for meanttobeabeta: late September 2013

[wannabebatman]

He's gotten used to seeing Derek every day, or at least hearing from him. A call, a text, a now-familiar set of shoulders shoving its way through his window or curled up on the floor of his room cross-legged. They make plans and cross-sections of town for search grids, discuss whatever Derek's managed to pull from Peter, argue about Stiles' latest harebrained scheme for drawing out the alpha pack. He very carefully doesn't think about how much time all those nights add up to, just like he doesn't think about the little touches and comforts and that growing sense of familiarity he feels with the taciturn older man. He carefully, deliberately doesn't mention Scott. Neither of them does.

Of course, that still doesn't mean he's expecting to see Derek leaning against his Jeep that late September afternoon as he heads out of the school and towards the parking lot. And he sure as hell isn't ready for Derek's incredibly good James Dean impersonation, swallowing heavily at the sight of tight jeans, white shirt, leather jacket and frantically stuffing every last hormone back into that overflowing box of NO in the back of his mind. The outfit just makes him more aware of his worn Avengers shirt, the slightly holey flannel, the stain on his grey hoodie from lunch. Stupid sexy Derek.

"Dude, what are you doing here? Thought you didn't want Scott knowing about all this Alpha pack stuff. You start meeting me at school, he'll have questions." Not that the lack of Stiles in his life had seemed to register so far, he thought sourly.

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[meanttobeabeta]

Derek's been on the thin edge of losing his shit for the last hour or more by the time they finally agree they've tried the last prospect, and he tips his own head back against the passenger seat head rest once he's back in the car, jaw and fists both clenched as he fights the shift. The Alphas couldn't have done a better job of taunting him if they'd tried, and it's only that knowledge that's currently letting him keep some kind of grip on himself.

"Nothing fucking useful," he growls, frustration and rage vibrating across every word. "The other wolf scents were never distinctive or clear enough to get a lock on, and they changed, but I'm not even fucking sure how many times, or how many might be in the Alpha back, other than at least three and probably less than ten." Jesus, please let it be less than ten. Less than five would be even better.

[wannabebatman]

"That's something, though. It was both Erica and Boyd's scents. The first place didn't have other wolf scent, but some of the others did. You know where it smelled freshest. We have something. A lot of somethings. We just have to put the picture together. They wouldn't have left so much if they didn't mean for us to find more, unless they're just careless. And if they are, we'll find them even faster." Sure, it's the exact opposite of his earlier words of frustration, but...well, Derek's pessimist enough to steal even Stiles' crown of Captain Glass-Half-Empty.

He doesn't even realize he's reaching across the seat until there's the feel of leather under his fingertips, leather over solid, practically vibrating muscle. His fingers squeeze reflexively, as the first (and likely smartest) part of his brain tells him to stop and tries to prepare for the inevitable backlash. It's different when it's Derek touching him, or invading his personal space, or when Stiles accidentally touches Derek. This is deliberate, and he can't really figure out why he did it.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek's getting more and more sure that Stiles is right, that the Alpha pack does want him to find them... he's just also becoming more sure that he's not going to like it when he does. He's just about to tell Stiles that they have to find them faster than the Alpahs are expecting, that the only chance they're going to have to get Boyd and Erica (and themselves) out alive is if they manage to surprise the Alphas, when Stiles' hand settles on his forearm. There's an almost audible clack when his mouth snaps shut, and he can't keep from looking down at where Stiles is squeezing his arm reassuringly... any more than he can stop the way that, after that first moment of surprise, it eases some of the tension from his shoulders. For all the times Derek has touched Stiles, bridged that gap between them completely on instinct, because he can't think of him as anything but Pack now, Stiles has never once reciprocated, not in anything other than moments of necessity, and Derek has never expected him to.

"Yeah," he rumbles after a moment, making himself look away again. "We just have to keep looking, we'll find them." And hopefully not die with them.

[wannabebatman]

There's a brief second of tense silence, as Derek looks down at Stiles' hand on his arm, and Stiles waits for whatever happens next. Imagine his surprise when instead of jerking away, or pushing Stiles off, instead he just...agrees. And maybe it's Stiles' admittedly overactive imagination, but Derek sounds a little more in control, a little less likely to be shifting in the front seat of the Jeep. Which is good, because Stiles has no idea how he'd explain that kind of damage to anyone.

His hand tightens just a little more on Derek's arm before falling away, and both of them seem a little more in control after that point of contact. He doesn't think about why. Maybe Derek just needed to be reminded that he wasn't in this alone, even if Stiles isn't that much help. He's only human, after all. Human and starving, as his stomach chooses this moment to chime in loudly, gurgling loud enough to be clearly audible in the silence. He at least has the good grace to look embarrassed. "So what's next?"