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Derek was going to kill him.
He’d gotten himself captured yet again. This time, it was faeries—“We’re fae!”—and they weren’t joshing around. Listen, it wasn’t his fault, really, it wasn’t. He thought that if he could somehow come up with a peace treaty with the faeries without Derek knowing, then—maybe, just maybe—Derek would consider making him the pack emissary.
Well, it didn’t work out that way.
Immediately on arrival, even though he clearly indicated that he was coming as a messenger, they grabbed him and shoved him into their makeshift tree prison. At least they kept his arms untied, not that he could get out anyway; the entire place was reeking of magic and not the kind that Stiles could manipulate.
Stiles groaned, beginning to feel a bruise forming on his bum. “That’s going to hurt for a few days,” he mumbled.
Placing his hands on the rough ground, he fumbled around in the dark, trying to get a feel for it, often running his fingers over twigs, branches and leaves. When his hands hit something vaguely familiar and instantaneously, he grasped it with his hands, registering it as his phone.
“Oh, please, please, still have some life in you,” he muttered, smacking the phone on his hands when the screen didn’t light up.
“Thank God,” he exhaled. The bright light caught him off guard when it shone in the pitch black of the room.
His phone screen was filled with notifications, some from the local pizza place telling him that his coupon was going to expire, but most from his pack. They’d texted and called him plenty of times in the last couple hours; Stiles was certain it was because he hadn’t bothered them in a while—especially since he was on research duty.
He squeezed his eyes tightly. Stiles knew that they were going to give him such disappointed looks while Lydia and Scott, the perfect guilt-tripping duo, stared him down and used their favourite ‘Stiles, we’re not mad, just upset’ tone with him. Derek would probably just glare from his spot, arms crossed and brows furrowed.
Fuck.
Derek. He needed to tell Derek where he was, asap, before Derek lets the entire pack, his dad and—who knows—the hunters out looking for him.
Scrolling down until he found Derek’s contact, he quickly typed up a message.
Stiles [1:48 am]: So, I may have gotten kidnapped. By faeries. I may have gotten kidnapped by faeries, though they refuse to refer to themselves as that … Anyways, I think I’m in the forest, so maybe get your wolfy ass up here? Maybe? Please … save me.
Derek might accidentally start a war in his haste.
Stiles [1:48 am]: Also, be polite-ish. Don’t start a war. Actually, it might be too late.
If they kidnapped him, it essentially meant that they were—in a not so Stiles-friendly way—indicating their distaste for the pack. Sigh. It always happened like this.
Regardless, it was time to play the waiting game.
He looked around, scolding himself for getting stuck in this situation. Eventually, he stopped pretending like he could see past the darkness of the room. He really should’ve brought back up. He was going to get into so much shit from the pack.
Fuck, they were never going to let him go out alone ever again.
He was going to be on lockdown until he was ninety. But then again, that meant more pack sleepovers—and Stiles was always down for puppy piles—and more dinners, and wow, more Derek. The more Derek in his life the better.
His phone vibrated.
My Sourwolf [1:50 am]: It is too late.
My Sourwolf [1:50 am]: I’m committing for you.
Stiles felt his ears go red and his face spread into a grin. Derek probably made a mistake, but it still felt nice to imagine Derek being serious about their relationship.
Stiles [1:50 am]: Is this your way of saying you love me?
My Sourwolf [1:50 am]: I meant coming*. I am pissed. Don’t try to distract me.
Stiles sucked in a quick breath. Yep, Derek was mad. He was so getting a talking to when he got home. But he deserved it; he’d begun to think that maybe shouldn’t have gone alone. On the other hand, Derek was going to come get him—with the pack, of course—but Derek Hale was going to come for him.
Stiles [1:51 am]: I mean … you’re the one who is bringing up sexy times. ;) But fiiiiineeee, I’ll wait here quietly. Jk. I’ll just wait here.
He shouldn’t be feeling so giddy. Honestly, he really shouldn’t.
He leaned his head back against the hard oak, closing his eyes. This whole getting-yourself-into-shit thing was taking a lot more out of him than he expected. He’s built quite a tolerance to it, though, if that was any consolation. After all, he’s been known to have a few run-ins with different species of the supernatural.
He tried to stop thinking, to stop his heart from beating quickly, attempting to control himself before accidentally alarming the incoming pack.
It took a whole of thirty minutes of mentally berating himself before the little door of his enchanted prison in the tree burst open. Derek stood in all his glory, his expression going from grumpy to relieved in mere moments. Stiles shakily stood up, rushing forward towards Derek the moment he felt his legs work.
Nuzzling his face into Derek’s throat, he took in Derek’s sharp smell, basking in the warmth he felt. Why he ever left Derek’s embrace was a mystery to him. He pressed his nose tight against the juncture between Derek’s neck and his shoulders; Stiles softly brushed his lips to Derek’s skin.
“I’m sorry,” his voice came out muffled, slightly cracking.
“I know.”
Stiles closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t realize how afraid he was. “No, I’m really sorry, sourwolf.”
Derek sighed. “I know, but we’ll talk when we go home, okay?”
He knew that at the end of the day, Derek would run through the entire universe to find him, to protect him. But he also knew that no matter what, Derek would risk his entire life looking for his idiot boyfriend, who—for the life of him—could not seem to be able to stay put.
Stiles pulled back, knowing that all that waited for him were hours of angry yelling, frustration and a review of ‘how not to get yourself killed, Stiles!’
Derek, in turn, moved to cross his arms—his signature move—and raised his eyebrows. Stiles couldn’t look away from his eyes, both worried and annoyed at the same time.
“No,” Stiles interjected, shaking his head. “If we don’t talk about it now, we both know that we’re never going to talk about it. It’s our thing, Derek. We always do this.”
Derek voice was soft, albeit angry, “No. You always do this.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, “Do what? Try and do something that you guys never take the initiative to do?”
“Stiles, we take time and precautions. You waltz into a dangerous situation without even telling anyone!” Derek exclaimed, frustration oozing out of his words.
“I try to make progress! If it wasn’t for me, nothing would get done. We would have no treaties, not as many enem—“
“You keep getting yourself kidnapped!” Derek snapped.
Stiles snarled, “I do it for you. I do it for us. I do it for the fucking pack! Without me, you guys wouldn’t be able to get anything done!” This little discussion was escalating a lot faster than Stiles expected and both of their voices were rising.
“And we appreciate it, don’t we, Stiles? Do we ever ask for you to go and do something absolutely ridiculous like this? Your pack is currently fighting magical entities who could probably burn them to a crisp to save your ass. What are you even trying to prove?”
“That I’m useful!” Stiles blurted out.
Stiles froze. He hadn’t expected to say anything, really. He just wanted to make a point—to win an argument.
Derek, his eyes wide, looked shocked. “Do you really think you have to prove yourself?”
“Well—I mean—kind of? Not really. I just … I want to be more useful.” There was no point in keeping it a secret any longer. Not that it really was a secret since Stiles took every opportunity possible to remind Derek of what he really wanted. “I want to be your emissary.”
Sighing, Derek brought his fingers up to Stiles face, caressing it slightly. He brushed his fingers over Stiles’ cheek. “You could’ve talked to me about this. We could’ve discussed it. I would never refuse anything from you, Stiles.”
“But … I thought you said that emissaries were a risk? That they were too dangerous and held too much power over the pack. That you hated them,” Stiles mentioned, his eyes caught in Derek’s gaze. He leaned into his boyfriend’s warm hand.
“Yes, but so is a pack. They’re out there right now, putting themselves in danger. But that doesn’t change anything. I wouldn’t have refused them,” Derek corrected him. “We’re a pack, and we talk things through.
Stiles smiled. Derek Hale was a big ol’ softie.
“After all, how do you think you get away with so much shit that you pull?”
Stiles mockingly frowned. “Um, sorry, more like I put up with a lot of your growly crap. Do you know the amount of times that you’ve glared at Isaac for swiping your credit card for more scarves?”
“I don’t do that, Stiles.” Derek moved closer to him, one hand wrapped around Stiles waist and the other finding itself on the back on Stiles’ neck, pulling him closer.
“Yes, you do.”
He could feel Derek’s breath ghosting on his lips when he said, “Nope. I give you all whatever you want.”
“Can’t argue with that. That you do, you softwolf.”
Their lips brushed against each other as they spoke, eyes daring one another to look away. If anyone told him that in a few years’ time, Stiles Stilinski would be dreamily looking into Derek Hale’s eyes, he would’ve quite easily reminded them of how out of his league Derek was. But now, Stiles could see his entire future with Derek.
Stiles leaned forward, languidly kissing him, sucking on Derek’s top lip. He sometimes yearned for these moments; he ached for the quiet, passing minutes where Derek and he held each other close, barely remembering what they had to do while their lips chased after one another.
“I love you,” Derek whispered.
“And I love you.”
He pulled back from Stiles, turning around before Stiles could take a good look at his face. Stiles leaned forward in a quick hurry, intertwining their fingers together before stepping in synch with Derek’s footsteps out of the makeshift prison and out past where the pack stood victorious, muttering among themselves (Jackson in particular crying about this ungodly hour of the night, into the Camaro.
Stiles couldn’t remember when he fell asleep and when he got home. But he could remember the smell of Derek’s leather jacket surrounding him and a warm hand in his own. He could remember a soft kiss on the top of his head.
Derek wasn’t going to kill him, not when he couldn’t live without Stiles.