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Never Was a Stranger

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Stiles woke up miserable. His head was pounding, and his mouth tasted like something had died and desiccated in it. His stomach was tight with hunger and anxiety, and his whole body tensed in anticipation of the next awful thing even before he was awake enough to know what the next awful thing was likely to be.

"Must be Tuesday," he muttered into his pillow. He turned his head to squint toward the clock, only to find his water bottle lit up by its blue glow, blocking him from seeing the numbers.

He smiled and mentally patted his on-the-way-to-bed self on the back for being smart enough to pre-set a bottle of water before going to bed... drunk? Was this a hangover? Was he sick? He couldn't remember setting the water out.

Still, it was there and that was enough for now. Stiles scooted to the edge of the bed and grabbed the bottle without picking his head up. It was cool to the touch and heavy enough to be full to the top. He rolled onto his back, propping his head on one arm, before he bit down on the nozzle and took a long drink, swallowing until his stomach ached.

When Stiles reached over to put the bottle back on his nightstand it hit something that crinkled in a promising, food-wrapper sort of way. Stiles found a flat spot to set down the bottle and then rolled onto his side, pushing up on one elbow to lean over and see what else he'd set out for himself.

That was when he spotted Derek lying on the floor beside his bed. The glow from the streetlight outside was enough for him to see that Derek's eyes were open, looking silently up at him.

Stiles yelped and flailed and overbalanced. Derek surged up, pushing him back onto his bed before he could fall all the way out of it. Stiles did manage to whack one hand on the nightstand, knocking the water bottle and alarm clock to the floor. As soon as Stiles was safely flat on the mattress Derek let go of him and backed off, kneeling beside the bed.

"Dude," Stiles demanded, fighting his way up to a sitting position and then regretting it when the pounding in his head got worse. "What the fuck are you--wait, are you watching over me? Do I have a concussion? I don't remember putting the water out, did I--"

"Yes," Derek said.

Stiles squinted at him, and Derek shifted away from the striped light coming dimly through the blinds like he knew Stiles was trying to see him more clearly. He looked... off, somehow. More off than Derek usually looked. "Yes?"

"Yes," Derek repeated. He picked up a granola bar from Stiles's nightstand and offered it to him. "I'm watching over you."

Stiles took the granola bar. Fuck, he was starving. How long had he been out?

Derek naturally waited until Stiles had almost an entire granola bar in his mouth before he said, "Do you know what day it is?"

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and chewed, rifling through his memory. He remembered his hand on Derek's shoulder--oh fuck, Boyd, oh God. Stiles swallowed with an effort and opened his eyes.

"September, um, eighth? Boyd's funeral is tomorrow--or, in the morning, anyway, is it the ninth yet? Or did I miss it?"

"You didn't miss it," Derek assured him. "You should eat, though."

Stiles crammed the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. It shouldn't have tasted like the best thing he'd ever eaten--not when he could see Boyd lying there in the water, not when he could remember Cora crying and Derek pretending not to cry and Ms. Blake's ashen face as she walked away--but it was seriously amazing the best granola bar ever. Just the right balance of chocolate and oats, faintly salty and sweet enough to make his face hurt at the same time.

"Is there more?" Stiles asked, mouth still mostly full.

Derek turned and came up with a half-full box of granola bars, which he handed over to Stiles.

Stiles swallowed and then said, "Wait, why are you watching over me? What happened to me? I was fine. Shouldn't I be, um--"

Watching over you, Stiles didn't say, because watching over Derek wasn't exactly his place and he didn't think Derek wanted to acknowledge how fucked up he was over Boyd dying. Stiles leaned toward him a little, trying to see his face clearly. Was it grief that was making him look strange? Exhaustion? Guilt?

Derek leaned away again, and Stiles looked down.

"Are you sure," Stiles redirected. "Are Cora and Isaac okay? Shouldn't you be with them?"

"They're fine," Derek said. "I'm here for you."

Stiles stopped with a granola bar in his hand. "Wait, that doesn't even make sense. Why are you here for me? Do you think the alphas are going to come after me for some reason? Or--is this another sacrifice thing?"

Stiles still couldn't remember going to bed. He couldn't remember setting out the water bottle, or why his head hurt so bad.

Derek nodded toward the granola bars. "You should eat."

Stiles dropped the granola bar and folded his arms. "I'm not eating anything else until you tell me what the hell is going on."

Derek sighed and rubbed his forehead. "What if I told you I traveled back in time to protect you."

"Protect me from--wait, seriously?"

Derek looked up and smiled a little, and Stiles thought that he looked tired, but nowhere near as wrecked as he'd been the last time Stiles saw him. Definitely not the way he should look the night before Boyd's funeral. And maybe it wasn't even that he looked tired. Maybe he just looked older.

"I'll prove it," Derek said, and shifted his weight, digging in a pocket--of course he'd been lying there in his jeans--to withdraw his phone, which he passed over to Stiles.

Stiles stared down at it. It was just a little bit too thin--not some crazy science-fictional StarkTech thing, but it definitely wasn't the phone he'd last seen Derek using, and he'd never seen one like it at the Apple Store, either. The case had some little scuffs and scratches, like Derek had been using it for a while.

He tapped the screen and Derek said, "The password is your first name. Your real one."

Stiles looked up.

"That's the kind of future I come from," Derek said matter-of-factly.

Stiles felt his mouth hanging open, and Derek shrugged a little and smiled a sad, tired smile. He leaned into the streetlight glow instead of away from it, and his gaze looked warm and fond. It was none of the ways Derek had ever looked at Stiles. Not in real life, anyway.

"I'm--am I actually awake right now?"

Derek nodded even as he reached out and pinched the back of Stiles's wrist hard enough to make Stiles instinctively slap his hand away.

"Ow, okay, okay, I'm awake, I...."

Stiles looked down at the phone again and tapped out his first name--special characters and all--and the phone opened up to reveal a home screen that also looked just slightly off from anything Stiles had seen before. New version of iOS, probably. There were games and apps he'd never heard of, but it seemed that the Hales still stuck with Apple products even in the future.

"There's an app called Moonlight," Derek said. "You and Danny made it. He did the programming and the jailbreak, you did the magic."

Stiles laughed helplessly. "I did the magic. Sure, obviously. I am the spark."

Stiles found the Moonlight shortcut and tapped it, and the phone's camera flash turned on, shining a bright silvery light toward Derek. In the steady glow, Stiles could see that Derek looked both older and tired, with bags under his eyes and lines around them. There were glints of silver in his hair, and Stiles reached out to touch them and then stopped short.

Derek silently leaned closer, and Stiles's heart thumped at the acknowledgment that this Derek, from a future that Stiles might live to see, was his to touch. Stiles ran his hand cautiously over Derek's hair, finding it as soft as he'd always imagined it might be.

When Stiles took his hand back Derek said, "This is what you need the app for."

He turned and tugged his shirt up and off, showing his back to Stiles and making Stiles's mouth go dry. Stiles's name was tattooed along one curve of the triskele, in a glowing silvery script. When Stiles shone the light away, the words disappeared, though he could still make out the stark black lines of Derek's normal tattoo.

"Holy shit," Stiles said, playing the light over Derek's back again to watch his name appear. "You have a fucking elf tat--are we married? Wait, does this mean the rest of the pack knows my name, too? That makes it a way worse password, dude."

"None of them can ever remember where the accents go," Derek said, turning back around without putting his shirt back on. Stiles told himself he had every right to stare, as much as to touch; Derek literally had Stiles's name written on him. This Derek, anyway.

"Fair," Stiles admitted. "My dad still has to double-check whenever he writes it out."

He shifted the phone, aiming the light past Derek to see where his water bottle had fallen, and reached out left-handed to grab it.

Stiles froze, staring at his own left hand.

It wasn't his. It was tanned darker, and there was a scar curving around the base of the thumb, and there was a pale tan line across his ring finger, and--

Derek wrapped a hand around Stiles's hand, taking the phone with the other.

"Stiles," Derek said, from far away, "Stiles, look at me. It's just time travel."

Stiles shook his head, looking past Derek, squinting around the room--the posters were wrong, the shapes on the walls unfamiliar, and--Stiles wrenched his hand free of Derek's to touch his own face. He encountered a dense prickle of stubble, which explained that faint itching he'd been only half-aware of until right now.

He couldn't remember going to bed. He couldn't remember marrying Derek, he couldn't remember--how many years had it been? Stiles kept looking around wildly. Where was his dad, why was Derek in his dad's house, what had happened, what if his dad was dead and he couldn't remember--

Derek's hand clamped down over his face, covering his mouth and blocking his nose, and when Stiles tried to pull away Derek's other hand caught the nape of his neck, trapping him between Derek's hands as Derek's weight bore him down to the bed. Stiles struggled frantically against the crushing weight, fighting to breathe, thrashing and biting at Derek's hands.

When Derek's hand slipped free, Stiles inhaled in a huge whoop, and Derek said fiercely, "That was a panic attack and you are time traveling, do you hear me? Time travel. You're visiting the future, but it's going to be okay. I swear you will get home safe and sound, all in one piece. Nothing missing."

Stiles lay still under Derek's only half-smothering weight, weirdly conscious of the few inches of skin where his shirt had ridden up and his bare side was pressed against Derek's stomach.

"Time travel," Stiles repeated, because--time travel, that was an adventure, that was crazy magic shit. He could handle that. "Just me. Right?"

"Right," Derek sighed. "Just you. You've come to the future. You fell asleep at home in 2011 and you woke up in the same bed here in the future."

"It's--you say that like this has happened before. Wait, why did you try to smother me when I had a panic attack?"

"Because you always start breathing when you have to fight for it," Derek said, rolling with the subject change like he'd had plenty of practice. "You're a true contrarian."

"You're the contrarian, you fuck," Stiles replied automatically, trying not to think about--time travel. It was just time travel.

Just time travel, what the fuck was his life.

"Okay, so back to the thing where this has happened before."

"Every night this week," Derek said. "It's--we're working on it. We'll get you home. But for now, you're visiting from September 9, 2011. You're seventeen. You're probably going to realize you're still hungry at some point, and it's late and you need to get some sleep."

Stiles lay there for a minute, breathing in and out under Derek's weight, which was strange and new and exciting and comforting all at once. Derek's hand was still resting against the back of his neck, and the hand that had slipped from his mouth was on his chest, and he couldn't remember--

No. There was nothing to remember. Nothing had happened yet. Stiles had time-traveled to the future, skipping right over all that time, and he was going to get back home. And then sometime in the future he was going to wind up married to Derek Hale, with a tattoo and a ring and everything.

Stiles squirmed a little, flexing up under Derek, but he moved his face against the mattress, too. He became conscious again of the whole face situation that he wasn't thinking about. He was seventeen, he was time-traveling, and there was no situation on his face.

"Can I just," Stiles said. "Um. Wash my face?"

"Yeah," Derek said, and shifted aside, tugging him up by the hand even as he pushed off of Stiles. Stiles closed his eyes and didn't look around for differences as Derek led him out of his own bedroom.

Derek took him right into the bathroom, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tighter when Derek turned on the light. He wasn't avoiding looking in the mirror--it was just that the light would hurt his eyes.

"Why don't you just let me do this," Derek said. "You're seventeen, you probably haven't really gotten the hang of it yet."

"Sure," Stiles said, and he heard the water turn on, the quiet hard-edged sounds of Derek moving things around on the counter.

"Here, sit," Derek said, pushing Stiles toward the counter, and Stiles hoisted himself up to perch on the edge, trying not to notice whether it was a little easier, whether the counter didn't come up quite as high as it should on his hip. When Stiles opened his eyes, Derek was holding an unfamiliar can of shaving cream.

Stiles shut his eyes again.

"Try to relax," Derek said. Water ran briefly in the sink and there was the fwish sound of shaving cream being dispensed. "If you keep scrunching up your face I might cut you."

"But under no other circumstances, right," Stiles said. He mostly trusted Derek, but he'd never actually had Derek holding a sharp blade to his throat before.

The touch against his mouth was there and gone before Stiles registered it was a kiss, and then a warm, wet cloth was swiping gently over his face.

Derek cleared his throat and said, "Of course not."

Stiles braced his hands behind him on the counter, feeling suddenly a little light-headed. He tilted his head back. Derek was from the future, that was all; he couldn't see Stiles without seeing the future-Stiles who he was married to.

"Ready when you are," Stiles finally said, peeking at Derek from under his eyelashes.

"Okay," Derek said, and Stiles closed his eyes again as Derek's shaving-cream-filled hand approached his face. It was a strange sensation, having foam smeared carefully over his face by an unseen hand, but the touch that followed was even weirder. Derek pressed two fingertips to Stiles's cheek, tilting his head just where Derek wanted it, and then there was the barely-there scrape of a blade across his skin--just a short stroke, and then the water was running in the sink again.

Stiles wasn't going to think about why Derek was already having to rinse the razor. Habit, probably. Derek wouldn't be able to move a razor an inch over his own face without having to rinse it out. Stiles shaved occasionally, but there wasn't really any point yet and he had a lot of moles to navigate around.

Derek didn't seem to have any trouble working around Stiles's moles. The razor moved in quick, steady little flicks. Stiles barely felt it against his skin before it was moving on. Soon Derek's fingertips were resting against his smooth cheek to guide him where Derek wanted him, tilting his head back and forth.

Stiles opened his eyes just a crack, and he was rewarded with the sight of Derek frowning in concentration, staring down at Stiles's mouth. The next second Derek's eyes flicked up to meet his, and the frown dissolved into a weird, foreign smile of reassurance. "Almost done."

Stiles closed his eyes again and waited out the last few strokes of the razor, the gentle touches of Derek's fingers.

Finally Derek said, "Here, give me your hands."

Stiles opened his eyes again as he put out his hands, and Derek poured a little bit of something white into his palm.

"Lotion," Derek said without looking Stiles in the eye. "You have sensitive skin. Just--" Derek rubbed his own dry palms together and then scrubbed them over his own face, which hadn't been shaved anytime recently.

Stiles followed suit, rubbing his hands together, and--there was a strange sensation as he put his hands to his face, his palms tilting and fingers twitching just so, to get the lotion rubbed in everywhere in a few quick swipes. Muscle memory, which made sense, because it could persist even when--

Even when someone was time traveling. Stiles pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and didn't think about it. He didn't think about anything.

"It's okay, Stiles," Derek said, closing one hand around Stiles's wrist and tugging gently, not with enough force even to take his hand away from his face. "We'll get you home. Come on, you should be in bed, it's the middle of the night."

Stiles let Derek lead him back out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. When Derek let go, ushering Stiles toward the bed, Stiles's wrist felt cold where Derek had held onto it. Stiles knew that if he got back into that bed--his bed, his own bed, here in the future where everything was just a little bit off--he would just lie there and not sleep, and maybe ramp himself up to another panic attack.

"Come with me," Stiles said, reaching out to grab Derek's wrist with one hand, flicking the light on with the other.

Derek looked surprised for a second, and then not surprised at all. He didn't turn off the light. "Stiles, I'm not--you're not...."

"I know I'm not your Stiles," Stiles said, and a weird flinch went across Derek's face, a frown that made the lines around his eyes suddenly harsher. Stiles tightened his grip, tugging Derek toward the bed. "But I am going to grow up to be him, right? So you've gotta know that I..."

Stiles took a breath, marveling at how much courage it took to say it, even when he was here in the future staring at the evidence that Derek knew and felt the same. Or at least Derek would eventually feel the same, possibly thanks to a long campaign of psychological warfare on Stiles's part. Possibly Stiles had personally given him a lot of those gray hairs.

"Derek, you've gotta know I want you here."

"You didn't tell me right away, how long you'd been thinking about it," Derek said, looking down. "When you finally did tell me you thought I must have always known, because of my senses, but you'd be surprised how ambiguous that information is. I was never sure until you jumped me."

Stiles was startled into a flat bray of laughter, and Derek looked up with a startlingly bright smile that made him look younger even than Stiles's--than the Derek Stiles knew, back in 2011.

"I can't--well, okay, I guess I can picture it, I have a fantastically vivid imagination," Stiles said, and waved his hands at Derek's bare torso, which was as perfect as it had ever been and did kind of cry out for jumping. "I just can't imagine it actually happening. Did I have some kind of personality transplant? Was there a life-threatening situation? Did witches make us do it?"

"If any of those were true I wouldn't have been sure you actually wanted me," Derek pointed out, still smiling. "It won't happen for a few years yet. You gained some confidence while you were off at college. Confidence in non-life-threatening situations, anyway. You've always had plenty when we really needed you."

Stiles felt himself blushing a little at the calmly-delivered praise, and focused on the interesting part. "So, wait, by confidence you mean, practice at hitting on people way out of my league? You weren't my first, were you."

Derek's smile faded to a serious expression, and he shook his head. "You dated people. Hooked up. You've assured me several times that you packed the complete college experience into your first two years, so it was okay for you to become a boring person in a long-term relationship. With me."

Derek's voice sounded a little stiff, like he was trying to sound pleased about something he wasn't pleased about at all.

"Oh my God, you hate it," Stiles said, grinning. "You hate that you weren't my first."

Derek scowled, looking exactly like Stiles's own Derek in a way that just made Stiles more determined to get Derek into his bed. He had no interest in being left alone in the future, and--this was going to be awesome, as soon as Derek gave in and agreed.

"You needed to--"

"Oh, I know," Stiles said, waving Derek's teeth-gritted words away. "I solemnly promise, when I get back to my own timeline, I will go off to college and fuck a bunch of strangers until I feel ready to swear off other people forever and go jump you. But still, deep down in your mate-for-life wolfy heart, you hate that you weren't the first person to get your hands and your everything all up on this."

Derek huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. Stiles didn't care what year this was: he recognized the retreat of the werewolf without a good argument.

Stiles grabbed Derek by the wrist; even his own Derek would have allowed that most of the time, Stiles was pretty sure. This one looked down at Stiles's fingers circling his wrist and didn't even raise his eyebrows. He sighed again, more softly, and ran his free hand over his hair, light winking off a wedding ring that probably matched the one--the one that Stiles's future self would wear. Stiles had never worn one, of course. He scrupulously didn't look at his own hands.

"Come on," Stiles coaxed, staying focused on his goal. "If you want me to get to sleep--you've gotta know the quickest way to get me to pass out."

"Technically that's still head trauma," Derek said, but he put his left hand over Stiles's on his wrist, rubbing his thumb over Stiles's knuckles like he couldn't resist. "But we probably shouldn't give you a concussion tonight, no."

Because a concussion would be redundant--no. Time travel.

"And you know everything I like, don't you?" Stiles said, tugging gently. Derek didn't budge, but he didn't pull away. "You probably know things I like that I don't even know yet. And you can show them to me for the first time--you can't tell me you don't want to be the one to do that."

Derek moved faster than Stiles's eye could follow; it was like a sudden jump cut, a special effect. Derek was just there, toe to toe with him, looking him in the eye--looking up into his eyes, which made Stiles's knees weaken a little. Derek was still holding on firmly to Stiles's hand.

"Do you want to?" Derek asked.

Stiles's mouth was dry, his heart racing from more than just the startling sudden proximity of Derek. He was going to get laid, with Derek, with a Derek who was married to him in the future.

"Oh my God you love me," Stiles said, instead of the logical and enthusiastic yes that would have been the right answer.

Derek said nothing for a couple of breaths, staring into Stiles's eyes as Stiles stared back. Derek closed his eyes just a little too long to be a blink, and then he said, "You're seventeen. If you want me--all you have to know is that I want you to be safe and happy. And to get some sleep. So if you want to, that's fine, we can. But only if it's what you want."

"I will, though," Stiles said, because what Derek had really said was you don't love me and it's okay. That had to be the worst thing ever, having the Stiles he knew and loved and got a tattoo for replaced with Stiles's own time-traveling seventeen-year-old self. "I know I will. I could already, I think, if you'd--if there was any time. If you let me."

Derek just stared at him for a few seconds, and then Stiles saw him relax a little from the awful carefulness. "I will. When you're ready."

Stiles opened his mouth to say something else about that, but Derek tilted his head, pressing up and in against Stiles--Heather had done that, giving him his first kiss, she'd all but climbed him--but now it was Derek's mouth pressing into his, lips just as soft but with a prickle of stubble around them.

Stiles felt his eyes go wide in surprise. Derek's eyes were closed, and Derek's mouth moved purposefully against his. Stiles parted his lips. A few seconds later he squeezed his eyes shut to focus on the slow drag of Derek's lips against his and the tentative touch of Derek's tongue as it eased into his mouth.

Stiles pressed his tongue cautiously back against Derek's. His brain was a blur of holy shit kissing Derek? kissing Derek! kissing! Derek!

Derek made a distinctly amused-sounding noise against Stiles's mouth. He pulled back enough to say, "Easy, Stiles. You can do this. Don't overthink it."

"Oh, like I can stop," Stiles snapped, helplessly conscious of Derek's lips practically touching his lips even as he spoke. Derek's hand was still holding his when he tried to flail at that.

Derek's other hand settled on his cheek, stopping him from saying more, and Stiles tilted his head under Derek's grip, pressing back into the kiss at a better angle. Derek let go of his hand, slipping his other arm around Stiles's hips, and something just clicked--sparked--and everything fit, everything felt right. Stiles's mouth opened easily to Derek's and the kiss lit up his whole body.

Stiles's arms went around Derek without thought, one slung around his neck, the other hand at the small of his back. Derek pushed a little closer, sighing into the kiss, relaxing while Stiles just felt more and more wound up. Stiles pressed closer, hips rolling instinctively, and this felt exactly right, too, the way he could press his dick against Derek's hip and feel Derek's equally hard dick pressing right back against him.

Stiles did it again and then again, finding a rhythm--it was like dancing, or dancing was like this, fully-clothed sex standing up--and then it hit him that this was the first time he'd ever felt anybody else's hard-on. It was the first time anybody had let him press his dick against them.

He froze, suddenly formlessly scared in a way that didn't make his dick any less hard. It was just instinct, that was all. Of course his body knew how to do this. It didn't mean anything.

Derek kissed the corner of his mouth, and Stiles realized dimly that he was clutching at Derek's bare skin, his fingers digging in so hard it had to hurt. He made his fingers flat, though he pressed his hands down just as hard.

"Hey," Derek said softly. "Stiles. Do you trust me?"

Stiles turned his head a little so that he could look at Derek's face, and Derek leaned back against Stiles's grip enough to let him see both of his eyes. Derek hadn't said it in quite the way that that question would normally be asked. It sounded like a different kind of question than it should be.

"I mean," Derek said. "I can't remember if you did, when you were seventeen--if you trusted the Derek you knew then."

"That's not," Stiles said, but he didn't want to explain what had startled him, so he changed direction. "Yeah. I mean, I think so. I haven't said it, and if I wasn't talking to the future version of you that the future version of me is married to I would probably argue about whether I really did, but--yeah. I'm pretty sure I do."

Derek studied him for a few seconds in silence and then said, "Close your eyes."

Stiles closed his eyes and then opened them again immediately. Derek just raised his eyebrows in a way that was almost a smile. Stiles shut his eyes again, squeezing them as tight as his fists. After Stiles had counted to thirty and made himself start over more slowly, he felt Derek moving, and then a soft touch on the side of his throat. A kiss, he realized, when Derek's lips dragged along his jugular and Derek lapped gently at the spot just under his jaw.

Stiles made himself breathe in and out, tilting his head a little to give Derek access. He did trust Derek. He was willing to show his throat. He was willing to show his dick, too, he thought, but he had butterflies in his stomach now, because, oh God, he'd never done this before even if his body kind of seemed to think he had. Time travel was seriously fucked up.

"Good," Derek said softly, maybe to some easing of Stiles's posture or scent or heartbeat that he himself wasn't even aware of. Derek's hand was in the middle of Stiles's back, and he said between soft presses of his lips to the side of Stiles's throat, "I want you to let me lead. You don't have to stay still, but I want you to let me take care of you. Let me show you what you like. Don't worry about what you don't know or haven't done. I know it's your first time. Just tell me if you want to stop. Okay?"

Stiles swallowed and then nodded. Derek kept patiently dotting kisses against Stiles's throat until Stiles relaxed his hands, running them in tentative strokes over Derek's back. Derek let him go with that for a while, and then Derek's hands settled on his hips and pushed him gently back a step toward the bed.

"Lie down," Derek said.

Stiles realized he still had his eyes clenched shut and opened them to meet Derek's patient gaze.

"You're not going to try to tell me that dry humping counts as losing my virginity, are you? Because honestly I would take it but it would be kind of a letdown. I figured werewolves would--"

Derek's hands were suddenly framing Stiles's face, holding him steady for a firm kiss. Stiles nearly bit Derek's tongue, because he was still talking, and he kind of did choke on spit. Derek just kept kissing him until it worked, and then pulled back when Stiles was getting into it.

"What did I just say," Derek said, not really making it a question. Stiles's heart thumped a little faster at how much he sounded like Stiles's own wearily exasperated Derek.

"Uh, to trust you and let you lead, but I'm just saying, if you're going to go easy, you don't--"

This time Derek just clamped his hand over Stiles's mouth.

"Do you want to take your clothes off?" Derek asked. "Will that convince you that we're going to have real enough sex?"

"You too," Stiles insisted into Derek's hand, even as the realization that he was about to get naked with Derek made his heart and the butterflies in his stomach all beat faster. A weird chill raced over his skin.

Derek rolled his eyes, but he said, "Okay. Take your clothes off, then. And then lie down."

Stiles nodded quickly, and when Derek took his hands away and took a step back, Stiles yanked his shirt up and off before he could think about it. He shoved his pajama pants down the next second, and he looked for Derek as he kicked them away, making it a little tada movement, showing off a naked body that Derek must have seen hundreds of times--but Stiles had never shown it to him before. He'd never seen Derek seeing him naked.

Derek was standing just out of reach. He had his pants open, but he looked like he'd gotten distracted before he could actually take them off. He was just standing there, one hand in the opening of his jeans covering his dick. He was staring at Stiles with a look Stiles couldn't read.

"Uh," Stiles said, and did nervous spirit fingers to distract himself from wanting to put his hands over his crotch and/or lunge at Derek. "Hi?"

Derek huffed a nearly silent laugh. He sounded hoarse and distracted when he said, "Hi."

His gaze didn't make it anywhere near Stiles's eyes.


"You're--God, you really are seventeen," Derek said, shaking his head. "You're so--"

Stiles did lower his hands, then. "If you don't want--"

Derek did meet Stiles's gaze then, smiling enough to show his teeth as he shoved his jeans down and stepped out of them. He was wearing only black boxer-briefs now, and the bulge of Derek's hard cock underneath was obvious. "That's not what I said."

"Oh," Stiles said, and he couldn't get the breath to say anything more than that, because Derek wanted him. Wanted him, seventeen-year-old hapless virgin him, not just the grownup version who had had the guts to jump Derek and then lock that down. "Okay, um."

Stiles backed up until his legs were against the foot of the bed. Derek followed, shoving his jeans down and stepping out of them, and then Stiles was staring at Derek Hale's dick.

It was a reassuringly normal-looking dick, neither porn-star huge nor porn-star hairless. Derek was uncut and hard, and his normal-sized dick stuck up, slightly curving, from a bush of curly black hair, the foreskin drawing back. It looked thick, but Stiles was pretty sure he could close his fingers around it--could get a satisfying portion of it into his mouth, or into--

"You're going to fuck me, right?" Stiles blurted, dragging his eyes up from Derek's dick to his face to find him looking back with his eyebrows raised. "I mean, that's the truly definitive act of devirginizing, right, if you want to mark your territory and--"

Derek took a step forward, and Stiles's gaze dropped right back to Derek's dick, which was now nearly touching Stiles's dick. Stiles wanted it, in a specific and definite way. He wanted Derek to fuck him, wanted to know how that felt, wanted to be opened up and filled and--

Derek's hands were on Stiles's face, tilting his chin up so that he looked Derek in the eye. Derek was smiling again.

"We can do that," Derek said patiently. "If that's what you want."

Stiles tried to nod frantically, but Derek held him still for a kiss, and then Stiles grabbed at Derek, letting his hands slide down to Derek's hips--naked, naked hips. He kissed back enthusiastically.

"I'll make sure you have a good time," Derek promised, in a low, dark voice, when he let Stiles up for air. "I know exactly how you like it."

Stiles made a totally involuntary noise at that, as much a reflex as the jerk of his dick.

Derek laughed a little, and the sound could have been deliberately tuned to run down Stiles's spine and straight to his balls. "God, it'll be easy. You're going to be so easy for me, aren't you? You're seventeen, you've never been touched. I'll bet I could get you off without laying a hand on you at all."

Stiles dug his fingertips into Derek's hips as he bit down on his lip, not making a sound this time. He was as hard as he'd ever been in his life, trying desperately not to give in to the impulse to just rut against Derek until he came.

"I can smell it," Derek murmured, and contrary to what he said he did put a hand on Stiles, brushing a palm shiver-lightly down the side of his ass cheek. "I can almost taste it, it's so thick in the air. And your heart's beating so fast now. I can hear you trying to hold your breath so you won't moan. I can hear all the little noises you want to make and choke back."

Stiles let his mouth fall open, panting openly. His hips hitched, waving his dick through the air, but Derek shifted away just enough that they didn't touch more than Stiles's grip on him and Derek's open-handed touch ghosting up and down Stiles's side. Stiles could feel the heat of Derek's hand barely touching him, which seemed kind of strange considering how fever-hot every inch of his skin felt. But Derek was, as ever, hotter.

"I could definitely get you off just with kissing," Derek continued, tilting his head so that their mouths nearly brushed as he spoke and Stiles gasped for breath. "That wouldn't be a challenge at all. I know every single way to make you come, I've done things to you you've never even imagined--"

Stiles's imagination tried valiantly to beat that paradox and whited out, crashing like an overheated computer as he came with a groan like a wounded moose. Derek finally actually touched his naked skin to hold him up as Stiles jizzed all over both of them.

"Dammit, Derek," Stiles panted, letting his forehead drop to Derek's shoulder. "If you try to get out of fucking me now--"

"Oh, no," Derek said, and shoved Stiles--somehow gently, following him down--onto the bed. He melted into the mattress and stared up at Derek, bracing himself above Stiles and showing him a toothy, feral smile. "Didn't I tell you, I know how you like it?"

Derek's fingers brushed over Stiles's sticky-wet, softening dick--Stiles whimpered again as his dick twitched--and then Derek had his other hand on Stiles's thigh, pushing it up and out so that Derek could rub come-wet fingers over Stiles's asshole.

Stiles had no idea how to describe the noise he made at that, except that it made Derek's grin go wider.

"You like it when I talk," Derek said, and Stiles should have known Derek was doing that on purpose. Why else would he say that many words in a row? "And once in a while, on special occasions, you really, really like getting fucked after you've already come once. Your first time is a special occasion, isn't it?"

"Fuck yeah," Stiles managed, because Derek's fingers, just teasing at his hole, were already sending white-hot bursts of sensation through him, too much to even categorize as pleasure or pain or anything but feeling.

"Or we can be done now," Derek added, shifting his weight a little and taking his fingers away from Stiles's ass. "I'm the first person to get you off, that's--that's plenty, if--"

"What did I just say," Stiles huffed, parroting back Derek's words and doing his best to shove his ass up against Derek's fingers.

Derek's wicked grin turned honestly happy, and he lowered himself over Stiles for a fast, wet kiss.

"Lube, then," Derek said, and pushed away from Stiles to yank open the nightstand drawer. Stiles didn't remember keeping lube there, but--time travel. Derek was back in a blink, holding up a little bottle and grinning.

Stiles grinned back, helpfully spreading his legs wider. This was it. He was gonna get deflowered for fucking real by Derek fucking Hale.

When Derek's fingers touched his ass again, they were dripping-wet and slippery, and he could feel the coolness of the lube contrasting with the heat of Derek's touch, and the jolting burst of pleasure as Derek pressed against him. Stiles's breath caught.

Holy shit, he was about to get fucked for the first time. By Derek Hale.

"Stiles," Derek said, and Stiles realized that he had to open his eyes.

Derek's fingers didn't move away from his hole, but Stiles could see that look on Derek's face.

Derek's lips twitched at whatever face Stiles was making, and Derek said, "If it gets to be the bad kind of overwhelming, tell me to slow down. We can take as long as you need, okay?"

Stiles took a breath and said, "Okay," and that was the last coherent word he even thought for a while, because Derek's finger pushed into him in one smooth, sure movement and Stiles's whole body jerked at the burst of sensation. Derek didn't back off, just started working that finger inside him, circling it to press against his rim, working against the overstimulated clench of Stiles's body. Stiles was vaguely aware that Derek was opening him up, not even trying to make it feel especially good, but Stiles thought he might be able to feel every ridge of Derek's fingerprints, let alone the press of each knuckle, and he was making little rhythmic whimpering noises by the time Derek got a second finger, and another squirt of cool lube, into him.

He was dimly aware that the burning stretch of it was a different sensation from the constant barrage of pleasure that stole his breath and whited out his brain, but it was all happening together. It went straight to his dick along with Derek's breathless voice whispering, "God, you're so tight, all brand new, you'll never be just like this again."

Derek stretched him further, pushing a third finger into him, and Stiles could hear the wet sound of Derek's fingers sliding in and out of him over his own breathing. He grabbed at Derek, getting a hand on the back of his neck and one on his shoulder, and Derek bent down over him to kiss him but his fingers never stopped moving, opening Stiles up, getting him ready.

Stiles made pleading noises into Derek's mouth, wanting more, wanting to get to the real thing, wanting to finish this because it was already more than he was sure he could take. His heart was possibly about to explode against his ribs and his dick was definitely hard again, aching with need, and he wanted more, wanted to take this too far and be shattered by it.

"Okay," Derek said, and Stiles maybe sobbed at the sudden emptiness of his ass and abandonment of his mouth all at once. But he hadn't even gotten to the end of that loud, helpless sound before Derek was pushing into him, lighting up nerve endings he didn't know he had. Stiles thought maybe he was talking, but he couldn't listen to himself. He couldn't look, couldn't do anything but feel Derek inside him, stretching him open and making him shake. Stiles's dick rubbed against his belly when Derek was all the way inside him and it was too much, too many things. Stiles pushed against Derek, wanting more, more, all of it, everything.

He had no idea how long it went on. There was a part where Derek peppered his face with kisses, and a part where Derek kissed his open, gasping mouth, Derek's tongue flicking in and out in time with Stiles's heaving breaths. There was a part where Stiles dug his fingernails into Derek's back and his wordless babbling sounded furious. Eventually there was the part where Derek's voice was clear in his ear, saying, "Mine, mine, all mine," in time to the short hard jabs of Derek's cock in his ass. Stiles opened his eyes to watch Derek come, felt the swelling pulse of Derek's dick as he finished.

Almost before he'd stopped, his cock still inside, Derek wrapped his hand around Stiles's dick, and that was it. Stiles came again a black-out rush that left him so limp he could barely remember to breathe when it was over.

He made a high, short noise as Derek pulled out of him. Derek rolled him over onto his side and spooned up behind him as he said, "Not the fastest way to knock you out, but very, very effective."

Stiles made a noise that might have been agreement--it was true, he was almost asleep already--but he remembered to say, "You're gonna tell me what's going on, right?"

"At breakfast," Derek agreed, and Stiles let his eyes stay closed this time.

Stiles was not all the way awake--pretty sure he was dreaming, actually--when Derek bodily moved him out of bed and took him to the shower. He washed on autopilot, blinking at the familiar tile and listening while Derek brushed his teeth.

Derek said, "Breakfast when you come down," as he left, and Stiles remembered.

Breakfast. Derek was going to tell him at breakfast. Stiles was time-traveling--he had amnesia--he was time-traveling--Derek was going to explain. At breakfast.

Also Derek had fucked him last night. Stiles grinned hugely and shifted the focus of his automatic washing to areas that had never needed this much attention before.

There were clothes waiting for him on the counter when he got out. Stiles put them on hurriedly, not thinking about why Derek had brought them in here for him rather than let him dig through his own dresser drawers.

He could smell bacon when he opened the bathroom door, and he raced down to the kitchen.

Derek was standing at the stove, cooking what looked like an entire package of bacon. He was shirtless, but Stiles supposed minor grease burns were nothing to a werewolf. There was pancake batter on the counter, the griddle sizzling in readiness. A mug of coffee, a glass of juice, and various pancake toppings were already set out on the table.

"Oh my god, I change my mind," Stiles said. "I love you now."

Derek looked over his shoulder and smiled, but it was a small, controlled thing. Stiles abruptly noticed that it was still dark out.

"I love you too. Drink up," Derek said. "Juice first, you need your vitamins."

Stiles rolled his eyes but didn't argue, sitting down gingerly and picking up the juice glass. Derek shifted sideways, pouring pancake batter while still tending the bacon. Stiles enjoyed the scenery while he chugged down the orange juice and then picked up his--milky, sweetened--coffee to drink.

He hadn't gotten too far before Derek set down a plate with a stack of pancakes and a mountain of bacon. Stiles piled on chocolate chips and blackberry jam and syrup and dug in, alternating sweet-gooey bites with perfectly crispy slices of bacon. Derek refilled his juice, and then his coffee, and then set down another whole plate of food in front of him. Stiles looked up in the middle of fixing the new stack of pancakes to see that Derek had a plate for himself and was sitting down across from him to eat.

"You gonna tell now?" Stiles asked, catching a blackberry-and-chocolate dribble on the back of his hand and licking it away.

Derek put peanut butter on his pancakes, as it turned out. He spread it neatly on each one, then drizzled not nearly enough syrup on top. He said evenly, "It really is a kind of time travel."

Stiles stared for a second, long enough to make Derek look up and say, "Keep eating. You need the calories. It's a lot of strain on your body."

Stiles looked down at the bacon, and glanced out at the darkness again. He crammed another piece dutifully into his mouth with one hand, making a get on with it gesture at Derek with the other.

"We were--you're twenty-four now," Derek said. "And you've been working with Deaton and on your own. You're--do you know the word emissary yet? A guide for the pack, usually magically skilled."

Stiles nodded comprehension. It sounded right. It could fit. That could be the place he found, the way he learned to be a part of the pack for real, in the long run.

"We were in a bad situation," Derek said. There was a finality in those words that Stiles knew meant Derek wasn't going to elaborate on that. "It was looking bad, worse than--worse than the things you remember. We didn't see any way out. But you knew there had to be a way, and there had to be a way to find out what that way was. You invented this spell, to allow you to see the future without suffering the costs that usually entails."

Stiles swallowed hard.

"It's all about balance," Derek said. "During the day you--you remember the future, like you've traveled back from it. The first day, you told us how to solve the problem we were in the middle of and we thought that was it, you'd done it. But that night the balance came. You forgot. Just a year or so--it almost seemed like nothing. If I hadn't been watching you for effects I'd just have thought you were tired. Forgetful."

In the kitchen light, Stiles thought the little lines around Derek's eyes might not be laugh lines after all.

"You should eat too," Stiles said softly, and Derek nodded and cut himself a bite of pancakes. Stiles kept eating, thinking it out, but he didn't say anything before Derek picked up the explanation again.

"It didn't stop. The next day, you remembered another future, further forward, and the next night, you fell further back. Every day, every night, you land here from some other time, further forward, further back. Just for a minute when the sun rises and when the sun sets, you're the one who made this spell. So far you've been too disoriented to tell us how to make it stop, or whether it will. Most days you're busy running around fixing things that might happen or seeing people to remember to eat or rest. And in the night you're confused, too. The last two nights you--you were really upset. You didn't sleep well. And all the power to keep this going is coming from you. It's wearing you out. You collapsed during the day yesterday and slept right through the sunset."

Stiles stared at Derek. It must be like watching Stiles disappear into a kind of dementia. Stiles's body was the one Derek knew--Stiles looked down squarely at his own left hand, with the pale line showing where his wedding ring should be, and the scars he didn't remember--but the guy inside was never the one Derek was waiting for.

Stiles looked at the windows again. The sky was blue now, not black.

"He'll be back soon," Stiles said softly.

Derek ducked his head, staring down at his food. "It's always you, Stiles. You're always...."

Stiles didn't actually see it--the kitchen windows faced the wrong way--but he felt the sunrise arrive. Light seemed to pour over him as memory rushed in, and he blurted the thing he'd been too late to say every other time, the thing he'd slept through his chance to say last night.

"Sevens, Derek! It's sevens, seven days and seven nights."

Derek looked up, face blank with surprise for a moment and then he said around a dawning smile, "That was the seventh night."

Stiles grinned, glancing around his dad's kitchen--weirdly clean, apart from the breakfast stuff still arrayed around the stove--and then settled his gaze on Derek again. He looked tireder than he had at the last sunrise Stiles remembered, but he was safe and whole, which meant this week had been worth it. A hundred of these weeks would have been worth it. "I should be done, then."

Derek grinned back, and came around the table to give him a maple-peanut-butter flavored kiss. Stiles wrinkled his nose but kissed back enthusiastically until he was out of breath and then for a little longer.

Derek broke away. He looked at the window and looked back to Stiles.

"Still me," Stiles said, face aching with his smile. "Still here."

"Thank God," Derek muttered, kissing him again. "I'd've had to let Scott spend the night with you next, you wouldn't have known me anymore."

"I always know you," Stiles insisted, and then wrinkled his nose again and looked down at his plate. "Oh my God, what are you feeding me?"

Derek laughed and tugged his plate over, and let Stiles finish his pancakes for him.