neither of them are in this alone.

Derek gets out of the car without a word, jumps across the hood and pulls open Stiles’ door. “I’m warning you, I may never leave.”

“I may never let you go.”

“Bossy.” Derek scoops Stiles up into his arms, and Stiles doesn’t even mind.

_________

Derek’s plastered to his back, a long line of heat, knot buried snuggly inside Stiles’ body. His inhalations are wet and stuttering, and Stiles reaches back, awkwardly trying to pet him.

“What’s wrong?” He slurs, still cum-drunk and more sated than he’s ever been.

“Nothing. I just… I haven’t… it’s the first time since…”. Derek doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“I’ve never,” Stiles admits into the cool, empty air of his bedroom.

“Stiles, I’m so grateful it was you.” Derek pulls him closer, nuzzles the juncture of his neck and shoulder blade, the spot where a bond bite belongs.

“Right back at you, big guy.” He snuggles in and closes his eyes, protected and content, all the things an omega should be, all the things he’s fought for so long, trying to keep his heart safe.

He can’t help but feel blessed.

Laura

She’s running late, and blows past the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign at a crisp sixty-eight miles an hour. There’s a niggle of guilt at the back of her neck; she should know better and she’s taking advantage of the skeleton crew of cops out on patrol because it’s a holiday, but it’s Christmas Eve and Laura wants to get home to the family she hasn’t seen in five months.

This time two years ago, with the stress of her Uncle’s growing violence and Derek’s approaching trial date, she couldn’t imagine such a rich, hopeful future. After the fire, it seemed to be one calamity after another, the ground beneath her feet always unsteady. But now, her last paper is handed in, her first grueling semester of law school is officially complete, and Laura’s heart is flying as fast as her Camaro. She’s found her calling, she’s meant for this, and owes her revelation to John Stilinski. She’ll never forget the feeling swelling in her chest that day in court as she sat behind Derek, watching deep lines of determination furrow John’s brow. I want that, she’d thought. I want to help people, too. With a bang of his gavel, Judge Stilinski had changed all their lives. It brings her joy to know someday Laura will do the same for someone else.

She parks the car on the street in front of the small cape, and pops the trunk to grab overflowing bags of presents. As she cuts through the front yard, she sees a slim figure sitting on the wrought-iron bench Derek restored from their family garden. When the fire had been extinguished, they’d found it covered in a layer of ash, paint blistered and peeling from the heat. Derek had come back the day he bought his new home, washed and sanded away the grime and painted it a vibrant white. In the warm, soft glimmer of Christmas lights and the moon, it practically glows, illuminating Stiles, sitting peacefully in the flower bed.

“Merry Christmas, Stiles,” she says, plopping herself and the gift bags next to her brother’s mate. Despite his over-sized winter jacket, she can see the blossom of pink on his cheeks from the cold, smell the spicy, gingerbread scent of his skin.

“Merry Christmas, Laura,” he says, grinning. Stiles reaches over, grabs her hand. “Welcome home. Derek’s missed you.”

“I’ve missed you both.” He squeezes her fingers. Inside, she can hear the music change over to another jovial Christmas jingle. “What are you doing out here by yourself, anyway? Usually it’s my brother brooding in the dark.”

Stiles laughs. “I’m counting my blessings.” There’s something funny about the way he says the word; there’s history there, but Laura doesn’t know it yet. It’s okay. There’s plenty of time to learn. “Plus, it was hot and crowded inside. I came out to take a breather, but my ass is starting to go numb. Can I help you carry in your packages?”

They stand, and Stiles picks one of the shiny wrapped boxes from the bag and shakes it a little. Something tinkles merrily inside. “These better all be for me.”

Laura laughs, poking him the the shin with the toe of her black boot and gathering up one of the bags. “Don’t make fun, Stiles. It’s been too long since I’ve had a family to shower with gifts. I couldn’t help but go overboard. I got your dad a low-fat cookbook.”

“Oh man, he’ll totally hate it.” They grin at each other, conspiratorially. “I, uh…I hope you’re still feeling so generous next year.” Stiles picks up a bag with one hand, and parts his jacket with the other, smile shy but joyous in the blinking green and red lights. Where five months prior Stiles’ stomach was flat as a washboard, his abdomen is now a small, distended bump.

Laura drops all the presents to the ground, something shattering inside one of the boxes. “Oh my god, Stiles!” she shrieks, eyes welling with tears. She throws herself into his arms, as Derek throws open the front door.

“Stiles!” her brother bemoans. “We were going to tell her together. You are the worst secret keeper ever.”

“Says the man who told the entire community center the day we hit the third trimester.” Stiles’ voice is pure joy, love radiating toward his mate, who steps forward to wrap warm arms around him, one hand softly massaging the small of Stiles’ back.

“Let’s go inside and celebrate,” Derek says, reaching out to Laura.

Looking at the domestic scene—one Stiles fought against his whole life, one Derek never thought he’d get to experience—Laura feels happiness welling up inside her, the way it does so frequently these days. For the first time in years, an aching sense of loss isn’t her primary emotion. The future which, not long ago, had seemed so rocky and unsure, is a happy place now, steady as a heartbeat, full of promise.

Inside, she sees Erica and Boyd, Scott and Kira, John Stilinski, Isaac, Lydia and so many others, the faces of all the people she and Derek have come to call family. It’s a blessing, she thinks, next year there will be a new person to love.

What a gift.

#Princessabitchessa #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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