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I Wonder (Whatever Could It Be?)

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The kid has moved departments twice, neither at his own request, so when Derek hears that suddenly he’s getting a new transfer, he’s dreading it. He didn’t sign up to be anyone’s babysitter, nor to play caretaker to some little brat who only got into the FBI Intern program because his daddy threw around his weight, or worse, donated . Those were the worst, the little shits that came from uber-rich households that threw money onto every problem until it wasn’t a problem any longer, or at least not a problem for them.

Which is why he’s more than a little startled when he shows up for work, his usual 30 minutes early, a good hour before anyone else is due to come in, only to find some spindly-limbed kid with an armful of binders sitting patiently in the waiting room.

When the doors open, the kid stands and faces Derek, juggling the binders in his arms, trying to get his right hand free. He nears Derek at once, who is still standing, more than a little stupefied, in the doorway. “Good morning, Deputy Director Hale,” he says as he reaches out his hand.

Derek offers his right hand in reciprocation, blinking, and then it hits him. The kid’s scent. It’s like lilies and cinnamon and fresh cut grass and warm apple cider and - oh, fuck he’s talking -

“-and I’m really excited to be working with you all down here-”

“What did you say your name was?” Derek asks, trying to breathe past the cloying, choking, perfect fucking scent the kid is radiating.

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, I talk a little fast sometimes. ADHD can be like that. I’m Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

Derek blinks, and opens his mouth before he even manages to think. “Your parents named you Stiles Stilinski ?”

But - and here Derek is thanking the fucking moon in the sky - the kid laughs. “No, that would’ve been ridiculous. Stiles is a nickname, because my real first name is Polish, and looks like someone vomited a bunch of Scrabble tiles and decided it looked good enough.”

He looks the kid over, still upset that not only had he arrived before Derek, but that he had the absolute audacity to go around smelling like that . “Stay here,” he instructs. “I need to get in touch with the Director.”

Stiles nods and sits back down, and Derek practically runs out of the room, fumbling for the phone in his pocket.

“Morning, little brother,” Laura’s voice comes through the other line, slightly staticy, but otherwise clear. “What’cha need?”

“The new kid.” That’s all Derek gives her. That’s all he can get out.

“Oh, yeah, Stiles? Is he there already? Goddamn little over-achiever. Deaton warned me about him.”

“His scent...”

Laura’s side of the line goes suspiciously quiet. Then, finally, “What are you talking about? He smells normal to me. Like a teenager; sweat, anxiety, and jizz.”

Derek’s silence gives Laura pause.

“Wait. Wait, wait, waaait - he smells good to you? Like, real good?"

“Laura, don’t. He’s an intern, and even if he wasn’t, there is no way I’m not at least eight to ten years older than him.”

“Derek, it’s been ages since you’ve caught a scent. I mean, the fact that you called me right away is pretty telling, don’t you think? He’s only got a few more months before he’s out of the internship. And, well, he’s the best junior data analyst this, or any other department, has seen in decades, so it’s likely he'll be hired when he’s finished. You’re going to be around him for a while, Der. Maybe you should just open up a little. What happened with-

Derek’s grip is so tight, he hears the phone groan under the pressure. “Laura, don't . Don't bring up the past.”

“You’ve been complaining that you’ve wanted an assistant for ages now, so enjoy the fact that I had Boyd haul another desk into your office last night.” He hears Laura cackling as he jams his thumb onto the screen to end the call.


He’s going to kill his sister. He’s going to absolutely murder her and feel little to no remorse. He thinks he’d do well in prison. The food would probably suck, though. And he likes his ridiculously expensive mattress, so maybe not...

Because it’s not just that Stiles isn’t any of the things Derek was worried about. His dad is a small-town sheriff, he doesn’t come from any sort of money, he’s polite, diligent, and apparently he had only moved around because people with higher seniority had personally requested them in their departments.

Oh, no. The universe wasn’t ever so kind as to just let it be things like that.

Stiles smells like everything good Derek has liked, in his entire life, ever, forever, and on top of it all, the kid has a god-damn oral fixation. Derek feels like he’s about to pop a blood vessel trying to keep himself under control. The kid keeps putting the end of his pen in his mouth, rolling it around, pressing it against the tip of his tongue, tracing his lips with it.

And worst of all, worst of all, is that he seems completely and utterly oblivious to it.

Two days of sharing an office, under Department Director Laura Hale’s decree (he was going to kill her), stating that it would be good for Stiles to just jump right in considering data analysis is where Derek started and still spends most of his time (he was absolutely going to kill her), and Derek’s patience and control is running thinner than the breadth of a hair . Laura keeps checking on him under the guise of checking on Stiles (he’d kill her, then run away to Peru), throwing him overzealous winks whenever the kid isn’t looking (he’d kill her, then run away to Brazil because his Spanish was rusty but his Portuguese was top-notch), and making absurd eyebrow wiggles at him whenever they were alone (he’d kill her, and then himself; perfectly reasonable).


It’s not creepy that Derek does a thorough background search on the kid. He’s Stiles’ direct superior; he has a right to know information about those working under him.

It’s not creepy.

It’s not.

He knows, however, he might be toeing the line when he manages to find Stiles’ real name, plugs it into a pronunciation guide, and practices until he feels he’s perfected how to say it. Only after he runs two more checks.


Turns out, the oral fixation isn’t the worst of it. Nope, not by a long shot, not anymore. The worst of it is when he comes to work on the fourth day and there is Derek’s exact coffee order sitting on his desk, steam coming out of the little opening in the lid. He looks from the cup to Stiles, who has a pen behind each ear and probably doesn’t even realize it, the young man's eyes fixated on his computer screen.

“Did you get me coffee?” Derek asks.

Without even looking up, Stiles nods. “Yeah. You gave me your order yesterday, too, and since I walk by the coffee shop you like on my way to work, I figured I’d save myself a trip.”

“No one else likes coffee from that shop, though,” Derek says, unsettled by the strange, soft tone of his voice.

“Didn’t get anyone else coffee,” Stiles says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like there is no problem at all, like Derek isn’t across the room trying not to wolf out and pounce the poor kid.


It’s not unusual for Derek to be the last one out of the office. It’s not that he’s particularly overly-prideful in his work, it’s more that he really has nothing to go back home to. He and Laura haven’t lived together since he first moved to the city, a few years before he started working for the bureau. He’s got nothing more than a lonely apartment, some gym equipment, and one of seven frozen dinners he puts together for himself on Sunday evenings, lasting him through the week.

So, he surmises, that must be why he feels so uneasy about Stiles’ late nights alongside him.

That’s why. That’s the only reason. He’s just used to having the entire office to himself after eight is all. It has nothing to do with the fact that he is creepily ass-over-elbow for the be speckled, doe-eyed youth, despite having known him for less than two weeks.

Laura wasn’t wrong - the kid is stupid good with data analysis, and it’s almost second-par to his mastery of excel for organization of said analysis. He’s a little strange in the way that he emails Derek some of his findings, even when they are in the same room together, but Derek chalks it up to Stiles just finding his groove and not wanting to stop the workflow.

Sure, they talk sometimes.

Well, it’s a relative term, really. Derek’s never really been one for conversation, and Stiles talks enough for three people when he really gets going, so, in a strange way, it kind of balances out.

Mostly, Derek just likes watching Stiles gesticulate wildly when he gets really lost in the retelling of something. He thought the kid was fairly spindly when he’d first arrived, but seeing Stiles with his sleeves rolled up shows that it’s not due to a lack of definition of muscle on Stiles’ part. The kid isn’t ripped, but he’s got lean muscle, the kind that runners seem to have. But he wears shirts that are about a size to a size and a half too big for him.

Derek wants to bring it up, but doesn’t know how. What’s worse, he’s worried it has something to do with Stiles’ socioeconomic status. Single-parent households in small towns aren’t exactly flush with cash, and Derek worries that bringing it up will upset the kid.

It happens on a Tuesday. Derek’s convinced everyone has gone home - why wouldn’t they? It was almost two in the morning. Which is why he nearly jumps out of his werewolf hide when he hears someone sneeze from down the hall, long after the cleaning crew would have vacated the premises.

He keeps his footsteps quiet in ways only a wolf can, and as he nears the break room, he’s astonished that he can’t figure out who it is before he peeks around the door frame.

It’s Stiles.

He’s sitting at one of the tables, three binders open and spread out, a half-empty energy drink can clutched tightly in one hand, and three different colors of highlighters in the other.

“What are you still doing here?”

Stiles actually yelps, the highlighters scattering across the tabletop. He clutches at his chest, and that’s when it hits Derek; he hadn’t figured out it was Stiles before he saw the boy because he’s already become used to the sound of his heartbeat.

“Jesus, man, warn a guy.”

“It’s two am, what are you still doing here?”

Stiles’ eyes race to find the clock on the wall. “It’s two? Oh, shit, I thought it was, like, nine at the latest. Oh, shit, oh, shit, I’m going to have to call a taxi, since the last trains have already run.”

“Get your stuff together, I’ll drive you.”

It has everything to do with Derek wanting to be generous, and is not at all about him wanting to get Stiles’ scent in his car, or about him wanting to see the building Stiles lives in somewhere other than on Google Maps.

Stiles has his binders back on his desk and his stuff ready to go in less than five minutes. Derek doesn’t mind waiting, not for the boy, but he’ll cut out his own tongue before he admits such a thing out loud.

Derek takes the directions he’s given like he doesn’t already know how to get to Stiles’ apartment building. He plays along, because there really is no alternative. Not without an ending that doesn’t result in a restraining order of some sort.

He doesn’t live in the allotted apartments, where all of the other interns stay, which Derek thinks is a little strange. Interns really aren’t supposed to live outside of the building that most of them have semi-affectionately dubbed ‘The Barracks’ given how it used to be an old military housing facility. It’s rare for an intern to be married, since the vast majority of them were between sixteen and eighteen, but that’s usually the only exception for off-campus housing. The reason as to why Stiles is allowed his own residence is a mystery to Derek, who, when he’d read that portion of Stiles’ file, had only come across a redaction. It was the only redaction in Stiles’ entire file, and Derek is more than a little suspicious as to why.

“You don’t live with the other interns?” he asks when they are roughly halfway there.

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p’ and saying nothing else about the matter.

When Derek pulls up to the front of Stiles’ apartment building, he’s aghast at how something can look so much worse in person than in a photograph. The picture on Google Maps of the building wasn’t exactly doing it any favors, to be sure, but Derek almost doesn’t unlock the door for Stiles to get out.

“This isn’t a very safe part of town,” he tells Stiles, as though Stiles isn’t aware.

The boy shrugs. “It’s way safer than it looks, trust me, and I can take care of myself. The rent is super cheap, and the community is pretty tight. Everyone on my floor and the ones above and below check in on each other every other day. Plus, at least five of the old ladies on six are Polish, and oh, boy, they love me. Albinka and Dyta, over in six-oh-seven, made me piernik the other day. It was so good. I like it here, it’s nice.”

Nice isn’t exactly the word associated with a building that has more boarded up windows on the ground floor than it has actual functioning ones, but Derek doesn’t know what he can say to Stiles in this sort of situation. He can’t just up and say, ‘hey, come home with me, I’ll keep you safe,’ because there’s a very large possibility that A) it will end up costing him his job and land him (again) in the territory of restraining orders, or B) if Stiles were to somehow accept, Derek wouldn’t let the boy leave the apartment, let alone his bed.

“It’s still not a safe neighborhood,” he says, for lack of something better.

Stiles exits the car, leaning with his forearms to brace himself on the open window. “Well, unless you’re going to come up with me as protection, I think we’re at an impasse,” Stiles says with such a blasé attitude that Derek’s heart stops and speeds up at the same time.

But it’s obvious in the smirk that plays across Stiles’ lips hardly a second later that the boy can’t possibly be serious. “Night, Derek,” he says as he turns and begins toward the building.

The car is saturated in Stiles’ scent. Derek is careful to roll up the window, greedily wanting to keep it all inside for himself, desperate to pull it into his lungs and never be left bereft of it again.

He doesn’t sleep that night.


It’s possibly the most debauched thing he’s ever done.

No, not possibly. Definitely.

The very next work day after Derek had driven the kid home, Stiles leaves his tie slung over the back of his chair.

The chair that sits at the desk in Derek’s office.

Just left it there, hanging.

All alone.

By itself.

Derek would like to blame his lack of sleep on his next actions, but he isn’t sure if that’s a fair justification at all. He walks over, picks up the tie, and stuffs it into his suit pocket.

His heart is beating a mile a minute, his palms are damp, and he’s not entirely sure he hasn’t actually robbed a bank, given how much sweat his body is covered in. He has to take off his suit jacket in the elevator because it’s saturated. By the time he enters his apartment, he’s already half naked, practically running to his bedroom with the tie in one hand, ripping his button-up off with the other.

It’s maybe seconds before he cums, stretched out on his bed, his suit pants still bunched up on one leg, both socks still one his feet. One end of Stiles’ tie is stuffed in his mouth, and the other end is covered in his own cum, having been wrapped around the base of his dick.

Derek knows it was deranged to steal the tie in the first place, but now that he’s dealing with the clarity that only comes post-orgasm, he knows he’s entirely, completely, and absolutely fucked.


“You found corresponding occurrences with...”

“The same lunch order in three different places across the city, same chain, paid in exact change, over the course of three months, triangulating in a four-block area of uptown. One at each store in consecutive order, one-two-three, totaling up to thirty-three trips.”

The man they’re after has several neurotic personality disorders, and Stiles seems to have honed in on it like a moth to flame. Even Derek is surprised to see this detailed level of analysis. “But there’s no way to be sure, is there?”

Stiles purses his lips. “No.”

Derek leans back in his chair. “But you’re certain?”

Stiles blinks at him, like he’s surprised that Derek seems to be taking his word for it.

“I’m certain.”

Derek doesn’t need to be a werewolf to sense Stiles’ conviction.


The door to his office opens and closes, and when Derek looks up, he sees Erica of all people.

“Something you need, Agent Reyes?” He doesn’t think the two of them have shared more than a dozen words. She works directly under Laura, and more often than not is out of the office on intelligence-gathering missions.

“You just need to fuck the kid, already.”

Derek almost drops his pen. “I’m sorry, what did you just say to me ?”

“Look, the only reason I have the balls to come in here and say it is because your sister has a wild hair up her ass about you being head-over-heels for Stiles, but for some reason, you refuse to so much as talk about it. I’m sick of hearing your sister bitch about how you can’t get over yourself long enough to allow a shred of happiness into your life, but I’m here to tell you that you’ve got a shot.”

Derek’s only response is to blink. He, literally, doesn’t know what else to do.

“The kid wants you to fuck him. And, well, given the overpowering Alpha-stench you’ve been letting off whenever the two of you are in the same room together, it’s not hard to guess you wanna fuck him, too. He told me he invited you up to his apartment when you drove him home the other night, but had to play it off all casual-like, because he was convinced you took it the wrong way. If you fuck him, I get to stop hearing him bitch about how much he wants you to fuck him, I get to stop hearing Laura bitch about how much she just wants you to find happiness, and maybe my olfactory senses will get a fucking rest, because the amount of pheromones you’re giving off the moment he comes into view is staggering, and I’m sick of making up excuses as to why I’m gagging into my coffee cup every time the two of you make eye contact. Laura was going to surprise you with this, but I figured to tell you now so you have plenty of time to freak out; she’s sending the two of  you on a three-day stake-out mission in one of the buildings in the radius Stiles narrowed down. She feels it’s safe enough for an intern, because our guy doesn’t have a violent past, and also because she’s honest to god hoping putting the two of you in the same room for three consecutive days will ensure that something happens.”

She doesn’t allow Derek to respond. She turns on one of her ridiculous, blood-red, non-regulation high-heels, and practically stomps out of the office.

When Stiles comes back into the office, Derek has to practically run to the bathroom; the pen he’d been holding had been crushed in his were-strength grip like it was nothing more than paper, and blue ink is dripping from his tightly closed palm and onto the floor.


He doesn’t get time to confront Laura about any of it, because she calls the both of them into her office within the hour, gives them their orders, informs them of the set-up of where they will be staying and what they are to focus on, and gives Derek was she must think is a saucy wink as he leaves. He has enough time to change and grab some extra clothes before he’s due at the meet-up location.

And, because he knows he’s well beyond deranged, and honestly just the slightest bit hopeful, he throws a tube of lube and a box of condoms into his bag.

It’s just in case. It’s just in case.


Stiles admits that it’s his first out-of-building mission since the start of his internship, and that he’s sorry if he seems over-excited about it.

“We all have to start somewhere,” Derek tells him, then makes a weird face at himself, at his own words, as soon as Stiles’ back is turned. He wonders if his tongue would regenerate if he were to bite it off.

He feels like he forgets how to be a functioning member of society any time he’s in the same room as Stiles, and, well, he does feel a little sorry for Erica, given that she seems like she’s kind of inadvertently caught in the middle.


It happens on the second day.

Stiles is at the window with the visual enhancement gear, making a face. It’s past midnight, and it should be Derek’s turn to sleep, but he can’t. Stiles’ knee is bouncing up and down, making the floorboard under his foot squeak ever so slightly. That’s not what is ramping up Derek’s anxiety and robbing him of sleep, however.

It’s the way Stiles smells.

Sure, his normal, amazingly delicious scent is there, too, but overlaying it is the sour-tinge of anxiety and fear. Derek can’t normally sniff out emotions - most weres can’t, unless they’ve been trained to - but there isn’t anything else the stench can be.

“Stiles, stop moving your foot.”

“Come over here and make me,” comes the most sarcastic of replies.

Derek sits up, and Stiles goes completely still.

“Sorry,” he breaths, rubbing a hand over his face. “Forgot who I was talking to.”

But Derek’s at his tipping point. He can’t stop the way his legs swing over the side of the bed, or how heavy his footfalls are as he marches across the room.

Stiles’ eyes are huge as Derek nears. The kid’s holding up his hands in an ‘I surrender’ type of pose, and the closer Derek gets, the easier it is to hear Stiles’ heartbeat.

Derek falls to his knees between Stiles’ open thighs, leans forward, cups the boy’s face in his broad palms, and proceeds to kiss the life out of him.

For a split second, Stiles makes this strange little, awe-filled noise. But he’s quick to get with the program, and he grabs one of Derek’s wrists in the grip of his own, all while taking a fistful of Derek’s shirt to pull them even closer together.

Stiles pulls back, gasping, but he doesn’t let go of Derek, so Derek doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. He practically attacks Stiles’ neck, licking and biting, sucking a myriad of hickies onto pale, mole-dotted skin, winding one of his arms around Stiles’ middle while the other practically rips both of their shirts off. His fangs, trying their damnedest to descent, make the rest of his teeth ache with the need to bite and hold.

“Oh, God, how are you this perfect?”

Derek nearly chokes, because he’s incredulous that those words hadn’t been spoken by him, but to him. He bends lower, his knees aching from the hardness of the wood floor, and takes one of Stiles’ nipples in his mouth, fearing that if he doesn’t occupy his lips with something, he’ll fly completely off the handle.

When Derek presses his palm against the fly of Stiles’ jeans, the boy jolts, the grip he suddenly has in Derek’s hair going tight. But Derek presses on, pops the button at the top open, because he can smell how much Stiles wants this. And he’d be a fool of a man to deny how much he wants Stiles at this point, too.

He pulls down the zipper of Stiles’ jeans, and the boy jolts again. One of his legs curls up and practically wraps around Derek’s waist, Stiles’ heel situated just to one side of his spine.

But Derek pauses.

Because while he’s a werewolf, he’s not a monster.

“Tell me to stop,” he breaths, his words coming out in heavy pants. “Tell me to stop and I will. I’ll pretend this never happened, we can forget all about it, we can-”

“If you don’t get your hand on my dick right now, I’m going to scream and blow our cover. Please, Jesus, Buddha, Zeus, someone - Derek, I need this, I need you, I-”

Everything breaks all at once, like a dam in heavy rain. Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from wolfing out, to keep himself reigned in. He never had this much trouble with the change, not even when he hit puberty. This is unlike anything he’s ever dealt with, unlike anything he could ever dream of.

It’s messy, it’s hasty, but it’s perfect. He takes Stiles’ cock out of his pants, moves his hands to grip the boy’s hips, tightly, and proceeds to deep-throat like he was made for it. Stiles shudders and cries, pants and keens, and for Derek, there is nothing else in the room, in the world, in the universe,  other than the sweet, sweet boy that makes the most delicious sounds and smells like everything Derek has ever wanted.

Stiles comes down his throat like the hair-triggered teenager he is, and with him pliant, soft, panting, flushed and sated, it gives Derek enough time to divest the both of them of the rest of their clothing. He moves Stiles to the bed, trying to be careful in his haste, but it’s like making a house of cards when the deck is soggy; nearly impossible.

He flips Stiles over, lubes up his fingers, and begins to stretch him open. Stiles’ responding wail is sharp and piercing, but Derek can still smell the desire being exuded, and he continues. He’s gentle, in every way he can be, but he knows he’s shaking, can see the way his wrist and arm trembles as his fingers disappear into Stiles’ body, spurred on by the sweet-hot moans that fall from Stiles’ mouth.

Derek rolls on a condom and presses inside, careful, slow, his upper body absolutely trembling as he tries to reign himself in for Stiles’ sake. But it’s like the kid has no fear, whatsoever, because he cranes his neck over and pulls Derek’s thumb into his mouth, his breath heavy and hot on Derek’s skin.

He takes Stiles like that - ass in the air, keening, panting, but otherwise without a word to the world. He’s slow, steady, somehow gentle and brutal at the same time.

But he won’t be outdone, won’t be satisfied until the writing body under his forgets anything and everything around him. He falls back on his knees, pulling Stiles up as he does so, one of the boy’s wrist in each hand. There’s no pain, no anxiety in Stiles’ scent now; Derek almost chokes on how much pleasure and happiness is radiating off of him, and thinks he could smell it even without his keen werewolf senses.

He fucks Stiles like that, with the boy lacking his own leverage, arms behind his back as a means for Derek to pull his body backward onto his cock. Stiles’ lips are clamped shut, a likely attempt at keeping as quiet as he can, but he’s not completely non-vocal. Derek pulls sweet little noises from him every time he pulls Stiles back to bottom out on his own cock.

Stiles comes again, and it does little wonder to Derek’s ego. The wolf smiles, biting back a snarl, but continues to fuck the pliant body in his grasp. Stiles, however, starts to go limp, most likely exhausted if the rate of his breathing and heart are anything to go by. So, Derek pulls him up so they are chest-to-back, wrapping one arm around Stiles’ middle, the other weaving from under one arm so that Derek can lay his palm across Stiles’ heart.

It doesn’t take him long like that - how could it, with Stiles being everything he could ever dream for - the boy’s body clutching at him as though it never wants to let him go. When Derek cums, it’s with only the slightest regret in regards to wearing a condom; how pretty Stiles would look, red-faced, panting, too exhausted to move, and absolutely dripping with Derek’s seed.

Derek fucks him three more times before the sun rises.


“Do you understand the absolute firing squad you’ve set me up in front of?” Laura’s voice is sharp, shrill, loud, and, quite frankly, justified.

The man they’d been chasing, the one he and Stiles had been there to watch, had departed in the wee hours of the morning, with no one the wiser.

“I take full responsibility,” comes the reply, because it’s only natural that Derek takes the blame. He was, well, the one to blame. He sees Stiles as an innocent bystander.

Of course you’re going to take full responsibility,” Laura snarls, her eyes bleeding just the slightest hint of red. “I set you two up because I thought you were going to talk about your feelings, not fuck all god damned night!

Derek doesn’t say anything. He can’t. It’s true. Apparently, Laura had set up the entire stake-out mission as a chance for Derek to get to know Stiles outside of work. Derek had gained intimate knowledge of Stiles, but it had been the exact opposite of what Laura had intended.

“I had to delete seven hours of audio, Derek. You literally fucked the kid for seven hours. I have no idea what I’m going to tell the higher ups as to why a huge chunk of audio is missing. I think I might just have to tell them you fucked the tapes on accident or something. It’s been a while since you used that equipment, right? I could get away with saying that the new upgrades were still being figured out... Oh, god. If I lose my job, I’m going to kill you. What’s worse, he’s your subordinate. Derek, you’re his boss. You can’t keep seeing him like this. If he files a complaint, you’re, literally, fucked. You have to break it off.”

Derek swallows, but knows to keep quiet. Even though he’s hearing Laura’s words, there’s no way, no way, he can just give up on Stiles, not now that he’s had him.

Eventually, after more yelling, Laura dismisses Derek back to his office, under the understanding that he’s been demoted to whatever menial task she can think of to saddle him with for the next three weeks.

It’s not until he’s seated at his desk that he notices Stiles seated at his own, wringing his hands and looking guilty and a little scared. 

“I took the blame,” he tells Stiles before he can be asked about the meeting. “I deleted the audio recording before we brought the equipment back," he blatantly lies. "I told Director Hale that it was because of my lack of refreshing on usage of tech that caused it.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s my fault. I took advantage of you.”

Stiles makes a rude noise. “The hell you did. I’m just as guilty.”

“Agent Stilinski, I am your superior. What happened the other night-”

“Do you regret it?”

Derek’s mouth snaps shut. He blinks a few times, gathering up his courage, knowing he can’t lie about this to the poor boy. “Not at all. 

Stiles breathes for a few moments, never breaking eye-contact with Derek. “I don’t either. I just don’t want you to lose your job over this.”

Derek runs a hand through his hair. “To be completely honest, I don’t give a fuck. In fact, if you asked me, I’d fuck you, here and now, right on my desk.”

Stiles blinks. The silence between them is heady, full of tension.

“Derek?” Stiles calls softly.

“Yes, Stiles?” comes the reply.

“Will you fuck me on your desk?”


Derek’s balls-deep in the boy, one hand steadying his desk, the other pressing between Stiles’ shoulder-blades, pushing him against the cold, hard wood. Stiles’ own tie is tied around his head, a make-shift gag softening the sounds that he’s so sweetly trying to keep inside. Derek’s tie has bound Stiles’ wrists behind his back.

Stiles’ face is flushed, and his eyes are just the slightest bit watery. He’s already come once, bent over the desk like some little harlot, up on his tip-ties in order to keep any semblance of balance.

“Should I keep going?” Derek asks, his voice low, deep, rough.

Stiles just nods and closes his eyes.


It keeps happening, them going at one another like rabbits.

Derek gives Stiles a ride home, parks behind the decrepit-looking apartment building, and lets Stiles ride him in the back seat.

And while Stiles seems to like the way Derek man-handles him - he voiced his positive opinion on the way Derek could literally hold him up by the bend in his knees and fuck him against the wall several times - he gives as good as he gets. His blow-jobs are a little sloppier than Derek is used to, but Derek is particularly fond of the way, if Stiles doesn’t feel like swallowing, he lets Derek come on his face and neck.

It really doesn’t do much to discourage his wolf from preening, what with the pretty, pale boy smelling of good things, of lilacs and fresh linen and Derek’s cum.

Erica keeps gagging into her coffee cup when Stiles enters the room, but it’s for an entirely different reason.

Derek invites him up, into his own apartment, his own den, for the first time. He’s never had anyone other than Laura in his home, and that was only because, despite werewolf strength, there was no way in hell he was lugging all of his shit up three flights of stairs by himself back when he first moved in.

This time, it’s a different. Derek takes Stiles apart, with fingers and tongue and cock, savoring the way Stiles clutches at the bed sheets when things are going particularly well. Stiles falls asleep next to him and, much to Derek’s surprise, is still there in the morning. Derek makes him waffles and bacon for breakfast, and kisses him goodbye when he walks him to the station.

They don’t talk about it, not because Derek doesn’t necessarily want to, but because they don’t really have time. At work, it’s all business between them, and after they clock out? Well, there isn’t much talking really being done between them. Derek’s never had something like this, this continual want to be by another person, and the heady, almost lightheadedness of knowing someone else wants him around just as much.


At the end of their second week of, well, whatever it is they are doing together, Stiles calls sick out of work. Derek, because he’s a creeper, drives by the apartment five times in one day with his window cracked open, hoping to hear just a beat of Stiles’ heart.

Derek gets a call from Stiles later that afternoon.

“Dyta told me of a black camaro passing the building by for the sixth time today, and has let everyone on the floor know that she’s going to call her brother to come and sit menacingly on the front steps if it happens again. And while I know Cyprian as the nice guy who owns the bodega three blocks down, I’m pretty sure he’d give just about anyone a run for their money. At the very least, I’m almost positive he has a gun, and an array of knives from when he worked as a butcher. So, like. Are you gonna come up, or what?”

Derek thinks of a million excuses as to why he could be on this side of town, passing so frequently in front of Stiles’ specific apartment building, but Stiles doesn’t sound put off by it. In fact, if anything, it seems like the boy is quite pointedly inviting Derek up.

“I was worried about you,” he says, and knows it must sound lame. It sounds better, however, than admitting his weird obsession with Stiles and his whereabouts, so Derek settles for lame.

“Aww, Deputy Director Hale cares so much.” Stiles’ reply is playful, no trace of mocking in his voice. Derek shudders, unwilling to admit just how much he likes it when Stiles calls him by his full title like that.

“I brought soup,” he says, again, lamely.

“Oh, thank god, I haven’t had anything to eat all day and was dreading making something. Dymek or Felicjan should be in the foyer today; I’ll let them know you’re okay to come up.”

Derek is expecting a grown man or two, but is surprised when he encounters only a single, young boy, playing with a set of little cars next to the entrance of the elevator, which is boarded up with an ‘out of order’ sign across the front.

The kid gives Derek a once-over, then nods and points to a decrepit-looking door that, at one time, looked to have been painted red.

“Thanks,” Derek says.

“Nie ma za co,” comes the reply, and the door closes behind Derek as he practically vaults up the stairs.

Stiles resides in five-one-four; despite having been told the correct apartment number, Derek can smell him. Derek knocks, and it takes Stiles a few moments to get to the door. When he opens it, he’s wearing loose-fitting sweatpants and about three sweaters. His nose and cheeks are flushed, and there’s a box of tissue tucked under his arm.

“I’d invite you in, but I don’t want you to get sick,” he says, sounding, at least to Derek’s ears, a little sad.

“I’ve got a better constitution than most,” Derek says, pushing the door open and shuffling Stiles back a few steps. Werewolves can’t contract normal human sicknesses like the flu, after all. Besides, Derek's practically desperate to see the inside of Stiles' dwelling.

Stiles takes a look at the four bags Derek has clutched in his hands and coughs into his hand a few times before he gives a very poignant ‘what the hell’  type of look.

Derek shrugs, not caring in the slightest. It had pleased him to no end to fill up a huge portion of his cart with things he knew, or thought, Stiles might like. Wolves like providing for what’s theirs, and Stiles couldn’t be anything but, considering the way he reeked of Derek. He ushers Stiles to the couch while he heats up some of the soup he’d brought. He pulls out a sleeve of saltines from the box, and opens up one of the bottles of apple juice, too. He works, all the time knowing that Stiles is watching him from the blanket nest next on the couch. When everything is prepped and ready, he brings it all over and sits down next to Stiles, who has, without looking, pulled up something for them to watch on Netflix.

Three hours later and Stiles has finished the soup, the apple juice, and an entire sleeve and a half of crackers. Derek just watches him breath, sound asleep, and something inside of him both snaps and clicks into place. Standing up, he moves to where Stiles is situated. He leans over the boy, pops one knee up on the couch so he’s blotting out the overhead light with his body.

He leans down and slowly, so as not to wake Stiles, presses his face into the junction of Stiles’ neck and shoulder.

It’s a wolf instinct, scenting, one that runs deep, deep as bones and sinew. There are a myriad of other wolf instincts Derek can tamper down, can push to the side, can ignore. But this? He can’t help scenting Stiles, not that he wants to. He licks Stiles’ neck, opens his mouth and presses it to the apex of the boy’s shoulder. If he were to take the boy the way wolves do, this is where he’d put his claiming bite, this is how every other supernatural being would know that Stiles belongs to Derek and only to Derek.

He pulls away quickly when Stiles stirs, realizing he’d been growling at the mere thought of making Stiles his like that.

Stiles blinks up at him. “You okay, big guy?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

“I was going to pick you up and carry you to bed.” It’s the best excuse Derek can come up with.

Smiling, Stiles shakes his head. “You’re sweet. I mostly sleep on the couch when I’m sick, though. I keep my bedroom door locked, anyway. I have a big collection of old books.” He yawns, his eyelids drooping.

Derek smooths a hand over Stiles’ forehead, into his short-cropped hair. He thinks it would look good if it were grown out a little. He can hear Stiles’ heartbeat even out, indicating that he’s already back to sleep.

Derek cleans up the soup dishes as quietly as he can, and brings an unopened bottle of apple juice and another sleeve of crackers to rest on the coffee table near where Stiles is tangled up in a heap of blankets on one side of the couch. Derek runs his knuckles over Stiles’ left cheek, and leans down to press a kiss to a pair of soft, yielding lips.

He locks the door handle on his way out, and jiggles it a bit after he closes it to make sure it sticks.

When he turns around and begins down the hall toward the stairwell, he sees an old lady peeking out from behind the door to her apartment. She gives Derek a good once over, and doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed.

“Wilk,” she says.

Derek stops, raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re one who Mieczyslaw talk about, yes? Tall, dark, always hair on face, look like someone who never laughs.” Her accent is heavy.


“You be nice to our boy. He’s one of us. We protect our own, very much.”

“I have no intention hurting him,” Derek replies, standing a little taller.

“So you say, but no one intends mistakes or accidents.”

Derek reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He takes out one of his personal business cards, then slowly nears the door. The old lady’s heartbeat is steady; there is no fear in her.

“This is my personal line. If Stiles - if Mieczyslaw is ever in trouble, or you think he needs help, you call me, understand?”

The woman arches an eyebrow at him, giving him an appraising look, but takes the card.


Stiles is out sick for the rest of the week, but come Monday, there is no call.

Instead, Derek gets a call from an unknown number on his cell, and he shuts the door to his office before he answers it.

“Deputy Director Derek Hale,”

“Wilk, Mieczyslaw is missing.”

Derek freezes. “Are you sure?”

“Albinka made him rosół, but he not opened door for her. I have extra key, so we open door and there is no Mieczyslaw inside.”

“And you’re sure he didn’t just go out?”

“Niech to szlag trafi, do you have ears? I said missing, missing! Window is broken, from outside in, he is missing!”

Derek’s heart constricts so tightly he almost suffocates. “I’ll be over as soon as I can. Don’t let anyone else into his apartment, do you understand?”



Laura sends Reyes and Boyd with him to Stiles’ apartment, because three wolf noses are better than one. She’s going to wait before calling the precinct that overlooks Stiles’ neighborhood, giving just enough time for him and the others to catch any lingering scents. But they have to be quick.

The same little boy is sitting in the foyer of the building, alongside another who looks a few years older. They are playing with a set of plastic dinosaurs and little green army soldiers.

Derek nods to them as he passes, and the one he recognizes gives him a little wave. When he gets to the correct floor, he knocks on the door of the little old lady. She opens it at once, and gives a sweeping motion with both of her hands as she shoos Derek and his subordinates out of her way.

There was definitely a break in, and Derek’s hackles rise the moment the door to Stiles’ apartment opens There are three foreign scents in the room and the smell of burning hair is prevalent.

Derek thanks the old woman, and asks her to wait in the hall. She does, but she doesn’t look happy about it at all.

Reyes and Boyd are already walking around the room, trying to catch a scent, any scent, that doesn’t smell like Stiles or old lady or even older building.

Derek walks down the hall and tries to open the door to Stiles’ bedroom, but it’s locked up tight. He can’t even wiggle the handle. The hallway smells strangely like ozone, but, with the window broken, it's little wonder, considering how hard it had rained earlier in the day.

“Hey, boss, I think I’ve got something,” he hears Reyes call from back in the living room.


It’s three in the morning, and Derek has a bullet-proof vest on and his gun unholstered. He hasn’t slept in nearly 30 hours, but like hell he was going to sit this one out. Even if it was against Laura’s wishes, even if it costs him his job, finding Stiles is a drive in him that cannot be settled.

He hears voices from the other side of the stack of pallets he’s hiding behind.

“Are you going to give us the counter, or are we going to have to break another one of your fingers?”

He hears Stiles’ laugh, but it sounds wet and strained. “You can break all my fingers, buddy, and you’re still not gonna get anything out of me.”

The awful sound of a bone breaking echoes through the warehouse, and it takes every last drop of control Derek has to keep hidden, to keep from wolfing out and ripping the throats out of these absolute fuckers. There are six of them that surround Stiles, and while the team is outside and ready to strike at a moment’s notice, the men currently interrogating and torturing Stiles are all packing heat. He can’t risk letting Stiles be caught in the cross-fire, he can’t.

Stiles whimpers, but doesn’t scream. “Who taught you how to break fingers, asswhipe, your grandma ?”

Derek nearly bites his tongue clean off. Smart-mouthed little shit.

A meaty sound is the next to echo, and Derek knows Stiles has been punched without having to see visual proof.

“You think if I give it to you that you’re - what? - just going to walk back into the building, into my apartment, get inside my room and take what you want?”

Jesus Christ, what kinds of books did Stiles have?

“You don’t know who you’re messing with, kid. The Book of Black belongs to the Ciccone Family.”

The Ciccone Family ? Derek can’t think of a single mafia, mob, or cartel member with a last name like that. What’s more, what the fuck is The Book of Black, and how on God’s green earth did it end up in Stiles’ possession?

“Dyta and Cyprian think otherwise.”

This time, when Stiles’ finger is broken, he cries out. He doesn’t say anything else, and Derek instantly singles out his heartbeat from those around him. It slows, evens out a little, and Derek knows that Stiles has passed out.

He hears the footsteps of four men leave the larger area of the warehouse, and decides to take his chance. Slowly, painfully slowly, he peeks around the corner of the pallet he’s hiding behind, trying to get a bearing on where Stiles is. Derek’s heart almost stops when he sees Stiles chained, upside down, hanging from the ceiling. Four of his fingers - three on his left hand and one on his right - look mangled, the skin already turning color. He’s got a fat lip and a black eye, and blood has dripped from his nose into his hairline. The strangest thing, however, is the handcuffs around Stiles’ wrists; they are a brilliant, shining gold, and look absolutely out of place.

Derek thanks his stars for his werewolf speed, because he’s on the two men before either of them can make a sound, let alone reach for their guns. Each of them go down with a single punch to the head, but, well, were strength isn’t exactly equitable to human strength in any sense of the word. He’s pretty sure the second guy’s skull is more than a little cracked.

It’s little trouble to tear the strange handcuffs apart, and the chains that hold Stiles’ feet aren’t much of a challenge, either. Derek makes quick work of freeing Stiles of his bonds. He hoists the boy into a fireman’s carry and starts toward the exit.

“Der’k?” comes a muffled call from his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, Stiles. There’s a team surrounding the building. As soon as we get out, they’ll infiltrate and-”

“Oh, no need for that.”

Derek almost trips. “What? What are you talking about?”

“No one from our side is in the building, right?”

“No, I’ve got an earpiece in; everyone is outside and accounted for.”

Stiles doesn’t speak again, but as soon as he and Derek are a few steps outside of the building, Derek hears a strange sound, like someone snapping their fingers.

In the next instant, the entire warehouse blows up.


Stiles is in the hospital for three days before Derek and Laura can go to visit him. He’s got a few nasty burns from the explosion, in addition to the rest of what was done to him by the hands of those men who, much to Derek’s irritation, can’t seem to be identified. Their remains are too charred, and, suspiciously beyond suspicion, none of the bodies found had teeth. Since dental and fingerprint records were out, their department back at the bureau was doing all they could to figure out the mystery men who’d kidnapped Stiles from his own home and had tried to get information out of him.

Derek was careful in his reports. Laura caught and fixed anything that might have gotten through. Derek didn’t need to go to the hospital after the explosion, as Stiles, who he was carrying on his back, seemed to have taken most of the brunt of the force. What’s more, Derek was careful to leave out what the men were trying to get out of Stiles. He still has no idea what The Book of Black is, or what it’s connection to Stiles could possibly be. A thorough search on anyone with the surname Ciccone proved fruitless, too. The worst of it was a few unpaid parking tickets, and that wasn’t even within the same state.

It’s after normal visiting hours, but Derek’s on good terms with a few of the nurses on staff, so he and Laura are allowed in for a short time close to midnight. The halls are dimly lit, and Stiles’ room is darker still. Derek takes up the chair next to Stiles’ bed, and reaches out to take the boy’s hand in his own. He leeches some of Stiles’ pain, figuring it’s the absolute bare minimum he can do.

“Derek?” Stiles says, and Derek looks up to see Stiles’ eyes blinking open.

He quickly stops siphoning off Stiles’ pain, but doesn’t let go of his hand. “I’m right here, Stiles.”

Stiles blinks a few times, obviously trying to get the room into focus. “Is Director Hale here, too?”

“Please, Stiles; at this point, you’re more than welcome to call me Laura outside of the office.”

Stiles smiles, then looks back to Derek. “Did Dyta call you?”

Derek nods, though he’s a little unsure of how Stiles could have known such a thing.

“Ah, she’s the best. She insists I call her babcia, and I love it, because I didn’t really get to know mine before she died. Hey, no one went into my room, did they?”

Derek looks to Laura, who shrugs. “I don't think so. Are you on morphine?” she guesses.

Stiles lets out a laugh. “No, no, if no one got into my room then it means my warding held up. If the door is still locked, not even Dyta was able to get in. And I haven’t been given morphine since this morning, despite how much I still hurt. You wanna keep doing that pain-pull on me, big guy?”

Derek goes dead still, and he knows that Laura’s done the same behind him.

Blinking, Stiles looks confused for a moment. “Why are you guys giving me that look? You are werewolves, right? Come on, I’m hurt. Make with the pain-drain, will you?”

“Stiles,” Laura begins, and thank the moon and stars in the sky, because Derek has no idea what to say. This isn’t his wheelhouse, and is way above his pay grade. The only time someone else has known he was a wolf was when they were a wolf, too. “Stiles, how do you know about werewolves?” Her voice is even, calm, but Derek can hear the staccato of her heartbeat.

Stiles looks at her. “Wait, hasn’t Deaton filled you in? I thought that was why you asked me to transfer to your department.”

Laura blinks. “I asked for your transfer because I thought you were exceptionally adept at data analysis and pattern recognition, and, given that’s mostly what my department deals with, I figured it would be a good place to have you. What do you mean about Deaton not filling me in?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, puts most of his upper body into it, but flinches when he tweaks something. “I swear, that guy,” he mutters, sighing. “I thought you knew; I’m a Spark.”

Derek’s breath catches. Sparks were a rare form of magic-user. Unlike witches, who needed outside implementation - ingredients - in order to perform their magic, Sparks contained it innately.

“Wait, wait, wait . You’re a what ?” Laura whisper-yells.

Stiles lifts up the hand that Derek isn’t still clutching, and makes a little flourish with his fingers. Or, well, with four of them, anyhow; his pinky is all taped up. There, at the tip of his index finger, is a soft, little flame, smoldering quietly, illuminating his face. “Yeah, I’m a Spark. That’s why Deaton wanted me in his department.”

“But Deaton isn’t a Spark,” Derek counters. “We’d know. I mean, we would know, wouldn’t we?” He looks over his shoulder at his sister.

Laura shrugs.

“Oh, no, Deaton’s not a Spark. He’s not a witch, either,” Stiles informs them. “He’s just my mentor. He’s got all kinds of crazy access to old magic books, being so high up in the bureau and all.”

“So, your room back at your apartment-” Derek begins.

“Oh, yeah, filled with old books on magic and stuff.”

“And The Book of Black?”

Stiles grimaces. “So, being werewolves, you probably know a little about magic, right?” He waits for both Derek and Laura to nod. “And you know about sacrificial magic?”

Derek’s face must be an open book, because Stiles nods as he grimaces. “Yeah, well, The Book of Black is all about that. Dyta’s had it in her possession for a while now - handed down to her by her great grandmother, who apparently stole it from a coven who was terrorizing their village - but she’s not powerful enough to destroy it, so she was helping me look into how I could do it for her and-”

“That old lady back at your place? The one with the pink, crocheted shawl? She’s a Spark ?”

No, she’s a witch. Same with pretty much everyone who speaks Polish in my building.”

Derek’s quiet for a moment, pretty sure his brain has blue-screened. “That’s what you meant when you said your place was safer than it looked.”

Stiles nods.

“And that’s what she meant when she told me ‘he’s one of us’ and ‘we protect our own.’”

“Aww.” Stiles’ tone is soft and teasing. “Did my surrogate witch grandma threaten you for my sake?”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “The ozone-smell outside your bedroom door, the smell of burned hair in your apartment after they took you.”

Shrugging, Stiles smiles. “I thought you knew. I thought you all knew, right from from the beginning. I thought that’s why you asked me to be part of your department, and were just extremely polite and refused to talk about it during work hours. I mean, Erica’s pretty open about being a wolf once you get a few drinks in her-”

Derek’s growl is cut short when Laura smacks his shoulder.

“How did you know about us ?” She asks.

“Oh, please. If you know what to look for, you werewolves aren’t half as sneaky as you think you are. My best friend back home was bitten during sophomore year. And it’s a good thing he had me, because while he’s adorable and sweet as pie, he’s about as bright as a box of rocks sometimes. I was the one who figured out he was a werewolf before he did.”

The smile that Stiles flashes at Derek is saccharine-sweet. “Now, please, pretty please, pretty please with sugar on top, make with the wolfy pain-drain. I feel like a dumpster fire.”

Without even thinking about it, Derek does as he’s told.

Stiles sighs, contentedly, and the sound rouses something deep within Derek. “Oh, man, that’s the good stuff. Though, to be fair,” he says, closing his eyes and leaning back against his pillow. “Even if you weren’t a werewolf, I’d still be in love with you.”

The room goes quiet.

“Oh, please,” Stiles snorts. “Like you didn’t know.”

Derek just watches, awestruck, as Stiles breathes, like the confession had cost him nothing.

“Wait, are you two still fucking?”

Derek flinches from how shrill her voice is.

Stiles yawns, sounding bored. “That’s such a crude way to put it. I don’t think people who are just fucking cook one another breakfast the morning after, or bring them food when they’re sick, or let them into their den, or rescue them from being tortured by asshole black witches.”

Laura growls. “I erased seven hours of tapes for you guys.”

With his free hand, Stiles waves in Laura’s direction. “And I’m not really sure why, because I magicked-up those tapes to literally melt once in official hands. You just got to them too quick. Or, well, Derek most likely spilled the beans about it. See? This is why we need to work on inter-departmental communication. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some sleep to catch up on.”

Laura heads to the door, but when Derek moves to stand, Stiles pulls him down. “Where you think you’re going, big bad?” Derek’s astounded that the boy hasn’t even opened his eyes again.

“You want me here?”

“Sure do, unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?”

“No,” Derek says, a little too quickly, a little too loudly.

Stiles just smiles.

Laura leaves, and the room falls quiet.

“You don’t have to say it back, you know.”


“I admitted that I’m in love with you. I don’t expect you to say it back. It’s been, like, a month.”

“So how do you know it’s real?” Derek wants to bite his tongue off the moment the question is out of his mouth.

“I’m magic, remember? The only thing I trust implicitly is my gut. And the moment you walked into that waiting room the day we met, I nearly pissed my pants my magic was going so haywire. Why do you think I couldn't stop talking at you?”

Derek brings Stiles’ hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Stiles is back asleep in under a minute.

Derek doesn’t leave his side.


“You seriously ran three different background checks on me ?” Stiles laughs, still giddy from the party. He and the other interns had graduated earlier that afternoon, and the following party, though lacking in alcohol since the majority of the interns were underage, had been an absolute blast. Stiles’ scrunched up face is a little pink from too much time in the sun, and Derek presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose as they ride the elevator up to his apartment.

“I couldn’t help it,” he says, though he does feel guilty about it, still.

Stiles keeps laughing. “That’s nothing. I ran four, hacked into the employee database, and found whatever I could on you, going as far back as elementary school.”

Derek almost swallows his tongue. “What?” he says, dumbfounded.

“Your fifth grade baseball team won whatever the little-league version of the World Series is, and then you suspiciously were pulled from all team sports thereafter. I can’t imagine how angry your parents were.”

“I was eight, eight. Everyone knows eight-year-olds have little to no impulse control. And first place won a pizza party and everyone got these little trophies. How was I not supposed to use my wolf strength?”

Stiles laughs harder.

“Besides, you were issued two speeding tickets while you had your learner's permit.”

Stiles laughs even harder. “Yeah, and they were given to me by my own dad! Didn’t pick up on that in all your snooping, did you?”

Derek successfully unlocks the door to his apartment with one hand, which is quite the feat considering he can’t actually see the deadbolt key-hole, not with the way Stiles has his long arms wrapped around his neck.

“Yeah, well there’s one thing I didn’t overlook.”

“And what’s that?”

“Hmm,” Derek says, kicking the door closed and pressing Stiles against it, then covering Stiles' body with his own. “I wonder, whatever could it be, Mieczysław ?”