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Confessions of a Gangly Ganymede

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Stiles is used to werewolves deciding to visit him in the dead of night. He’s started setting out his pajamas before he goes to bed in order to be less embarrassed when he’s awakened by a pissed-off sourwolf/lovesick best friend/various other pack members who have decided that Stiles is their mother, not their friend. He will never again be caught in his My Little Pony boxers (and Scott can go suck it, because that show rocks and Stiles is using it for supernatural research anyway, duh).

 

So he’s used to werewolves gatecrashing his bedroom. He can handle that. What he’s not used to is a werewolf that uses the door.

 

The doorbell rings and Stiles looks up from his research show just as Discord sends the rainbow ponies into his elaborate maze of emotional disharmony (which is totally probably going to come up in the future, so there Scott). His dad has a key and isn’t supposed to be back until late anyway, and he’s fairly sure everyone else he knows would have crawled in through his upstairs window.

 

He sighs and pauses the show, rocking to his feet and making sure that he looks at least somewhat respectable, at least for a teenage boy on a Saturday afternoon. It’s probably a deputy dropping something off for his father, so he’s not too worried. They’ve seen him looking more slovenly, and his dad still got his job back.

 

“Sorry, The Sheriff’s not in right… now…” He trails off when this statement receives a bland smile from the man on the other side of the door. The blind man.

 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you’re not here selling Thin Mints.” Stiles mutters. The man smiles beatifically at him.

 

“An American phenomenon, I fear.” Stiles nods, even though Deucalion can’t see it.

 

“Right. I bet you’re more of a Hobnobs and Jaffa Cakes type of guy.” The image of the Alpha of alphas indulging in British snack biscuits almost makes Stiles crack up. His growing panic at the surreal situation doesn’t help. Thank God Deucalion can’t see the hysteric smile twitching at his lips. “Sorry, but I’m fresh out. I think the supermarket has Aero bars though.” Hint hint, nudge nudge.

 

Deucalion hums thoughtfully.

 

“I’d have thought your father would have taught you better manners, Genim. Don’t you know you’re supposed to invite guests inside?” Stiles laughs, a nervous little bubble of incredulity.

 

“Yeah, see, he’s also the sheriff, so the first and most important lesson he instilled in me is: Stranger Danger. Which means no inviting suspicious werewolves into the house.”

 

“But we’re hardly strangers, now are we? Not after I know so much about you and your wonderful father. Such as his work shifts, and how many shots he has before his gun runs out of bullets. Not enough to stop a werewolf, in case you were wondering.” He adds neutrally, and Stiles grits his teeth against the sick rising in his throat.

 

“What do you want?” He croaks, because he’s not dumb enough to tell the wolf to go to hell after a statement like that, even though he really wants to. Deucalion’s smile widens.

 

“Show me the manners your woefully underprepared father taught you, Genim. Impress me.” Stiles closes his eyes, swallows against the scream bubbling up. Deep breath.

 

“Please, come in. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, my lifeblood?” Okay, so he’s unable to completely cut the sass, but this is his version of polite, so Deucalion can suck it. The werewolf looks rather amused.

 

“While the last sounds delicious, I’m abstaining for the moment. Tea would be lovely, however. Thank you, Genim.”

 

“Stiles.” Stiles tells him shortly. Deucalion raises a pale brow. “It’s Stiles. No one calls me Genim.”

 

“And yet.” Deucalion returns. Well, what do you say to that? Other than ‘Wow, you’re more of a bastard than Derek is’.

 

“Right. Tea.” He hesitates, looking at the tall man quite easily standing in the front hallway as if he owns the place, stick idle at his side. “Um, are you just going to stand there? Or do you want to, uh—“ Not come to the kitchen. “—sit down? On the couch?”

 

“Why thank you, Genim. How considerate. I’m afraid I’ll need some assistance getting to the location in question, however. My affliction does not serve me well in unfamiliar environments.”

 

“Oh, sorry.” Stiles blurts out before he can stop himself, feeling like a heel for being insensitive. Then he realizes that while blind, Deucalion is the leader of a bunch of backstabbing, bloodthirsty alphas. He can probably find his own way to the couch, and this is just another power play. He wants to take the sorry back, but then he thinks of his father and says instead, “Uh, how do we do this?” Deucalion offers a crooked arm.

 

“Lead on, Genim, and no misguided detours. I’d hate to become cross with you.” So much for tripping him over the coffee table and hoping he breaks his werewolfy neck.

 

“Not as much as I would.” He mutters, ignoring Deucalion’s light chuckle and taking the man’s elbow gingerly. He feels a bit like he’s escorting a fair maiden to the dance floor with this position, except really, really not because Deucalion’s tall and super-terrifying. Sort of like Lydia in high heels, actually, so the fair maiden thing stands.

 

He gets Deucalion to the couch without any mishaps, and when the man’s knees nudge the leather, Stiles lets go without asking, taking a preemptive step back in case his leading job was unsatisfactory.

 

“So. Tea. Just… stay there. Please.” He adds because he’s supposed to be being polite, and then he pretty much flees to the kitchen. He spends the next few minutes while the water boils wondering what flavor of tea a super-alpha is the most likely to enjoy. Is English Breakfast or Darjeeling less offensive? And why didn’t he think ahead and stock wolfsbane tea before now?

 

Finally the kettle whistles, and he pours the water and settles sugar and milk on the tray, feeling like a housewife. He’s used to doing this for his dad if he’s sick or for his birthday, a nice little coffee caddy to get him going in the morning, but he’s never set up a tea tray for a legitimate enemy before.

 

The mugs are chipped and don’t match at all, but somehow he doesn’t think Deucalion will notice.

 

Deucalion is settled on the couch, though he looks up when he hears Stiles approach and delicately scents the air.

 

“Earl Grey. An excellent choice—one of my favorites.” Of course he has in-depth opinions on tea. God, could he try being less stereotypically British? Still…

 

“Me too.” Stiles says, a little shocked by the fact that they have something in common. He’d thought that Deucalion drank only the blood of his victims, or alpha juice (extra pulp) or something. “Um, would you like sugar or milk?”

 

“Just a splash of milk, yes.” Stiles adds a small amount of milk and passes the mug over, making sure to brush the handle of the mug against Deucalion’s fingers. The man accepts the cup with an easy smile, and Stiles creates his own masterpiece, settling in on the armchair at the side of the table. “Four lumps of sugar? Has your tea congealed yet?” Right, super-alpha hearing bolstered by the fact that his other senses are probably stronger to compensate for his lack of sight.

 

Stiles adds another cube, stirring with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary.

 

“Mmm, like liquid love—warm and sweet and good with cookies.” He declares. “Speaking of, would you like a cookie—oh, you call them biscuits, don’t you? Oh, but what do you call biscuits then? Like biscuits and gravy? This is like the whole fries/chips/crisps debate, I guess. We should really just have a meeting and work these things out, and probably switch to metric while we’re at it.” There is a brief moment of horror after his motormouth finally runs out of stupid fuel. He’s pretty sure he’s about to be gutted with a teaspoon—his own teaspoon, and how embarrassing is that.

 

“Hmm. I heard that you have an extraordinary ability to ignore all survival instincts, but I admit I wasn’t fully convinced until now. A biscuit would be wonderful. Did you bake them yourself?” Stiles nods numbly.

 

“Low sugar oatmeal raisin. For my dad. Whose life you’re threatening.” He says flatly, handing the man a delightfully chewy cookie, once again letting it brush just barely against the man’s fingers before he lets go. Deucalion hums and nods, taking a delicate bite.

 

“You’re surprisingly talented, Genim.” He takes another sip of bitter tea to wash the cookie down. “And really, don’t get so upset; a warning is only dangerous if you don’t heed it.” Stiles snorts, putting down his mug in case he needs to bolt.

 

“And your warning is, what? I get that you’re threatening my dad, which is really uncool by the way because he has nothing to do with any of this and he’s a good man, but I mean, what do you want? How do I ‘heed’ this really sucky ‘warning’?” Deucalion’s smile widens just a smidge.

 

“Nothing you’d find distasteful, I assure you. A few simple favors among allies, and of course your silence on said favors with your… pack? They do consider you a member, do they not? Despite your fragility.” He adds somewhat breezily, and Stiles tenses.

 

“Yeah, I’m pack. And they’ll know that I’m lying. Werewolf ninja mojo, remember?” Deucalion shrugs.

 

“I’m rather more powerful than you can currently comprehend, Genim. Covering my scent from the prying senses of your companions is hardly a challenge.” Right, this ‘Demon Wolf, Destroyer of Worlds’, isn’t it? Stiles bites back a snicker by taking another quick sip of tea. “I doubt you can lie convincingly, but unless they ask you specifically if you have had tea with me in the recent past, no lying will be required. Merely a tactful omission of the truth, for everyone’s benefit.”

 

“An omission of the truth…? Damn, you really are a super villain. Do they have, like, a correspondence course where you guys get all your lines?”

 

“Funny.” Deucalion states, although he’s not laughing. “You are a rather amusing human, Genim Stilinski.  Perhaps your ‘pack’ keeps you around as the comic relief.” Stiles really wants to punch him, but he knows that his fist would never reach those stupid tinted glasses.

 

“Someone needs to be. Have you met Derek Hale? Not the most ‘ha-ha’ guy on the planet. Besides, I’m the Giles.” Deucalion raises an eyebrow questioningly.

 

“Would that make Derek your Buffy?” Stiles is unsure which one surprises him more, that Deucalion is making a joke or that he’s apparently watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Heard, whatever.

 

“Um, ew. No, he’s more like Angel, right? All broody and moody. And then Lydia’s like Willow, what with the red hair and the magic, and Scott’s like a mix of Xander and Buffy because he’s a goofball who kicks serious ass. And then Isaac’s… Oz? Maybe. He’s a scruffy werewolf, anyway. And you’re, like, the Master. Except better-looking and British.”

 

Oh. It’s times like these he wishes Derek had followed through on his many threats to rip out Stiles’ throat with his teeth.

 

Deucalion doesn’t look surprised or offended, however. He just nods agreeably.

 

“And you’re the Giles. I suppose that means you’ve been doing research on the Darach, then.” It’s not a question. Stiles is unsure if that means he’s expecting an answer.

 

“Uh, I guess.” Stiles says, awkwardly, not wanting to give away any information that might give Derek and Scott a leg up on the Alpha Pack. “Doesn’t really like you, huh? What did you do to piss a dark druid off?” He asks, partly to turn the conversation back on Deucalion and partly because he really, really wants to know. Deucalion smiles enigmatically.

 

“Oh, this and that.” He says noncommittally. “I don’t suppose your pet druid has any insight on the Darach’s identity?”

 

“Pet druid—you mean Deaton?” Deucalion just looks at him, and Stiles snorts. “Yeah, sorry pal. If your master plan is to pump me for information, it’s not going to work, because no one tells me anything. Least of all Deaton.”  The man is like Scott’s unofficial father, and he doesn’t tell Scott half of what he should until Scott’s already connected all the dots. And, seriously, no offence to Scotty-boy, but that takes a fucking long time that could have been better spent solving the problem.

 

He doesn’t say any of this to Deucalion, because the man still gives him the eerie feeling that he’s under Veritaserum and his Miranda rights at the same time; the truth keeps bubbling up despite his best efforts, but everything he says can and will be used against him.

 

“Pity. Well, I’m sure you’ll keep an ear out, won’t you?” Stiles scoffs, because this is really too much.

 

“Um, no. I am not going to sell out my friends to you just because you asked nicely—oh, which, by the way, you didn’t. And I thought we just covered that no one tells me anything.” Deucalion smirks.

 

“Then it shouldn’t try your morals to keep an ear out.”

 

“God you’re annoying with your Jedi mind tricks.” Stiles says, and then, “More tea?” Because if it’s keeping his dad out of harm’s way, he’s going to be the best damn host he can be. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

 

“Lovely.”

 


 

 

“Could you please tell Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to lay off? People are starting to get suspicious who haven’t even heard the word ‘werewolf’ outside of Twilight.”

 

He shoves a cup of tea, just a splash of milk, into the hand of Deucalion, and brushes against his other arm with more gentleness than his tone indicates. He may be pissed, but he’s not stupid. Deucalion offers his arm like a cultured gent and takes a brief sip of tea.

 

“Perfect. How did you know I was coming?” Stiles sighs, taking his arm and leading him to the sofa where the tea tray waits.

 

“Friday afternoon, school’s out, and I know you’ve heard about all the hijinks your twin act’s been up to. I figured you’d want to hear how the pack’s taking it. Not well, incidentally.” He considers. “Although, is a prank war all you’re aiming for here? Because I’m cool with that, although you probably should have mentioned that to Derek before you started telling him to kill people. Unless that was your prank, in which case—yeah. You should probably look into getting your sense of humor fixed sometime.”

 

“I’ll take it under advisement. And I am deeply displeased by the actions of my two youngest, I assure you. I had hoped that they’d learned proper restraint, but it appears more discipline is necessary. Hmm, are those chocolate chip?” His change of subject could give a lesser man whiplash.

 

“Yeah. Dark chocolate chip like the depths of your soul—thought you’d like that.” He presses a cookie into the waiting man’s hand and takes a sip of his own tea. “I got to say, I’m not really sure what you’re aiming at here. I mean, you’re successfully pissing people off, but that can’t be what your whole evil plan is. I mean, both Derek and Scott have, at separate times, confided that you’ve pressured them to kill each other—and me, in Derek’s case, so thanks for that—which makes, like, no sense. I mean, okay, I get you have this weird club for alphas who have killed their packs, so Derek makes sense, but Scott… Why Scott?” Deucalion says nothing, taking a polite sip of tea instead. Stiles sighs explosively. “Right. Well, neither of them are going to do it, so it’s a moot point.”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure. None of my pack members said yes at first, when I offered them power. They all said yes in the end, though, and your pack will fall like all the others.” Deucalion pauses. “I never said you had to die, Genim. I said Derek had to kill his pack in order to gain the power necessary to ascend to the Alpha Pack; your death is not compulsory.”

 

“Um, pack member here? Like, since the beginning?” Deucalion sighs.

 

“Even if your fantasy of being part of Derek’s pack was reality, he still wouldn’t have to kill you. The ceremony requires the death of all werewolf members, and allows the alpha in question to absorb their life energy and powers and become something better than he has been. Your death would bring no benefit.”

 

Stiles swallows against the lump in his throat, working past the flashing images of Scott, Isaac, Boyd, all lying in a pool of blood as Derek’s eyes glow red.

 

“You can’t think I’d just stand back and watch my friends die.” He whispers hoarsely. Deucalion leans forward, smile thin and sharp.

 

“Your friends will die, Genim, whether you stand back or not. The only choice you have is whether you will die with them, for no reason but your own pride.”

 

They finish their tea in silence, after that.

 


 

 

“Peter Hale offered you the bite. You refused. Why?” Stiles almost chokes on his bite of scone, washing it down with a swig of too-hot tea and scalding his tongue.

 

“What—how did you even know about that? Did Peter tell you?” He wonders if Peter’s stuck playing host to Deucalion as well, and the image is justifiably amusing. Deucalion smiles.

 

“Ah, so it is true. A shot in the dark, but then I’m very good at those.” He gestures self-deprecatingly to his shaded glasses. Stiles curses his loose lips. “Why did you refuse, Genim?” Stiles snorts.

 

“Have you met the guy? He’d also just mauled the girl I had a crush on since third grade, and was forcing me to betray my best friend, so I wasn’t well disposed towards him at the time.” 

 

“Accepting the bite would have given you the power you needed for your revenge.” Deucalion reasons, setting down his tea on the table. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“Geez, this whole revenge thing… is it, like, a werewolf code? Because first Peter, then Derek, and now you…” When Deucalion doesn’t respond, Stiles deflates, sighing. “No, I… I wanted revenge then, maybe. But Lydia came out of it, and it’s not my place to get revenge for her. She’s perfectly capable on her own. And besides, Peter, he’s gotten… better. Still a creeper, but he’s not as crazy as he was before. You can see it, in his eyes.” The first few times Stiles had slipped up and made a ‘seeing’ comment, he’d flinched and twitched and waited for Deucalion to end his meager existence. When the Alpha had shown no reaction—save a faint smile a few times at his reaction—Stiles had relaxed.

 

“Would you accept the bite if someone else offered?” Deucalion asks, tapping one elongated claw against the ceramic of his mug, his gaze heavy on Stiles. The man can’t even gaze, how does he fucking do that?! He swallows, licking his lips against the nervousness bubbling up.

 

“No.” He fairly croaks, and Deucalion’s lips turn up.

 

“Liar.” He says, the voice full of indolent amusement. Stiles lets out a shaky breath.

 

“Peter said so too, but I’m not. Being a wolf would be… it would be everything I want. But. It’s not what the people I love need right now, and it’s not what I need either. One day, though, when this is all settled, and Beacon Hills is a little less of a tourist trap for the supernatural? I’d think about it. I do think about it. Just… not now.”

 

Deucalion laughs, a cold, bitter sound. Stiles shivers.

 

“Oh, Genim, there is only ‘now’ to a wolf, and what it wants.”

 


 

 

“You reek of gasoline.” Stiles chuckles hollowly, shuffling away from the open door as Deucalion steps inside. “Why?”

 

“Probably because my best friend just tried to burn himself alive, and—“

 

“You stupid boy, you tried to stop him, didn’t you.” Deucalion mutters, swooping in and smelling where the smell lingers most strongly in Stiles’s hair. Stiles jerks back, but Deucalion’s hand snags his wrist in an iron grip and tugs him back. “He could have killed you.” The man says, low and neutral. Stiles swallows.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, he could have. There was wolfsbane in a whistle; every time it was blown, all the wolves got dosed. By the time we stopped to rest—God. It was horrible. Boyd tried to drown himself. And Ethan…” 

 

“Ethan?” Deucalion asks, a strange note in his voice. “What about Ethan?” Stiles blinks up at him.

 

“Well, he was hallucinating, thought there was something under his skin. Tried to get it out with a power saw.” He shivers as he remembers how close he’d been to said saw. “Almost ended up offing me instead. What, he didn’t tell you?” 

 

“The wolfsbane I was informed of. The fact that he almost took a power to saw to himself and you… well. And you ran right over after this and doused yourself in gasoline in order to save Scott, didn’t you?” His voice is harsh, and Stiles flinches.

 

“Well, yeah. Not ‘doused’, but, I mean, Scott’s my best friend.”

 

“And Ethan? Why did you save him? We’re your enemies, aren’t we?” Stiles blinks.

 

“Well, uh, Ethan doesn’t seem that bad, actually. He’s an egotistical little prick, yeah, but this is high school—so’s half the population. Plus Danny likes him. And you’re not my enemy. We’re on different sides, but we’re not enemies.” They have tea together every few days and discuss Stiles’s biscuit recipes. They can’t be… He feels a little vulnerable saying it, and Deucalion’s expression looks carved in cold stone. “Are we?”

 

The man releases his wrist, turning away sharply.

 

“Well, this has been a pleasant talk. Please bathe, Genim, and remove the stench from your skin before we meet again.”

 

And then the man is gone. Stiles looks after him, and wonders what he’s done wrong.

 

He notices the bruises around his wrist, where Deucalion held him, in the shower. They last a week, until he sees Deucalion again, and even though he knows the man can’t see them, he still feels the extra layer of satisfaction in the man’s smile like another mark on his skin.

 


 

 

Stiles doesn’t answer the door. Instead he tugs off his tie and goes up to his room. Dad’s out again, still talking to some of the other families, but Stiles had cried sick and gone home early.

 

He certainly feels sick enough.

 

He rips off his jacket and kicks off his shoes, tearing his wrinkled white shirt out of where it’s been tucked in so neatly into his trousers. Then he collapses on his bed and cries.

 

He doesn’t hear Deucalion come in.

 

“Genim.” He says, voice quiet in the still room. Stiles stiffens and curls further into himself, away from that voice. “Genim, look at me.” A weight settles on the bed, a hand ghosts across his back. Stiles shivers. He wants to lean back into that hand; he wants to rip it away.

 

“How could you?” He whispers, voice hoarse. “Why Boyd? Why Erica?” Their names are like brands on his heart, burning and aching.

 

“Oh, Genim.” Deucalion sighs. “I could because I can.” He says, simply, and doesn’t that make it all the worse?

 

“You’re…” A monster, he wants to say, but he can’t force the words out, because Derek killed Ennis and nothing’s right anymore, and he’s never liked this eye –for-an-eye business because it…

 

Leaves the whole world blind, doesn’t it, and who knows that better than Deucalion?

 

Stiles sits up abruptly, turning to glare at the man through red-rimmed eyes.

 

“They were my friends.” He whispers, as though that makes a difference, and somehow it does, because Deucalion’s face softens.

 

“I know.” He says, and leans forward, runs his hand again down Stiles’ back. This time the boy falls forward, against a firm chest. He balls his hands in the silky fabric of Deucalion’s shirt and buries his face against the steady heartbeat he finds, and cries until there are no tears left. Deucalion’s arms are steady and warm around him, one hand gliding over his back and shoulders in soothing circles and the other one buried in the soft, short hair at his neck.

 

Finally Stiles lies against him, exhausted and wan. The fingers at his neck are stroking now, such a calming motion, and he finds his eyes fluttering closed. He makes a sound that might be a sigh or another aborted sob and turns his head so his ear is directly over Deucalion’s heart. Steady and slow, sure and safe.

 

“Are you going to kill me too?” He asks sleepily, and he thinks at the moment he might not even fight back. He’s too fatigued, too emotionally and physically worn. His own hands have relaxed, curled around Deucalion’s shoulders instead of ruining his shirt.

 

The skillful fingers pause only for a moment.

 

“Not tonight, Genim.” Which shouldn’t be so reassuring, but he’s buried two of his friends and he’s fine with just a night. It’s more than either of them will have.

 

“Stay?” He asks, because he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts and guilt and strangling doubt that he’s not meant for this, not at all—

 

“Yes.” Deucalion says, simply, as though this has been his plan all along. Maybe it has. “Sleep, Genim. I will watch over you.”

 

The fingers carding through his hair are claws now, but he doesn’t mind; they still soothe. He smiles up at Deucalion and curls closer, breaths evening out as his exhaustion catches up to him.  Deucalion tilts his face down at Stiles, frown mild and expectant.

 

“Thank you.” He murmurs, and Deucalion’s frown deepens. It’s the last thing Stiles sees before he falls asleep, and he wishes it had been a smile instead.

 


 

 

“You have… Braille playing cards.” Deucalion says, slowly, feeling over the bumps and ridges of the cards slowly as Stiles beams at him across the table.

 

“Aren’t they great? Amazon literally has everything. And now we don’t just have to sit here in broody silence when we run out of things to snark at each other!” He adds brightly. “So, Go Fish, Uno, Crazy Eights, or poker?”

 

Deucalion watches him, eyebrow inching further and further above his tinted glasses.

 

“You want me to play cards with you?” Stiles nods.

 

“I’m thinking, there’s no way you get enough relaxation time with running an alpha pack, right? So some tea, some delicious nibbles, and a few good rounds of cards among frenemies—what could be better, yeah?” Deucalion cocks his head to the side.

 

“You bought these for me. Can you even read Braille?” Stiles snorts.

 

“Duh. It’d be pretty dumb to buy Braille cards if I couldn’t play with them. Don’t look so forbidding, it didn’t take too long and the only other thing I had to do was my homework since no one’s telling me anything about the Darach or letting me help, so…” He trails off, shrugging and forcing a grin even though Deucalion can’t see it. “I figure we can also play chess by feel, so I got a set of that too, used but in good condition. I sort of suck right now but I’m willing to practice, and you totally seem like a chess guy to me.” He nods sagely.

 

He stops when the hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he swears that Deucalion is watching him. He stares back, but there’s no change in expression, only a mildly bemused smile and unreadable tinted glasses. He guesses that telling a blind man to stop staring at him is probably a little rude.

 

“Chess.” He repeats, a little flatly. Stiles pouts at him.

 

“Oh, come on, dude. You’ve got to like chess. You’re all cerebral and Machiavellian. Chess is your game, man.” Deucalion’s brows furrow now, and his frown is thoughtful. “Or not?” Stiles adds, worried he’s offended the man.

 

“I… used to play chess quite a bit. I haven’t played, I believe, since I lost my sight.” Oh. So, probably bringing up some bad memories there. Stupid, Stiles. “If you would indulge me, Genim, I think I’d enjoy a game.”

 

There’s a little smile, skeptical and secret, at the corner of his mouth and makes Stiles incredibly warm.

 

“Right. White or black? Oh, why am I even asking? Black, right?” Stiles says, pulling out the board. Deucalion’s smile widens as he runs his thin fingers over the pieces, feeling them out. Stiles groans at the familiarity he shows with the pieces, even after so long away from them. “Okay, we are so playing poker after this. I have a feeling I’m going to need to regain my honor.”

 

“White moves first.” Deucalion tells him, smiling, and it feels like a challenge.

 


 

 

“Okay, come with me.” Stiles says, grabbing Deucalion’s elbow and leading him.

 

“This isn’t the way to the couch, Genim.” Deucalion chides him. “What did I tell you about detours?” Stiles scoffs.

 

“This isn’t a detour, it’s a change of destination. Besides, you know the way to my room, so it’s not like it’s a crazy change. Mega disturbing, by the way, that you know the way to my room.” He adds, but without much heat.

 

“And why, may I ask, are we going to your room?” Deucalion asks politely, sidestepping the fact that he knows how to get to Stiles’ bedroom blind in a matter of seconds. Stiles conveniently ignores the fact that this means he doesn’t really have to lead Deucalion there. He doesn’t want to be sure why.

 

“We’re going to my room because that’s where my bed is.” Stiles tells him.

 

Deucalion stops walking.

 

“Oh, not like that, you berk.” Stiles wails, realizing the way his words can be taken. “I just meant so that you can use my bed. To sleep. You look sort of like a zombie-werewolf hybrid, and Casa de Stilinski only opens for one kind of supernatural creature, thank you very much.”

 

Deucalion has not started walking again. He’s watching Stiles with an unreadable look on his face.

 

“You’re inviting me into your bedroom?” He asks, voice as inscrutable as his stupid face. Stiles blushes.

 

“Well, yeah, to sleep. Besides, what are you, a vampire? You didn’t need an invite last time.” He remembers falling asleep in Deucalion’s arms, tear tracks down his face, and waking to his form being tucked under the covers and his nasty post-breakdown face washed clean of tears and mucus. He’s pretty sure his dad didn’t do that.

 

When Deucalion says nothing, Stiles tugs his arm.

 

“Yes, you asinine alpha, I’m inviting you into my room. Do you need an engraved invitation? Now come on, before you keel over in the hallway.”

 

Deucalion relents. When Stiles has shut the door behind him, Deucalion is sitting on the bed, face turned towards Stiles.

 

“Did you know that in packs, inviting a werewolf into your private den is an intimate sign of trust?” The man asks airily. His fingers are kneading the comforter and sheets, sharp claws out and making little pinprick holes. Stiles tries to imagine explaining those holes to his dad. Attacked by needle-wielding mice? Indoor, miniscule meteor shower?

“Okay.” Stiles tells him simply. “I think I can trust you not to kill me while you’re wolf-napping in my bed, yeah.” When Deucalion doesn’t move, Stiles walks past him to his computer, flicking his ear on the way.

 

“Night night, super wolf.”

 

He refuses to let himself turn around, but after what feels like forever he hears the creak of the bedsprings, the rustle of sheets, and he smiles.

 

Right, time to find out more about mistletoe, and not in the fun way.

 


 

 

“You can take those glasses off, you know.” Stiles tells Deucalion as the man gets settled in bed. Honestly, Stiles isn’t quite sure how his bed has become the inn of the alpha alpha when he wants some shut-eye, but the man’s looking less peaky each time he comes, so Stiles is okay with it. Enemy of thine enemy and all that, and the Darach’s hitting closer and closer to home every day.

 

Plus Deucalion’s fun to talk to and sucks at Go Fish (he seems so surprised every time he loses, and Stiles can’t stop laughing), and there’s something irritably likeable about the man that keeps Stiles from running screaming to Derek. And there’s really been no urging him to betray his pack’s trust; Deucalion asks him every time he comes who the Darach is, Stiles says it’s Dwayne Johnson, Deucalion doesn’t laugh at the genius of Stiles’ wit, and they go on with their day. It’s kind of nice.

 

Deucalion still hasn’t answered.

 

 “I mean, they can’t be comfortable to sleep in.” Stiles tries.

 

This causes Deucalion to smirk a bit bitterly.

 

“I wouldn’t subject you to the sight.” He says, and Stiles is a little taken aback by the honest anger in that voice, and not towards Stiles.

 

“Uh, dude, it’s fine. I’m pretty sure I won’t care.” He’s seen a lot of icky things recently in his Beacon Hills life, including bisected bodies, guts not where guts should be, and all sorts of fun with wolfsbane and mountain ash. He thinks he can handle the innocuous sight of the blind man.

 

Deucalion scoffs. Stiles scoffs back.

 

Finally the man reaches up and removes the glasses with a sharp tug. Bloodshot, milky eyes glare in Stiles’ direction with eerie accuracy. Stiles sucks in a breath. He’s not horrified, not at all, but those eyes look like they hurt. He feels a pang of sympathy. The eyes are strong though, and he’s sure his sympathy would not be well-received.

 

They are the eyes of an alpha, despite it all, and the milky sheen reminds Stiles of a full moon. A blood moon.

 

“Happy?” Deucalion snaps, glasses held tight in his hand, tight enough to snap even if he were human. Stiles stands from his chair and leans in, slides his fingers along Deucalion’s until they’re touching the glasses, tugs then from the iron grip.

 

“Ecstatic.” He whispers, placing the glasses gently on the side table. “You should keep them off more often. I like your eyes.” Why does he even bother talking? It just leads to embarrassing episodes like this.

 

Deucalion says nothing, but ‘watches’ Stiles, a hint of fang in his frown.

 

Stiles turns away, flushing, but he can still feel the prickle on the back of his neck. Deucalion can’t see him, but he certainly seems to see through him.

 

It’s a good thing Stiles isn’t lying.

 


 

 

Stiles wakes up in the hospital. There are wires running out of his arms, IVs and monitors and all sorts of fun things, and he feels like he’s been shot a few too many times.

 

Oddly enough, he hasn’t been shot a few too many times. That would sort of be situation normal. This, on the other hand, is fucking embarrassing.

 

He turns his head and sees a veritable garden of bouquets, made of flowers and fruit and candy and cookies (thank you, Scott), and more stuffed animals than he’s admitted to having since he was four.

 

He smiles.

 

“Almost missed you. You blend right in with all the teddy bears.” He croaks. The shadowy figure detaches from the wall and stalks towards his bed.

 

Deucalion does not look happy.

 

“You need to stop this, lo--Genim.” Stiles grins at him, reclining on his pillows.

 

“Lo-Genim? Is that a British thing?” He teases. When Deucalion just glowers, he sighs. “Stop what? Being awesome?”

 

“Almost getting yourself killed due to the idiocy of those curs you call pack.” Deucalion spits, looking more angry than Stiles has ever seen him. The boy looks away, upset.

 

“No one was an idiot except me. And I’ll work on it.” And who needs mother hen werewolves on top of Darachs and alpha packs? “I just lost track of time.” And forgot to eat and sleep until he’d collapsed and had to be driven to hospital. God. “It’s not like I have much time to waste on rest anyway.” Food is never a waste, especially curly fries. Damn, he is so getting curly fries when he gets out of here.

 

“You would, if you would just step aside and let me do what I came here to do.” Deucalion hisses, a looming figure over Stiles’ prone form. Stiles flinches.

 

“No. God, how can you even say that?”

 

“Because you’re not supposed to die.” Deucalion snaps. “I haven’t marked you for death.” Stiles blinks angrily.

 

“You haven’t marked me? Like you have with all my friends? That’s magnanimous of you, but I got to tell you, I’m going to pass. They’re my friends, Deucalion, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that they survive, even if it means skipping a few meals or a few hours of sleep to help find that missing piece that might help--

There is a hand around his throat, stopping his words. Not tight enough to stop his breath, but hard enough to make exhaling difficult, and speech impossible.

 

“No. No, that is unacceptable. You are not supposed to die, Genim. I can’t let you. Do you know why?”

 

Stiles shakes his head as much as he can, mute with fear and anticipation and shock. Deucalion’s hot breath washes across his face as he leans in, close enough to taste.

 

“Because you, Genim Stilinski, are mine, and your life and your death belong to me.”  

 

The hand around his neck tightens painfully, then retracts, and Deucalion is gone.

 

Stiles pants, trying to regain his lost breath and calm his heartbeat back to normal, alone in the dark room.

 

You are mine.

 


 

 

“Holy—get in here, you idiot. Why haven’t you gone to the hospital? Or werewolf hospital, whatever, just—Upstairs, I have a first aid kit.” He lifts Deucalion’s less injured arm and hoists it over his shoulder, helping the man up the stairs. Deucalion is breathing heavily, a wet sound. Lung injury then, hopefully one that will resolve itself because no way Band-Aids are going to cover this.

 

“Right, okay, on the bed. I’ll just—don’t die, okay?” Stiles tells him haltingly, depositing him on the bed and watching as too much blood soaks his sheets too quickly. “God.” He hurries to get his special beefed up werewolf first aid kit.

 

Deucalion is still breathing when he gets back, but it’s a worrying rattle. Stiles bites his lip.

 

“Okay, I’m going to start cleaning some of them. Uh, this is going to sting.” He adds lamely, before he picks up the bottle that Dr. Deaton gave him. Alcohol infused with all sorts of druid-y, magic herbs, good for what ails you. Hopefully.

 

Deucalion doesn’t scream, which does him credit. At the first touch of the damp cloth, he sucks in a harsh breath, tenses, then forcibly relaxes again. Stiles forces himself to continue working.

 

Somewhere along the way he realizes that he’s talking while he works, little babbling sentences that have nothing to do with anything, little things. ‘There you go’, ‘you’re doing so well’, ‘just a little more and you can rest’, and most damningly, over and over, ‘I’d take this pain away if I could.’ But he’s not a werewolf and he can’t, so he grits his teeth, watches Deucalion do the same, and keeps cleaning.

 

As one hand gently presses and cleanses the worst wounds, the other alights on unbroken skin wherever it can, light touches meant to soothe and reassure. He’s done it with Scott and Isaac when they’re hurt (pack), but not with Derek and certainly never with Deucalion. He can’t take the pain away, but he can balance it with comfort.

 

Slowly, achingly slowly, Deucalion’s breathing softens and eases. He’s still panting, but his inhales are smooth and his exhales dry. Good. His worst wounds are knitting together too, slower than Stiles would like, but the blood oozes rather than flows and what more than Stiles ask than that? He promises to thank Deaton as soon as he can (and get as much more of the tincture as he can too). .

 

Finally he wraps the lagging wounds in gauze, an unnecessary gesture but one that makes him feel better. He doesn’t want to see the red and pink of torn flesh, bared to the world and to further injury.

 

“There. So good, you did so good.” He whispers, helpless in his relief, running a hand through Deucalion’s sweat-soaked hair, slicking it back from his forehead. The man leans into it just a little, although Stiles is fairly sure he doesn’t know what he’s doing. “Be back.”

 

There’s still too much heat in his skin, even for a wolf. Stiles wets a cloth with cold water and returns to Deucalion’s side, wiping the sweat and blood from the man’s pain-tense face. When his fingers bump against the glasses, he sighs and goes to remove them.

 

A rumbling growl gives him pause. A painful grip on his wrist, claws breaking skin, stops him. He winces, but does not try to pull away. To do so when Deucalion is vulnerable and disoriented would be dangerous.

 

“Shh, it’s alright. Let me do this. Let me see those—“ Beautiful. “--eyes, okay? It’s just me, just… Genim.” He says, faltering on the use of his real name.

 

Deucalion breathes a ragged breath, hand tightening impossibly. Stiles holds back a whimper.

 

“Genim? Genim…” Deucalion’s face turns towards him, his hand loosening enough that Stiles could probably break free but not releasing. Stiles breathes out, flips his hand up so that he can entwine it with Deucalion’s, then drops the rag for a moment and slips the glasses off of Deucalion’s face.

 

Red eyes bore into his with startling, impossible accuracy. Pupils blown wide, Deucalion’s eyes are a lunar eclipse, all whiteredblack and they see too much for a blind man’s.

 

Stiles smiles at him, running his free hand from forehead down the aristocratic slope of nose, flitting over lips before cupping his stubble-rough cheek. He can’t see the smile, maybe, but he can feel it in Stiles’ touch.

 

“There you are.” He whispers, soppy grin indelible. “There you are.” He loves these eyes, he thinks, has never seen any like them and knows he never will.

 

Deucalion breathes out, slow and shaky, and turns his head so that his breath sparks across Stiles’ exposed wrist.

 

“Genim,” The man breathes against the fragile skin, and Stiles doesn’t move away, isn’t the least bit scared of a bite.

 

“Don’t scare me like that, okay super wolf?” Stiles chides him, rubbing his thumb over Deucalion’s cheek. “I’d miss you if you were gone.”

 

Deucalion’s smile curves against his wrist.

 

“Would you, love?”

 

Stiles feels hot, then cold, then too too hot again. ‘Love’? God, he knew Deucalion was British, but the pet name thing is new. He kind of likes it. He knows the man is delusional from blood loss and pain at the moment, but he still likes it.

 

“You know I would. I’m finally getting close to beating you in chess.” A laugh this time, low and hot huffed across his skin.

 

“Genim, you are abominable at chess. Sorry to say.” Stiles sticks his tongue out at him, even though Deucalion can’t see.

 

“Jerk.” His thumb still strokes gently, belying his words. “Why do you play with me then?”
 

Deucalion’s smile widens, warms, a touch of teeth against Stiles’ skin.

 

“Like to see you smile. Love seeing you smile.” 

 

Stiles blinks at him. He opens his mouth, closes it again when the even breathing of a sleeping alpha reaches him. Deucalion’s dropped off, and it’ll do him good.

 

Stiles wants to ask, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits and thinks of names (‘Lo-Genim’, ‘Genim’ and ‘Love’) and holds Deucalion’s hand until he drops off too.

 


 

 

He wakes to a hand running through his hair. Humming and reaching up to catch it with his own, he feels the sharp, deadly claws tickling against the delicate pads of his fingers.

 

Thought so. He doesn’t even open his eyes.

 

“Enjoying the view?” He says pointedly. The hand in his own twitches. “I wish I’d known; I would have been less goofy if I’d known you could see me.”

 

A breath.

 

“Only sometimes.” Deucalion tells him. Stiles nods.

 

“Another perk of being a wolf, I suppose.” He says thoughtfully, and then, “I’m glad.” He says, and realizes it’s true. He opens his eyes and smiles as brilliantly as he can, confident that Deucalion can see it.

 

Deucalion’s lips turn up too, and his eyes are half-lidded as he soaks in Stiles’ smile.

 

“Thank you for taking care of me, love.” Deucalion murmurs, and hoo boy, the pet names are here to stay. He curses as he realizes that Deucalion can totally see the shiver working down his spine.

 

Damn it. He curses himself. It’s just a British thing. Really. And eventually he’ll call Derek ‘love’ too and Derek’s  face will be the best thing ever, and I can stop being so stupid about this.

 

He shakes himself and pastes on another smile.

 

“No problem, super wolf. So, hunters or Darach?” Deucalion’s small smile thins even more.

 

“Hunters. Experienced men; I believe they used to run with Gerard Argent.” And there’s a certain hate in that tone, a savagery that has Stiles remembering that this isn’t just Deucalion, this is the leader of an alpha pack who has killed his own betas. Who has killed countless others.

 

And Stiles still doesn’t want to let go of his hand.

 

“Derek will want to know.” Stiles tells him honestly. Deucalion shrugs.

 

“Tell him if you like. The men aren’t in any position to mind the gossip.” A growl of sated rage, in those low words, and Stiles can’t say he’s too sorry about it.

 

“Good.” He says truthfully. “Anybody who’s buddy-buddy with Gerard is on my persona non grata list.” At Deucalion’s askance glance, he clarifies, “Got a few scars with his name on them.” He shudders as he remembers his time in the basement.

 

The hand in his own tightens, and Deucalion’s lips thin to something frightening, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. Stiles knows that Deucalion is feeling something close to bloodlust on his behalf. The thought shouldn’t warm him as it does.

 

“I should return to the others before they realize the cause of my absence.” Deucalion says, and that must suck, having to hide somewhere away from your pack every time you're hurt because you know they'd probably slit your throat while you were licking your wounds. "I really should." He’s not moving, still sprawled on Stiles’ bed like he belongs there. Stiles is pretty comfy too, although there looks like there might be room on the bed to share…

 

Shaking his thoughts away, he grins and stands, gently pulling his hand away.

 

“Pancakes before you go. Most important meal of the day.” He adds in a lecturing tone, then laughs and ducks the half-hearted claw that swipes at him. “Come on, you can help.”

 

And Deucalion does. It feels rather surreal, standing there in his kitchen in pajamas covering in old blood next to a bandaged alpha alpha, mixing up pancake batter and chatting about anything that comes to mind. Deucalion mostly listens, humming in answer or question now and again, but every once in a while he adds a snarky comment that brings a goofy grin to Stiles’ face before he snaps something lightheartedly back.

 

Deucalion’s still not wearing his glasses, and Stiles can watch the flash and the slight glow that comes to them as the werewolf enters wolf-mode so that he can measure the milk. It’s breathtaking, but not quite as breathtaking as the care Deucalion takes in making sure there is exactly one cup of milk in the measuring cup, as if an extra drop will detonate a bomb. It’s sort of cute, not that he’s ever going to tell the man. Instead he grins at the batter bowl and cracks another egg.

 

Deucalion likes powdered sugar and fruit on his pancakes, and Stiles wishes his father were so virtuous. He smothers his own cakes in enough butter and syrup to give a lesser man a coronary, and proceeds to get more of the syrup around his mouth than in it. Deucalion cuts his pancakes into precise little triangles and chews with care, and Stiles shovels food in his mouth like it’ll run away if he doesn’t.

 

They both drink Earl Grey tea.

 

Stiles hides his goofy grin behind the rim of his cup when Deucalion primly pops a strawberry into his mouth.

 

“So, do alpha packs have, like, alpha brunches or something? Or is breakfast a solitary ritual?”

 

“I don’t eat breakfast.” Deucalion says easily, spearing another fluffy bite of pancake. Stiles gapes at him.

 

“No. That is a crime. Breakfast food is the best! Omelets and waffles and sausage and bacon and hash browns—Okay, new rule. You are coming to eat breakfast with me at least once a week. Like, every… Friday. Put it on your calendar, save the date.”

 

Deucalion raises a pale brow at him.

 

“You want to cook me breakfast?” Stiles nods.

 

“Someone needs to. You’re probably all grumpy when you’re hypoglycemic; I’m doing the world a favor.”

 

Deucalion just continues to watch him, more blatantly now that he can, and Stiles ignores his rude staring and continues shoveling pancakes in his mouth. Deucalion never does say yes, just a brief, subdued goodbye as he makes his way to the door, stick in hand.

 

“Wait!” Stiles runs upstairs and down again, Deucalion’s glasses clutched in his hand. He offers them with a small, unsure smile.

 

“Just in case you don’t want to share how great your eyes are with anyone else.” Oh, and that sounded flirty and possessive, and Stiles should really just never talk again, especially to Deucalion.

 

The man takes the glasses, hand brushing against Stiles’ as he does. There’s no lightning bolt, no sudden epiphany. His hand is warm and solid and calloused, and as it touches him, Stiles thinks vaguely: Oh. I like this man.

 

Then Deucalion is pulling them from his limp fingers and turning to go.

 

Stiles blinks, considers his options, and still decides to set a second place at the breakfast table on Fridays.

 


 

 

He doesn’t make it to Friday. There’s a recital to honor the victims of the Darach, and then there’s a scream and a knife and Stiles can’t get in and the Sheriff, his father, is…

 

Gone.

 

And then everything’s a blur. They’ve got Jennifer—that fucking bitch—but she’s playing mind games and saying that as much as she’d love to help save Sheriff Stilinski and Cora, well, they’re going to have to bend over backwards and fuck themselves over before she actually will. Because there’s no way they can avoid the Alpha Pack, and there’s no way they can beat them, and Stiles wants to curl up and cry and call for his father.

He wonders if Deucalion’s here, giving orders, and then he hears the overhead announcing that Mr. Deucalion has Scott’s mom, and is asking them very nicely to hand over the Darach. And Stiles wants to, is sick with the want, to just turn over the dark druid to Deucalion and let him deal with her. Deucalion might even know where his father is.

 

When has he started trusted Deucalion more than he trusts his own pack? He sits in the back of an ambulance, Cora and Peter’s shallow breathing the only sound, and he wonders.

 

And then Isaac is there and everything is motion again and Stiles thinks Guardian, Mrs. McCall is a Guardian, and he’s running to find Scott, find someone who can help.

 

Deucalion’s on the roof, and Scott is going with him.

 

Stiles feels a little betrayed, and he’s not sure why. He knew this was Deucalion’s endgame, to get Scott on his side and to hell with the rest of them, but it still… it hurts. His father is missing and possibly dying and Deucalion’s still making deals and pulling power plays.

 

“Don’t go with him.” He whispers, because Scott is with Derek, he’s with Derek’s pack, and this will kill them. He’s the strongest of them, and if he falls, they’ll be lost. And Deucalion knows this.

Stiles watches the two of them walk away into the fog and it’s raining and there’s thunder and lightning but only in his head and he wants to scream, hit something, because there’s nothing he can do to stop either of them, in the end.

 

There’s no Plan B.

 


 

 

Chris Argent drives him home, and that is just the icing on the cake of his weird-ass day. Scott’s not next to him, a warm familiar presence; instead he has Allison and his thoughts and neither one is the best company right now.

 

They want him to stay over at their house, say he shouldn’t be alone, but Stiles holds firm until they relent and drop him at his empty, hollow house and tell him to call if he needs anything.

 

He needs his father. He doesn’t say that.

 

Deucalion is in his room, waiting. Stiles takes a swing at him before he can think better of it, and he’s lucky that Deucalion just catches his fist and pulls him in.

 

“You bastard. Why Scott?” He whispers, and he almost tries using his other hand to punch. Deucalion’s glasses are off and his eyes are glowing, roaming over Stiles’ face with care.

 

“I need him. He’s a True Alpha, one created based on their character rather than their conquests. He would be an invaluable member to my pack.”

 

“Oh? And would he have to kill his own pack first? Would you have him kill me? Because I’m his brother, werewolf or no, and I’m the closest thing he has to a pack.” Deucalion frowns, pulls him closer still, hand resting between Stiles’ shaking shoulder blades. He can’t tell if he’s angry or scared or just too tired to care.

 

“No, Genim.” He says, soft and quiet. “Scott will not be mistreated while he is among us. I want him to join us of his own free will. And he will not kill you.” Stiles swallows, barks out a hollow laugh.

 

“Right, I forgot. That’s your job, I remember. Yours to kill, right? That’s what you said in the hospital.” And the hand slides up to the back of his neck and squeezes, just hard enough to make Stiles stop talking and swallow again.

 

“Yes, Genim. You are mine to kill, and I am currently choosing not to do so.” Deucalion says, a low growl. “Do you remember what else I said in the hospital?” Stiles shakes his head slightly, his skin rubbing against the calloused skin of Deucalion’s hand and sending a shiver down his spine. “I told you that your life belongs to me too. And I take care of what belongs to me.”

 

Stiles squeaks, something like ‘Belong?!’ but he can’t get much more out without stuttering, so he just glares instead. It makes Deucalion chuckle, a fond smile alighting on his face.

 

“You should sleep, Genim. Scott and I will find Melissa and your father, I promise you.” Stiles blinks.

 

“Are you crazy? I’m not sleeping until my dad is here, in this house, in his pajamas.” Deucalion sighs.

 

“Genim—“

 

“No, I can help. I swear, I can help. I won’t get in the way, please Deucalion, you can’t just leave me here, I’ll never get to sleep worrying about my dad and Mrs. McCall and Scott and you—and yes I’d worry about you, so you can stop grinning so smugly at that and agree to let me come.” Deucalion’s smile doesn’t falter.

 

“Love, while I am sure your company would be delightful and I hate to worry you unduly, you are not joining me. Stay here, stay safe.” When Stiles opens his mouth to protest, Deucalion says more softly, “Genim.”

 

“I’ll stay safe.” Stiles grumbles, and they both know that means there’s no way he’s staying here and probably no way that he’s going to stay safe, really, but it’s a sort of lie between them that is less stressful than the truth.

 

They live in dangerous times, and they’re both too stubborn to stay out of the action.

 


 

 

He has just held up a collapsing magical Druid tree with nothing more than a baseball bat, saving the lives of his dad, two of his best friends, and two of his best friends’ parents.

 

He freaking rocks.

 

Mrs. McCall insists on getting stitches for the gash on his forehead courtesy of his baby (the poor girl has already been towed to a body shop, and she is getting the tune up of her life for serving Stiles so well, even if she did brain him) and while they’re there Scott’s talking and talking about his weird-ass fight with Jennifer and Derek and… Deucalion.

 

Stiles tries to hide his perked interest on that point, but when he hears that Deucalion killed Jennifer (no tears shed on this end) and has apparently regained his eyesight in some weird power play gone horribly wrong by Jennifer, he thinks he’s justifiably concerned.

 

“So where is he now? You didn’t kill him or anything, right?” Seeing Scott’s scandalized look, Stiles amends, “Fine. Derek didn’t kill him, right?”

 

Scott shakes his floppy puppy head.

 

“We decided to give him a second chance to rebuild his life on something other than power.” He says seriously and sagely, and Stiles has like one second of familial pride for how much his Scotty-boy’s grown up when he realizes that that cute little sentiment answered nothing at all.

 

“Okay, great, but where is he? Like, now?” And now Scott is giving him a bit of a funny look, and really Stiles is pushing his oh-so-innocent act, but Scott finally just shrugs and says,

 

“I don’t know. His head was pretty banged up though by Jennifer. He’s probably going somewhere where he can heal safely before he leaves. Like the woods or something.”

 

Or something. Stiles is suddenly very desperate to go back to his house. His father is staying for overnight observation for his knife wound (not infected, thank God, but still a fucking knife wound), and he’s already said goodnight and promised him decent coffee in the morning, so Stiles makes some half-assed excuses to the room at large and hightails it out of there as soon as he can wrangle a ride from Mr. Argent (still weird, that this is becoming his primary mode of transportation).

 

He hurries into his house and finds Deucalion exactly where Stiles thought he would be, ensconced on Stiles’ bed and watching the door. When Stiles comes in, he looks both relieved and a little wary.

 

Stiles doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise. Instead he’s swooping in and staring at Deucalion’s very blue eyes that are staring back and seeing him, no wolfy mojo required.

 

“Damn, you have fantastic eyes.” Stiles tells him honestly. “Both pairs, actually.” And Deucalion’s eyes flare pure red for just a moment, almost teasingly, before they fade back into the clear-water blue.

 

“Stitches?” Deucalion asks, one long finger running just below the contusion on Stiles’ head, and the boy chuckles a little self-deprecatingly.

 

“Ah, yeah, mea culpa there. I still managed to save the day for everyone in the cellar though.” He adds smugly, and Deucalion smiles indulgently at him.

 

“Of course you did. And now I suppose we are free once again to walk our own paths, wherever they may lead.” He sounds thoughtful and not exactly in a happy way, and Stiles prods,

 

“Do you have somewhere you want to go? Plans?” Deucalion sighs and shakes his head, eyes alighting with rueful humor, and Jesus, they really are fantastic eyes. Like, gorgeous, amazing, and every other good adjective applicable to eyes.

 

“None at all. I suppose I didn’t think I’d have a future, beyond the alpha pack. I see now that was rather…. short-sighted of me.” And he grins at the thought and Stiles rolls his eyes at the horrible humor. “I suppose I’ll see where the wind takes me.”

 

“Or.” Stiles says, without his mouth’s permission. “Or, you could, you know. Not do that.” Deucalion frowns at him.

 

“Pardon?” Stiles steps away, clears his throat, squares his shoulders, and looks back.

 

“You could stay here.” Immediately Deucalion’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, and he looks quite bemused.

 

“Here? I’m not sure that’s what Scott and Derek had in mind when they told me to start afresh.” Stiles shrugs a little awkwardly.

 

“Yeah, well, their fault for not being more specific. I mean, it makes sense, sort of. Beacon Hills is about to turn into a Hellmouth for all the things that go bump in the night, and we could use all the firepower we could get. You’re strong and smart, and apparently a pretty solid leader, and you could help. Like, a lot.” He shuffles his feet and gathers his courage. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

 

He doesn’t dare look at Deucalion, but he hears the soft sound of footfalls as the man approaches. A delicate finger gently lifts his chin so that he is forced to meet the light blue eyes of his… chummy acquaintance? Friend? Something more?

 

“Would you, Stiles? Is that really what you want?”

 

“Genim.” Stiles says instead of answering directly. “I want you to call me Genim.”

 

“No one else does.” Deucalion reminds him, and yeah, that’s true, and Stiles would probably punch them if they tried to start, but—

 

“No. You’re different.” Special, he doesn’t say, but he feels like Deucalion hears it anyway.

 

Deucalion watches him with a furrowed brow and seems to be searching for something in his eyes but Stiles has no idea what he’s looking for so he just stares back and tries to look convincing.

 

Deucalion’s lips are chapped against his own, almost too-warm and so gentle Stiles isn’t even sure they’re there until Deucalion is pulling back and watching his reaction.

 

Stiles feels more than a little stunned, but not in a bad way. Not in a bad way at all. He licks his lips and Deucalion smiles.

 

“Well, I suppose I could try to whip your slapdash pack into shape. Genim.” He finishes, the word heavy in his mouth with meaning and some great measure of affection. “Given the proper incentive, of course.”

 

Stiles nods a little numbly and blinks. Kiss. That was a kiss. Which, wow. Can he just say, wow?

 

That was a kiss, right?

 

“Yeah. Uh. Good plan. Um, was that…uh, kiss-like thing… like a werewolf equivalent of a handshake to seal a deal, or are more of those…kiss-like things… forthcoming? Just out of curiosity.”

 

A few minutes later a flushed Stiles is clinging to a smug-looking Deucalion from where he’s pinned against a wall, looking rather dazed but also rather happy.

 

“Right. Uh. Good answer. Very thorough.”

 

“Genim, love, I haven’t even started yet.” Deucalion answers, and his eyes glow red as he smiles.

 

And Stiles laughs, because Beacon Hills won’t know what hit it.