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antiquecompass · 5 years ago

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Ficlet: Found

Wherein Lan Wangji is on a mission to find his law-brother, his nephew, and his soul mate. (Also on Ao3).

Gossip was forbidden in the Cloud Recesses proper, indulged in the greater Winter Court, and required in most of the world to pick apart the threads of truth at the core of all the fantastical stories bred out of rumors. Lan Wangji did not participate in gossip, but he had ears, and he’d always been the most observant of the Winter Court. Many assumed that because he did not speak often, or at length, that he remained aloof to all around him, as if his desire to be left to his own thoughts somehow made him deaf to the words that swirled around him. He never corrected that assumption; it allowed him to do his job and do it well.

He was the Crown Prince of the Winter Court, but more importantly, he was the Winter King’s most trusted weapon. And his brother, absent a portion of his memory, missing half his heart and soul, deprived of the silent power and strength that came from his husband, needed his most trusted weapon, his brother, his confidant, to do his job and do it well.

Escaping to the Other Side was easy. Claiming that it was to find Wei Ying was a partial-truth, and one everyone in the Court would believe. He would find Wei Ying, he had to, to see with his own eyes that he was well, but his ultimate goal was to find his law-brother and bring him home.

Lan Wangji understood the need to run, to protect, to hide, but their family was strongest together and the Winter Court would not lose one of its own again. Not under his watch and not under his brother’s reign. His brother would not become the shell that had once been their father before he faded into nothingness. And while father’s had been a slow death, Xichen’s would be quick, even for the Sidhe.

The one major downfall of true soulmates and love matches.

Even though he knew Jiang Cheng had held back from fully combining their powers, their souls, and their wills, had done it to protect the Winter King should he be harmed or killed, Xichen didn’t know how to love but with everything in him.

Wangji was equally matched with his brother in this, as he was with so much else.

The risk and cost were worth it, for when a Lan gave their heart, they gave it full and true.

Gossip led him to a tavern in a city called Cambridge on the water of a river call Charles. The Temple looked perfectly normal from the outside, like any other building, its glamour strong and holding, its protective shield’s roots deep and strong. For those with a touch of magic in their blood, the oil street lamps outside of it burned with welcoming flames, beckoned them closer. This was a place for Wanderers and Wayfarers alike, but it had been built by Wayfarers and it called them home.

Lan Wangji shifted in the unfamiliar stiff clothing he wore. The denim jeans rough against his skin, the plaid shirt too tight for his liking, but he was to fit in here and the Realm Jumper, Varro, promised him that these clothes would work best. Wangji missed the softness of his robes, the heavy, grounding weight of his hair piece and circlet, the comfort of Bichen by his side. They were all packed up in the pouch now shrunk to what Varro called ‘wallet-sized’ and stuffed in one of his pockets.

Inside he found the typical stink of a bar, added to it the stench of wolves and bears, some demons, wizards, and various other magical folk. A Sprite stood in the corner, a source of calm, light-green energy surrounding him, but all eyes were on the Sidhe standing on top of the bar, drunkenly singing a horribly inappropriate tune.

Absolutely shameless.

Wei Ying would join him, surely, if he were here.

The Sidhe stopped mid-song as Wangji fully crossed the barrier into the establishment, his power sending a series of warning flames to the candles spaced throughout the tavern. His presence was powerful, even masked, and by the Right of Hospitality, he could not hide it stepping into this place of business and home.

The Summer Sidhe at the bar raised his glass.

“All hail the Crown Prince of the Winter Court!” he yelled, golden hair flying about him. “Those ice statue fucks rarely come down from their mountain hall. What brings you to the Other Side, little prince? Ready to finally rid yourself of your maidenhead?”

Wangji didn’t spare him a glance as he walked further into the bar.

“I was speaking to you, Ice Prince,” the Sidhe called after him.

“You are not qualified to speak to me,” Wangji said as he continued on, further into the bar, past the tables full of patrons, to a back corner where a Puck sat.

Bard Nasir had once been the golden jewel of Ville. Like so many Pucks he had been chained there by tradition and law, but it was Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng who helped the Sidhe Queen of Ville’s plan to smuggle him out, the Winter Court that offered a refuge, and it was now that Wangji came to collect on those favors.

Nasir pulled away from the wolf draped across him and immediately stood and bowed.

“Unnecessary,” Wangji said.

Nasir laughed. “Ever the same, Prince Wangji. I take it you are not here with glad tidings?”

He shook his head. “Lotus Pier was fallen. I seek news of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng.”

“Are they not together?” Nasir asked. A worried look crossed his face, causing the wolf from earlier to stand behind him, a menacing glare thrown Wangji's ways. Mates then. Nasir had found and done the impossible, Curse of the Pucks be damned.

“The Winter King’s husband is missing?” Nasir said, voice shocked.

Wangji stayed silent and still as the news hit Nasir. A streak of curses followed that brought an entire pack of wolves around them.

“Stand down,” Nasir ordered. “He is a friend.”

“He is a Sidhe,” a blonde she-wolf hissed.

“He is of the Winter Court, Saxa,” Nasir explained. “And they offered refuge and care when the Summer Court brought pain and destruction. He brings me news of people I owe my freedom to, and I will gladly help find them, if they are lost.”

“It was the Wens,” Wangji said.

Nasir cursed again. “Were any left standing?”

“All were frozen or burnt to death, at least those who didn’t drown or have lotus blossoms take root and bloom and explode inside them,” he explained.

The mess he’d found at Lotus Pier once his brother returned to the Winter Court had shocked him. The bodies of Jiang Yanli and her husband were still missing. An entire group of Jiang Clan survivors had been found, safe, locked in a protective bubble under the throne room of Lotus Pier. A Yu cousin was leading the survivors now, their own little pocket in the Winter Court, a marriage contract honored even if the Winter King’s husband was gone.

Lan Wangji took a soothing, deep breath. He needed to find Wei Ying. He needed to find Jiang Cheng. And he would, even if he'd have to beg. He would have his family restored.

“I thought Lotus Pier was a warm place,” one of the wolves said, the low light catching on the gleam of his nose-ring. “How does a fire demon freeze to death?”

“The Winter King is far more powerful than people give him credit for,” Nasir explained. “He is kind as a summer, yes, but ruthless when it comes to his family.”

“What does that mean?” the wolf asked.

“It means he called to the water inside of the blood of the attackers and froze them from the inside out,” a ghost, hovering over the wolf’s shoulder, said.

“Holy shit,” the wolf said.

“Indeed,” Wangji agreed. “Have you heard any news? Jiang Cheng would be traveling with a babe, possibly in its pup form.”

And Jiang Cheng, tall, powerful, glowing violet eyes and a frown for miles would stand out with a small child or pup strapped to him. There had to be some gossip out there Wangji could use to find his trail.

“He stole a pup?” one of the wolves roared.

“Peace, Donar,” Nasir said, speaking to a mountain of a wolf. “It is his nephew. Madame Jiang, Wizard Jiang, was mated to a member of the Nie-Jin Pack.” He turned to Wangji. “Would he seek refuge with them? Would they extend it?”

Possibly, but Jiang Cheng had come in through the Southern Seas, at least that’s what he’d heard from the rumors, and that was far removed from the Nie Pack territory. Still, it was a thing to consider.

A commotion at the front door stopped his next words. The entire bar went silent as the warning flames shot up around them, turned black, and then died all at once.

“What the fuck? A Necromancer? Here?”

“Black flames? What do black flames mean?”

“Why does it feel like a Dementor is about to descend?”

“For the last time, Duro, Harry Potter isn’t real.”

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! You’re here!”

Wangji braced himself as Wei Ying barreled through the bar, launching himself into the air and landing in Wangji’s arms.

“I told you my tracking spell and compass would work!” he said, eyes and smile bright.

“That’s a Necromancer?”

“More of a mad scientist,” he heard Nasir explain.

Wangji nearly collapsed with relief at having Wei Ying whole and hale in front of him. There were no wounds he could see, no physical pain he could sense, his eyes glowed briefly, the hidden, powerful red, as his smile relaxed to something softer. He was beautiful and alive and here.

The words were there, on his tongue, words he had yet to say, words his cousins and brother had urged him not to hold back, not anymore.

But those words were selfish now, with the news he had to impart. So he kept them to himself, even as his heart and soul screamed at him to give them voice. Just a little bit longer, he vowed. Just until they found Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling.

“Wei Ying,” he said.

“I know,” Wei Ying said, curling up and resting his head on Wangji’s shoulder. “I know Lotus Pier fell. I was trying to give one last burst of energy, but my magic malfunctioned and dropped me off on Lan Yi’s table. Right on it. Right in the middle of her breakfast. Got syrup in places no one should. My parents found me and told me of the rest.”

“Your brother?” he asked.

Wei Ying lifted his head and frowned. “I’m still searching for him. My compass lit up once, but it was gone in the blink of an eye and his path hidden. He’s always been so good at protection spells, and the water will hide him if he asks it. I’ve been waiting for a reply to come from the Nie Pack, but you know the Alpha Mate can’t stand me.”

Wei Ying had raised an entire pack of dead ancestral Nie Wolves at Rusong’s Naming. It was little wonder Meng Yao wanted Wei Ying far away from his pack, his son, and his home.

“Did you find my sister?” he asked.

“Wei Ying,” Wangji said, sadness in his words.

“She’s not dead,” Wei Ying insisted, his eyes flashing red again, the scent of sulfur briefly in the air. “I would know. My parents would know. She wouldn’t leave us or her son. She’d be a ghost. And she’s not.”

“Her body was not at Lotus Pier. Nor her mate’s,” Wangji said.

“Then Jiang Cheng got them out,” Wei Ying said. “He had to have done it. Sent them off to the Sirens to heal. I know him. He’d do that. He’d sacrifice everything to protect the family.”

He would. He did. He had.

The Sprite approached them, his calming energy soothing the ruffled fur and feathers and feelings of all in the bar.

“Not that we don’t welcome all here who have good hearts and good intentions,” he said.

“Yes, yes, I make people nervous,” Wei Ying said. He slid out of Wangji’s arms and grabbed hold of one of his sleeves. “Lan Zhan, let’s get some food. I’m hungry. And then we can go see our Grand Dames. Can we get some fried dough? It’s so good.”

Wangji nodded to Nasir in acknowledgment as Wei Ying pulled him towards the door. As they passed all the flames came back, the bar started to live and breathe again, the noise returning.

Wangji only had eyes for the Necromancer in front of him, his high ponytail bouncing as he listed all his favorite new foods.

Wangji hadn’t had a reason to smile in many days, but now he allowed himself this one selfish moment of joy.

Wei Ying slung an arm around his shoulder once they were in the streets. “I knew you would find me,” he said. “You always do.”

And all the gods willing, he always would.

#long post #the untamed #verse: journeys #my ridic writing #almost two centuries and he still can't tell his soul mate he's in love with him #wangxian #fandom: the untamed

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triggeringthehealing · 7 years ago

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woke up like this

pre-Stiles/Derek | T | ~4k | AO3

Summary: “I mean, I didn’t get a tattoo, I just… have one. Woke up with one.” It's his birthday, he's 25 now. He's in the middle of a work assignment when he wakes up on the morning of his birthday, and spots it in the mirror. Black ink on his arm, a shape too familiar not to recognize immediately. Stiles doesn't know where it came from, or what it means. All he knows is that yesterday, he was 24, and he most definitely didn't have any tattoos.

A/N: Written for the @weekendwritingmarathon birthday flash ficlet challenge (look, I tried, and I originally only had 1k. then the rest happened ;)

It’s been years since he thought back on the hell that was his high school, and almost as long since he last thought about him.

Well no, even Stiles knows that that’s a lie, and he doesn’t have to say it out loud or have a werewolf listening in to catch the skip of his heart. He’s done plenty of thinking about Derek, on and off through the years, some days more than others. But he hasn’t seen him in over five years, even though he knows that Scott is still in touch with Derek, Cora, and Peter.

Stiles has been out of Beacon Hills since that last fight when he was still a trainee for the FBI. He’s now a full-fledged agent, and when he does end up in California, it’s usually because of the job. Sometimes he visits when he’s there, other times his dad comes out to meet up for dinner. More often than not, Stiles doesn’t even let anyone know he’s nearby, because his assignment doesn’t allow for outside contact.

Whenever that happens, it still feels odd, like he’s a stranger in his own home. None of the previous times felt quite as strange as this one — he’s investigating something that reeks of the supernatural, and he’s only an hour’s drive away from his hometown. But he’s under strict orders to stay under the radar, the order reinforced by Rafe McCall’s reassurance that it’s not the Beacon Hills pack that’s being investigated, and they shouldn’t be involved.

Stiles wonders if that’s Rafael’s way of keeping Scott and his very new family safe from harm. Whether it is or not, it’s what stops Stiles from contacting any of them, no matter how much he’d love to see his newly acquired godson.

The temptation to call rises when he checks the calendar as he wakes up, and he gets reminded of what day it is.

He’s 25 today, and he forgot it was his birthday.

As he slowly stretches and starts waking up properly, his phone buzzes several times in a row, and Stiles squints at it, sleep still clouding his sight. There are text messages to wish him a happy birthday from his dad, from Melissa, from Scott, Lydia, and a few others. Like any year before when he was on assignment on this day, they know better than to try and call.

Quarter of a century kid, glad you made it this far. I’ll have a cake for you. Dad

Hey, did you ever think we’d make to this age? Happy birthday, bro! Scott

Happy birthday, kiddo. Your Dad and I are so proud of you. Mel. PS: the cake is sugar-free, don’t worry.

The others are more or less generic, but enough to make him get out of bed with a smile. It’s still on his lips when he shuffles to the bathroom, his muscles aching from the stake-out he was on for two days running. When he runs the water, he catches a glimpse of his sleep-mussed hair and the beard that he knows he’ll have to shave eventually. He rubs the coarseness on his jaw and grins — it’s what keeps him from being easily recognized now that he’s so close to Beacon Hills.

But then there’s something else that catches his eye, right on his arm, just under his shoulder. At first he thinks it’s a smudge or a shadow, but when he tries to rub over it, it doesn’t move.

Stiles walks closer to the mirror while he’s rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and then he turns sideways to get a better look. It’s there, he’s not imagining it, the black stark against the paleness of his skin, the lines crisp and clean. His mind flashes to a memory from days way too far in the past — the familiar image that he’s seen more times than he’d ever care to admit to.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, narrowing his eyes at the ink on his skin. “What the actual, ever-loving fuck.”

He blinks a few times then, partly to be sure that he’s not imagining things, partly because he wonders if it will disappear after he does. But no, when he’s done making himself dizzy by blinking a little too fast, it’s still there, clear as it was moments earlier.

A black triskele that instantly brings back thoughts of Derek and the Hale family, of the vault with several items with the same design on them. He hasn’t seen it in years, and yet there is no other association he’ll ever have to it.

What he doesn’t understand is how it came to be on his skin, slightly raised like he knows a tattoo would be, but perfectly healed like a fresh one most definitely wouldn’t. He’d know, he did go through the pain of getting one done on his wrist, the two bands that mirrored Scott’s tattoo on his upper arm. He checks to see if that one is still there, on his left wrist, and runs a finger over it like he sometimes does to reassure himself of reality.

His first instinct is to call Scott, the next one is to email Deaton and Lydia. In the end, he heads back into the still running shower, and lets himself breathe through the shock of his discovery. When he emerges some time later, he rubs the towel over his face a little too roughly, and then looks back at the mirror, the black catching his eye all over again.

In the years that he’s worked around and with the supernatural, he heard and saw outlandish things. Things that made him stop discounting possibilities unless he had complete certainty that they weren’t real. Unicorns, for one, didn’t have healing powers, and their blood didn’t warrant eternal life. Fairies weren’t adorable little Tinker Bells, and they could pack a magical punch — he found that one out the hard way. Alpha packs aren’t at all functional in the long term, as ultimately the members end up fighting each other for the leadership position.

There are also things that he only found in journals and notebooks, most of them handwritten because very few packs were as tech savvy as Peter Hale, and too used to the lack of electricity that would be needed to power a laptop. Some information remains unproven, as he has no way of finding out without the involvement of embarrassment.

But magically appearing tattoos were, as far as Stiles was concerned, the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels.

And yet, here he is, with a tattoo on his arm that definitely wasn’t there when he went to sleep, and it just so happened to match the one on Derek Hale’s back. Derek, whom Stiles hasn’t seen in half a decade, and who could be just about anywhere in the world, as far as Stiles was aware. The last time they spoke was when they were both packing up and leaving Beacon Hills for good.

Stiles manages to get partly dressed, but only puts on a tank top before he grabs his phone and sits down on his bed, his side and the arm with the new mark reflecting in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. Then, with slightly shaky hands and a quiet plea that the number hasn’t changed, he finds Derek’s name in his contact list and presses the call button.

There are debates about how werewolves age. It’s not always simple and linear, not like with humans. For wolves who can shift fully, time slows when they’re in their wolf form, and they show less signs of aging. It’s not as noticeable when they only shift partially, but there still is a difference.

Derek doesn’t usually dwell on it, never has. Most shifters stick to their own kind, and the end result is — barring any clashes with hunters — that werewolves simply live longer in human terms.

He isn’t sure when the triskele appeared on his back. Or at least he can’t pinpoint the specific time, considering it was at some point after the fire, and around when he came back to Beacon Hills to find Laura. He didn’t notice it at first, due to it’s placement, but one day he spotted it in the reflection on a broken window. At the time he didn’t have time to dwell on it, though family stories popped into his mind, tales about marks on the skin, about connected souls. Had it not been for his past, he would have given it more thought and more attention, but when the mark appeared, Derek wasn’t in a state fit for even considering its significance.

It’s been a few years since, and he’s more settled now, free of the dangers of rogue hunters and most importantly, the Gerard part of the Argent clan, Kate included. The mark is still there, still as solid black as ever, but he’s long since learned to just accept its existence and he has no intention of finding out anything more about it. He knows the lore now, read about it in the few books that he managed to salvage after the fire, in the house or in the family vault.

He knows that it means something, that there’s someone out there who will get the same mark and will have a connection to him. The someone could be anyone in the world though, and he has no idea where he would even start looking. Not that he particularly wants to, not now that he’s found a peaceful and quiet spot for himself, and started building a life.

He’s close enough to his old territory to feel its pull in a good way, but far enough that no one from the current pack knows where he is. He’s finally — after years of not being able to settle down anywhere without being targeted — somewhere that he can once again call a home.

And then his phone rings one early morning, the name on the screen a pointed flashback to what he’s been actively avoiding thinking about.

“Hey Stiles,” he says when he picks up. “It’s been a while.”

More than five years, Derek thinks but doesn’t say out loud.

“Hey,” Stiles says shakily, the connection crackling in the background. “Yeah, I… I wasn’t sure you still had this number.”

“Never changed it,” Derek tells him, then hesitates before he continues. “Just in case it was needed. Yours is still the same too.”

“It’s… I keep it on a spare phone, just in case….”

Stiles chuckles darkly, then sighs loudly enough for Derek to hear.

“Is it needed?” Derek asks. “Is there something….”

“It’s not… I’m not in Beacon Hills. I haven’t been there in a while,” Stiles says, his answer just vague enough that it sets Derek’s senses on alarm.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? What? Yeah, just peachy, perfect,” Stiles rambles.

Derek doesn’t need to strain his hearing to catch his heartbeat, he knows that Stiles is at the very least omitting some information.

“Stiles,” he says quietly, softly.

“Okay, so, there is a reason I’m calling,” Stiles says. “It’s not just a random social call.”

“Yeah, after all the years, I didn’t think it was,” Derek tells him. “Are you really okay?”

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles says firmly, just enough that Derek does believe him. “But… well, there’s….” Stiles takes a deep breath. “It’s kind of hard to explain over the phone, but… I have a tattoo.”

“O-kay?”

“I mean, I didn’t get a tattoo, I just… have one. Woke up with one.”

It clicks almost immediately, and Derek takes a sharp breath.

“Where?”

That is not the question he wants to ask, but it’s what slips past his lips. And the question is about more than one thing — he wants to know where Stiles is, where the mark is on his body, and possibly where they can meet. Derek is almost certain that he knows what the mark is, but he needs to see it with his own eyes.

“What?” Stiles asks, sounding confused.

“Where are you?” Derek asks, clarifying the question with what seems most important right then.

“I can’t… I’m… I’m working, and I can’t say,” Stiles says.

“Oh,” Derek responds, disappointed.

“I’m almost done though, the case is wrapping up,” Stiles rushes to add. “I… where are you?”

For a few moments, Derek debates whether he wants to open that can of worms, and who else besides Stiles will know if he volunteers that information. But then he realizes that it doesn’t matter, and what does is the mark on Stiles’s shoulder.

“I’m close to Beacon Hills, actually,” he says, still hesitant. “Not in the county, closer to Tahoe.”

“Have you gotten yourself a cottage in the mountains? Are you a lumberjack now, Der?” Stiles asks, laughter ringing through his voice.

Derek blushes, glad that Stiles can’t see him.

“Not quite,” he mutters.

“That’s not a no,” Stiles says, now openly laughing. “Did you start wearing plaid?”

“See if I tell you now where to find me,” Derek grumbles.

“Pssh, I’m sure I could find a way to track you down.”

“Misappropriating resources? Really?”

“It’s for an important cause, it would absolutely be justified,” Stiles protests weakly, then he adds, “I’d rather you told me though, so that it’s your choice.”

Derek’s heart does something utterly inappropriate for such an innocent remark. It’s just enough to help him decide on whether he wants to tell Stiles or not.

“I’ll text you the address,” he says. “When do you think you’ll be free?”

“A few days, at most,” Stiles says. “So… I’m guessing you know what’s happening? Should I be worried?”

“I have an idea,” Derek tells him, aware of how much of an understatement that is. “And it’s not… you’re not in danger.”

“That’s debatable, considering my day job,” Stiles says, but there’s less tension in his tone than when the call started.

Derek isn’t sure whether it’s his tentative reassurance, or if it’s the conversation itself, but he breathes out and relaxes too.

Stiles jots down the address on the notepad by his bed, and chuckles when a completely random memory hits him.

“What? Something funny about my address?” Derek asks, sounding a little irritated.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles says. “It’s just, there was this really bad movie Scott and I watched years ago, called Grizzly Rage. It had this guy that kind of looked like you without the scowl and the facial hair. Just… it was really bad.”

“Well, the Road is Ridge, not rage,” Derek grumbles.

“Could be worse, could be one of those that remind me of pornstar names,” Stiles says, holding back another chuckle.

“Like what, the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on?” Derek asks, catching Stiles off guard.

“I don’t want to know how you know that.”

“I was a teenager once, Stiles,” Derek tells him, and there’s a lightness to his voice that Stiles isn’t sure if he’ll ever get used to.

“More than once, as far as I remember,” Stiles tells him, his mind flashing back to the time when they suddenly had a teenage Derek on their hands thanks to Kate’s machinations.

“True,” Derek agrees.

“Right, so, I’ll let you know when I can drive out,” Stiles says, steering the conversation back to where it started. “It shouldn’t be more than a week, I don’t think.”

“Take your time, Stiles,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles wonders for a moment if it really is fondness that he can hear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, but this is going to bug me until I get answers,” Stiles says.

He glances in the mirror again, glaring at the mark on his arm. He’s still looking at it when he finishes the call, dropping the phone on the bed. Then he lies down, staring at the ceiling instead, hoping it will give him at least some clarity.

It doesn’t, and neither does his research that he squeezes in between wrapping up his case and finalizing paperwork. When he’s done, he requests a few extra days off, because instinct tells him that whatever he’ll find at Derek’s will require at the very least some time to recover from it.

Once it’s approved, he gets on the road. It feels like he should go to his dad’s to get Roscoe, to drive out in the Jeep for the nostalgia of it. But he doesn’t trust that Roscoe would manage the whole drive, especially not the off road parts that he could see on the route when he looked it up on the map. So instead he rents a newer model, because bringing his work car doesn’t feel right.

It’s still blue, and it’s still a Jeep, but it’s quieter and allows his mind to keep spinning as he drives. It’s not quiet enough to escape Derek’s attention though, and when he pulls up at the cottage that the directions lead him to, Derek is standing on the porch, smiling.

“You knew,” Stiles tells him accusingly, his finger poking at Derek’s chest. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Derek sighs. It’s been a week of wondering whether his instinct and guesses were right, and now that he saw the triskele on Stiles’s shoulder, the questions are inevitable. Especially since he very much failed at looking surprised when Stiles rolled up his shirt sleeve.

“It… I didn’t know it would be you,” Derek says. “It didn’t really matter.”

“You had a mark on your back the size of a fucking target that was supposed to lead you to someone, and you think that didn’t matter?” Stiles is almost yelling, exasperation dripping out of every word. “What does it mean? Is it like, a soulmate kind of thing?”

“No, Stiles, you’re thinking romantic fiction,” Derek says, another sigh following as he sits down on the front porch, pointedly looking at the spot next to him.

“Then what? Because I’ve read more than enough supernatural lore, and not one thing mentioned magically appearing tattoos,” Stiles says, sitting down.

His knee is bouncing up and down, and Derek wants to put his hand on it, make it stop. He doesn’t. Even though his restraint is already on a thin string because he’s also trying to hold back from touching the mark on Stiles’s shoulder, he manages to keep his hands to himself.

“It’s… it’s not like we’re magically bound to each other now,” Derek says quietly. “Or that we’re destined for eternal love.”

Stiles snorts, but it’s with a bitter edge.

“Yeah, I’m not stupid enough to believe in that kind of crap, not anymore,” he says. “As much as Scott still keeps telling me that it exists and I’ll find it someday.”

“You….”

“Not with this job, I won’t,” Stiles says. “Not with the schedule I have.”

“It’s not like you’re ancient, Stiles,” Derek says. “You’re twenty… what now?”

“Twenty five,” Stiles says. “Actually, this thing,” he points to the mark on his shoulder, drawing Derek’s attention to it again, “showed up on my birthday.”

“Happy birthday?”

Derek sounds hesitant, and it’s not only because he’s not sure if it’s appropriate to say. It’s also because he remembers when his triskele appeared, or at least the approximate age he was when it did. His age is still not completely linear, not now that he can shift fully. And he knows that back then he passed for younger, at least for a while. But the number is not insignificant.

“There’s lore,” he starts, aware of the fact that Stiles is paying close attention. “It’s not about soulmates, not about love. It’s about wolves and packs, and about Emissaries.”

“I’m none of those,” Stiles mutters.

“No,” Derek says. “But it’s not just about that. Marks like this, marks that show up on the twenty fifth birthday, they mean a bond. If you were a druid, and me an Alpha, it would mean that you’d be the perfect Emissary for me and my pack.”

“And when we’re not?”

Derek smiles softly, then looks up from the floor to Stiles and lets his eyes flash.

“What the fuck?”

The words slip out of Stiles’s mouth, and Derek knows that he maybe should have said something. He isn’t sure when it happened, but he felt his power grow over the years, and then one day when he shifted fully, it felt different.

“I’m the Alpha,” he says, smirking when Stiles’s surprise immediately morphs into an unimpressed glare.

“You’re not the Alpha,” Stiles says, then rolls his eyes. “But nice throwback there, I’ll give you that. So, when did this happen? How? Why didn’t you say anything? Does Scott know?”

Derek shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t. I’m far away from his territory, and the area around here doesn’t… well, it used to belong to my family decades ago, then it didn’t, and now it’s technically mine. I don’t have a pack though.”

“You have Isaac, don’t you?”

“No, he’s… he never came back from France. I don’t… it’s fine this way. Safer.”

“Oh my god, you’re still a martyr, aren’t you? Derek, you….”

“No. I’m not alone because I think I don’t deserve a pack. I just, I’m okay,” Derek says, and this time he does move his hand to put on Stiles’s knee, even though it’s not bouncing anymore.

It’s more about conveying to Stiles that he’s not lying than about anything else. He wants Stiles to believe him, to understand that he’s chosen this way. That it really is what he wants.

“Right, okay. Say I believe you,” Stiles says, clearly not completely convinced yet. “What does the mark mean?”

“It means…,” Derek starts, then takes a deep breath. “It means that you’re important to me. That maybe I’m important to you?”

He always knew that about Stiles, even before the call, before the matching triskele confirmed it. It just wasn’t something that Derek could — or wanted to, not if it meant disrupting Stiles’s life — act on, or even mention to anyone.

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles says.

“Thanks?”

“So, since we’re talking secrets….”

Derek lifts an eyebrow, curious and slightly worried because Stiles looks nervous and his knee starts bouncing again under Derek’s hand.

“You know the whole spark thing back then?” Stiles asks and Derek nods. “It turns out that while I’m not a Druid, I do have some ability to work with magic. Or, like, make things happen as long as I believe in them.”

Derek’s eyes widen.

“I mean, I’d need training to be your Emissary, if you even need one since you don’t have a whole pack,” Stiles rambles, and he ducks his head. “That’s if you even wanted one. But like, if you would, then….”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, and Stiles’s head snaps up.

“Yeah?”

“I do.”

The words are out and hanging between them for a few seconds, then Stiles drops his hand on top of Derek’s.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and he smiles when he sees Stiles’s shoulders drop with relief.

“Right. That’s cool. Awesome. I’ll get right on that,” Stiles starts talking, clearly still unsettled.

“Maybe… maybe stay a few days first?” Derek asks.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and his body tilts a little until his shoulder bumps against Derek’s. “Okay.”

Derek mirrors the movement, and he turns his hand so that Stiles can lace his fingers through his. There’s a tingling on his back, like the tattoo is reacting to the contact, and for the first time since it appeared, Derek doesn’t feel like it’s a target on his back. He feels like it’s an anchor.

#sterek fic #Sterek #eternalsterek

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