Chapter One

"You know," Stiles said as he leaned heavily on the pool table, watching as Lydia cheerfully decimated Scott, "You know who'd be really great at pool?" He reached sleepily for the pint of beer he'd placed on the edge of the table and would have sent it crashing to the floor if it weren't for Scott and his werewolf superpowers. "Thanks Scott!" he retrieved the glass from his friend, sloshing only a little on his shirt before managing to make mouth meet glass.

"Derek," Stiles continued. "I bet Derek would be really, really great at pool." Allison arched her perfectly shaped eyebrow at him before sharing what appeared to be a meaningful look with Scott. He would investigate that further, but later. Now, he wanted to finish his beer – and then maybe get another one.

When Lydia had presented them all with fake IDs for Allison's birthday, Stiles had been obsessively concerned that they'd wind up getting busted at a bar in Beacon Hills by his dad, so he'd made Scott drive them to the next town over. At first he hadn't been too impressed with the pub they landed in, a little local spot called Terry's. The chrome lighting could only make up for so much, and he'd barely choked down his first pint.

Stiles had never really liked beer. Whoever thought that drinking something that smelled and tasted like vomit was a good idea was sorely mistaken. Only it hadn't seemed so bad after his second glass, and now that he was working on his fourth he found it quite enjoyable. Plus, the warm, beer-buzzy feeling made him want to hug everyone.

"Why do you think Derek would be good at pool?" Lydia leaned over the table and effortlessly sunk the eight ball, making Scott groan in frustration.

"Hmm?" Stiles asked absently, his attention fixed on his hands where he was carefully sending a text to a contact named 'BigBadWolf'.

We are playing p ool. You should comeplay.

"Why," Lydia repeated indulgently, "do you think Derek would be such an excellent pool player?"

Stiles looked up from his phone and stared at her. "You've seen his arms, right? He's got arms like… like a freaking lumberjack." He'd never actually seen a lumberjack—did lumberjacks still exist?—but he bet they had arms just like Derek's. All big and burly and thick with muscle.

His phone vibrated in his hands and he blinked rapidly down at it, trying to focus on the words.

Where are you? Are you at a bar?

And then,

IS SCOTT WITH YOU?

Stiles glared down at the screen. There was no need for yelling. Really.

He took another long swallow of his beer, enjoying the cool slide of it down his throat, before typing a reply.

Yes scott. yes bar. TERRYS.

He could yell too. So there. Smirking, Stiles placed his now empty glass onto a nearby table and looked up to see Lydia staring at him.

"What?" He asked, defensively.

"Who are you texting?"

"Who am I texting? What, seriously?" Stiles rolled his eyes. "Derek. Obviously. So he can come beat you at pool." With his arms, he felt like adding, but maybe he'd said too much about Derek's arms. Or had he just thought too much about them? Whatever. He'd bet his shirt that Derek's giant arms would be a match for Lydia's giant brain.

With that, Stiles eyed his nearly empty glass and made his way towards the bar. He hoisted himself up onto one of the stools and slapped a hand down on the worn surface of the wood.

"Barkeep!" He called, grandly, and then beamed at the ancient looking man in a grimy sports jersey who was sitting beside him. He loved this place.

Thirty minutes later, Derek pulled into the parking lot of Terry's with a screech. He unbuckled his seat belt and was out the door in a blur of motion. He could see Scott's mom's car parked a couple spaces down and strode purposefully into the bar with a low growl.

The bar was so dimly lit that even with his keener-than-human senses it took his eyes a moment to adjust before they focused on Scott, standing at a pool table watching Lydia teach Allison how to play. He couldn't see Stiles and felt a momentary flash of concern.

It wasn't that Stiles was Derek's problem, exactly, but if Stiles got into trouble it was a sure bet Scott would be close behind. At least that's what Derek told himself, because there was no reason for him to be worried about Stiles. Except for right now, clearly, because four seventeen-year-old high school kids should not be in a bar on a Tuesday night. He would bet a great deal of money that Stiles had spearheaded the venture.

He began to head towards Scott when he caught a familiar whiff of scent. It was a particular scent that he only ever associated with Stiles, fragrant sweetness with a lick of heat, like a cinnamon heart. Head cocked and eyes narrowed, Derek sniffed inquiringly at the air until he found its source.

Stiles was leaning eagerly into the personal space of the man sitting beside him at the bar. By the looks of it, the man was getting very exasperated.

With a long-suffering sigh Derek changed course and made his way over to his wayward charge.

"…and most people don't even realize that Spike was originally supposed to die in season two," Stiles was saying, arms waving emphatically, "But what would Buffy have done if they didn't keep him around? She couldn't even have sex with Angel without him turning evil, which is terrible chemistry. I mean, think about it. But Spike was always evil. Their love was," He paused, eyes locked earnestly on the other man's. "Epic." And then he gave a loud yelp of surprise as Derek's large hand closed over the back of his neck.

"Sorry, sir," Derek placated the man, and diligently ignored Stiles squirming under his grip. "My kid brother's had a bit too much to drink. I'll get him out of your hair."

The man grunted something that might have been a thanks and turned back to his beer.

Derek tightened his hand around Stiles's nape, pressing closer to lever Stiles off his stool and marched him towards the pool table where the other three stood, looking guilty.

"You've settled up?" Derek fixed his eyes on Scott, who nodded. "Good. Outside. Now."

With Stiles still firmly held in front of him, Derek strode out of the bar. Lydia, Scott, and Allison trailed after him like ducklings.

Glancing around, Derek led them to where Scott's car was parked at the end of the lot. He finally released Stiles, and the boy opened his mouth to let Derek know exactly how he felt about being pulled out of the bar by the scruff of his neck, but Derek spoke before Stiles could form the protest.

"Scott, did you drink any of Allison's beer tonight? Or Lydia's?" He asked, with a quick glance at both girls. His voice was as rough as it always was, but the worried set of his jaw had Stiles swallowing the sarcastic comment he had finally decided upon.

"Um, no," Scott replied, puzzled. "I don't think so, anyway. I only had one drink. And why drinking their beer would be worse than drinking my own?"

"He didn't," Lydia spoke up. "Allison and I were both drinking raspberry ale—he would have noticed if he accidentally took a sip of ours."

"Okay." Stiles could feel Derek relax minutely beside him. "That's good," he said.

"What the hell then, man?" Stiles finally exclaimed, his arms flung out dramatically. "I invite you to Terry's to play some nice friendly," he emphasized the word, "pool, and you barge in like... like some sort of grumpy force of nature and drag us out to ask if Scott accidentally drank lady beer?" He pushed a finger into Derek's chest, barely making a dent in the firm muscle. "So what, because Scott's a werewolf now he has to be manly all the time? He has to drink Big Angry Man Beer like you?"

Derek blinked down at Stiles. "I—no. I don't care what kind of beer Scott drinks. Not," he added, glaring at Scott "That he should be drinking any beer when he's underage."

"Then why does it matter if I had some of Allison's?" Scott was beginning to sound annoyed as well.

Derek huffed, answering reluctantly. "There's been a… an incident. A pack was out at a bar and one of the female members had her drink spiked with GHB -"

"A date rape drug?" Lydia asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah, only her reaction was very different than it would've been if she were human. Instead of becoming sedated or compliant she became hyper aggressive. If it hadn't been for her Alpha noticing her eyes changing and getting her out before she completely turned, who knows how many people — how many humans — she could have hurt. As it was, she nearly crippled a member of her pack." Derek's mouth was a thin line of worry. "I can't ban you from drinking alcohol, Scott, since you still refuse to join my pack. But — for the safety of everyone around you — you should stick with bottled beer that you open yourself."

"Okay," Scott said, his face serious.

Stiles was so close to making a joke about someone trying to roofie a werewolf and winding up with a fanged and clawed very much not-victim. He actually opened his mouth to speak when the implications of what that would mean for a bunch of innocent bystanders hit him. Stiles felt slightly ill, remembering the time Scott had tried to kill him in his first few months of being a werewolf. Stiles knew how deadly an out-of-control werewolf could be and couldn't imagine what would happen if one of them wolfed out in the middle of a crowded bar. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he began to think he actually would be sick.

While the others continued to talk, Stiles lurched his way towards the back of the bar. If he did wind up puking up four pints of beer and several dozen chicken wings, he at least didn't want to do it in front of everyone. He still had some dignity left.

Once he'd rounded the corner, Stiles leaned against the cool brick of the wall, breathing deeply. He felt less like getting sick now, but the buzzy out-of-control sensation he'd been enjoying for most of the evening suddenly made him panicky. He shouldn't have had this much to drink — he shouldn't have had anything to drink. What if something had happened to Scott? What if someone—some spineless worm of an asshole—had slipped a date rape drug into Allison's drink and Scott had ingested it and started wolfing out? Stiles wouldn't have noticed Scott changing. There was no way. Half the night he'd been sitting at the bar. And even if he had seen Scott's eyes glowing their bright wolfish gold, Stiles wasn't sure he'd have been clear headed enough to get Scott the fuck out of the bar before he hurt someone.

Jesus Christ, what if Scott had wolfed out and hurt Allison? Stiles would never have forgiven himself. And Scott would never have forgiven him either.

Stiles' stomach gave a vicious lurch and suddenly he was on his knees, retching violently.

By the time his stomach had emptied up its entire contents, Stiles was weak and shaky. Pushing himself up off the ground with one hand, he used the other to wipe at the sweat that beaded on his brow. His mouth tasted sour and his eyes stung with tears, half from the force of heaving and half from self-disgust. All Stiles wanted to do in the entire world was to crawl directly into his own bed but, before he could, he would have to go out and face Scott and Allison and Lydia. Oh, god, and Derek.

Maybe if he were lucky Derek would've already left and there would only be his classmates left to mock his inability to hold his alcohol.

Stiles rubbed quickly at his eyes to destroy any trace of tears and took a deep, steadying breath before heading back around the corner to the parking lot, his usual shit-eating grin back on his face.

Stiles's grin faltered as he stepped into the parking lot and realized that Scott (and Allison, and Lydia) had disappeared. With the car. His eyes swept the parking lot a little desperately, hoping maybe he'd just forgotten where they'd parked, but nope. There were a couple beaten-up old trucks scattered close to the bar's entrance, and then there, at the other end of the parking lot, was Derek. The older man was leaning back against the side of his sleek black car and looking for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere else. Stiles could relate.

Slumping his shoulders in defeat, Stiles made his way across the parking lot towards Derek, muttering several unflattering things about Scott's parentage.

"So what, did you scare off my ride?" He asked once he got close enough. He could see Derek's lips quirk slightly which only made him scowl.

"I don't know why you'd want to ride home with someone whose father—"

"Ah, werewolf hearing. Right. Because that never gets old," he rolled his eyes. Despite the fact that he'd thrown up his last couple of beers, there was still enough alcohol in his system that Stiles knew he wouldn't be sober for a while yet. Now that Scott and the threat of him wolfing out was gone, though, Stiles kind of missed the giddy carelessness he'd felt earlier in the evening. Now he just felt thick-headed and irritable.

Derek pushed himself off the car and pulled open the passenger side door. "Come on, I'll take you home."

Stiles gave a curt nod of assent and slid into the seat. The interior of the car was dark, though the dash glowed with some sort of fancy sound system. He snapped on his seat belt and absently rubbed his fingers over the smooth leather of the seat.

"Why'd they go without me?" He asked as Derek pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He could see Derek glance over at him, but kept his eyes fixed on the dashboard.

"I told them to."

"Why?" He couldn't keep the hurt and anger out of his voice.

"Because I could hear you puking. Scott could too, but I figured you wouldn't want the girls to know." He glanced back over at Stiles, one eyebrow arched. "Especially Lydia."

Stiles flushed and glared out of the window. He'd had a massive and crippling crush on Lydia for as long as he could remember. Lately, though, he found himself thinking of her with a more brotherly affection. It was as though as soon as he knew her as a real person and not just his dream girl his feelings had begun to fade and shift into something different.

"You're welcome, by the way."

Stiles's glare darkened but he mumbled a 'thank you' anyway. He supposed it wasn't Derek's idea of a great night to have to drive his drunk—and probably reeking of vomit—ass home.

"Oh shit!" Stiles smacked a hand to his forehead and then found himself thrown into his seatbelt as Derek nearly swerved off the road. "Sorry, sorry!" He winced.

Derek turned his head once again to Stiles and glowered, his hands clenched tightly into fists on the steering wheel.

"Sorry," Stiles squirmed under the intensity of the older man's furious eyes. "I just remembered—you can't take me home. I told my dad I'd be staying over at Scott's and I can't, like cannot, go home drunk. Not if you ever want to see me alive again."

"What makes you think I want to see you again, alive or dead?" Derek asked dryly as he turned back to face the road.

"Just like, as the decent human—er, were-being—that you are. Most decent people don't want to see other people dead. It's like a thing." Stiles could tell that he was rambling, but the dull leaden feeling in his stomach had eased off. Something about Derek's presence, no matter how annoyed, made him relax.

"And what," Derek's grin flashed big and white in the darkness of the car, "Makes you think I'm decent?"

"Um," Stiles swallowed and tried desperately not to think of how indecent he'd like Derek to be. These relatively newfound feelings of pure and unadulterated lust were drastically different than what he'd felt towards Lydia. He could barely have envisioned kissing her. It felt too much like, well, not to go all Shakespearean, but, as though she was something far too beautiful for him to profane with his unworthiest hand.

Yeah. Stiles was the biggest dork in the world. And he was never going to get laid.

With Derek, on the other hand… Stiles had absolutely no trouble imagining Derek on his knees in front of him, his lips wrapped around Stiles's cock and—and he'd better stop this train of thought right now, because he could feel himself hardening in his jeans.

Glad that the darkness of the car hid his deep blush of mortification, Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat and forced himself to think of Coach wearing lingerie.

"You can stay at my place, if you can't go home." Derek sounded less than enthused.

"I'd say thanks—but I've seen your house, remember? Do you even own any furniture that's not, like, crispy?" As soon as he said it Stiles wished he could take it back. Probably not the best idea to remind the werewolf he'd be spending the night with about his dead family. He imagined how he'd feel if someone made a joke about his mom. "Sorry," he said hastily. "Sometimes my mouth moves before my brain has a chance to catch up. It's a problem. I'm working on it." He slunk down in his seat. He was beginning to wish this entire night hadn't happened. "You can just take me home, if you want."

"It's fine," Derek said, "I've moved."

Stiles sincerely hoped Derek's new place had a spare bed, or at least a couch. He did not want to have to sleep on the floor.

Just thinking about sleeping made his eyelids suddenly heavy and Stiles leaned his head back against the headrest. They were still at least twenty minutes outside of Beacon Hills and Stiles thought it might be best for everyone if he took a quick nap. He couldn't say anything else incredibly stupid if he was asleep. Well, hopefully not, anyway.

Derek sighed as he pulled up in front of his place. Stiles was fast asleep in the passenger seat and it was amazing how non-threatening the kid seemed when he was sleeping. Awake, Stiles was a terrifying whirlwind of energy and intelligence that Derek had trouble keeping up with, but for some reason always found himself enjoying the chase. Here though, Stiles looked like a normal seventeen-year-old boy, with nothing on his mind but girls and lacrosse. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing that it was his family's fault that Stiles's reality now included Kanimas and hunters and werewolves. He'd hoped the fact that the kid was still human would be enough to keep him safe, but it was becoming clearer to him that when Peter turned Scott he had put everyone in Scott's life in danger.

On the other hand, as he ran a speculative eye over Stiles's prone form, Derek suspected Stiles was too smart and too inquisitive to have ever been content living the life of an average teenager.

Deciding it was time to head in, Derek leaned on the horn for the pure pleasure of watching Stiles try to jump a foot in the air, arms flailing and eyes panicked, only to be jerked back by his seatbelt.

"Jesus Christ," Stiles said, weakly, sinking back into the chair as he realized that there was no alarm going off, and he wasn't tied up, and that Derek was actually just that much of a dick. "You could have just been like, 'Hey Stiles, wake up'."

"Hey, Stiles," Derek flashed his teeth in a wicked grin. "Wake up."

"Douchebag," Stiles muttered under his breath, knowing full well that Derek could hear him. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Stiles opened his door and got out of the car. Craning his neck back he looked up at the huge unlit building in front of him. "Hey," he called as Derek moved around the car to his side, "Are you sure we're in the right place? This looks like some sort of old abandoned warehouse where at least a dozen people have been murdered in totally unrelated events over the past couple decades."

"Home, sweet home," Derek winked and headed towards the giant steel doors, keys jangling in his hand.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Stiles's eyebrows shot heavenwards. "I'm going to die in here."

The door opened with a horrible creaking noise and Derek vanished inside. Not wanting to be left standing alone outside of Murders R Us, Stiles scrambled after the werewolf.

Author's Note

Hello, and thank you for reading my fic! This is the first chapter of a larger piece so I'm already several chapters ahead, and will be posting a new one every two weeks. Podfics are soon to follow. I'm really excited about this fic, and I hope you stick around :)

I couldn't do this without my betas - the wonderful Halite who makes sure all my canon is correct, and my lovely partner Paradisgatan who ensures I am understood.