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Derek doesn’t know the first thing about welding, heating things to insanely high temperatures, or bending hot metals to perfect angles and curls. He does, however, know how to smack hot metal with another piece of (cool) metal. Somehow, he finds himself doing just that one night in the welding house where Scott works. His boss isn’t there, but he has unlimited access to pretty much wherever and whatever he wants because of his status.
They’re putting into motion one of Scott’s actually pretty cool plans, and Derek can’t be more excited. With Scott’s welding skills and Derek’s practiced but unprofessional woodworking ones, they’re putting together the perfect gift for Stiles. It’s actually coming together nicely, but Derek still finds room to complain because Scott’s making him assemble it.
Derek’s smoothing out some heart wood from a hickory tree, recently dead from the forest, when Scott hands him a newly-crafted and cooled spring. It’s large and heavy, but still springs with the rig amount of weight. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” Derek asks gruffly, holding it up in front of his face. Unfortunately, the dim firelight from Scott’s welding station isn’t shedding any light on the situation.
“Add it to the bottom,” Scott points. “It’ll be more natural.”
“More natural my ass,” Derek grumbles, and complies with Scott’s instructions. “Are you almost done with the rod?”
“Relax! The spring took up a lot of time. I’m getting there.”
“It’s a damn rod, I have no clue how that takes longer than a spring.” Derek complains, and Scott shoots him a nasty look.
This has been going on for a few days now.
Derek has become increasingly more annoyed with every second he spends with Scott, snippy and biting in almost everything he does. Scott is, really, a very nice guy, and it gets on Derek’s nerves. Something about a Good Samaritan just makes him want to throw up. Scott also seems to be getting fed up with Derek’s grumbly attitude. They’ve been holed up in the welder’s building for three days straight and their companionship has been anything but companionable. They’ve both decided that Stiles is their mutual friend, and they’re only associates because of him.
When Scott finally hands him the final rod, the two of them spend two more hours griping to each other about how to put the contraption together before finally finishing and heading their separate ways, frustrated beyond belief.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scott is practically jumping with excitement when he knocks on Derek’s door the next morning, and they walk out to the woods together. Whatever hostile feelings Scott held towards him the previous night are all slept away and the alpha continues to bump his arm or elbow or hand against Derek’s, playful touches that indicate his happiness. Derek grumbles, but doesn’t do anything about the sudden intense friendliness.
Derek’s cradling their present for Stiles in his hands, and it’s carefully wrapped in one of his bedsheets. If his mom found out she would kill him, but really he can’t bring himself to care too much at the moment because it’s for Stiles.
When they get down to the rock valley (it really needs a good name, Derek thinks) Stiles is already waiting, eating a fresh piece of fish expectantly. His glare is enough to make both of them shudder.
“Three days,” is all he says, and those two words make Derek cringe with guilt, even if he was doing something nice and productive all that time.
“I know,” Scott starts, “but we—”
“Three days.” Stiles interrupts, eyes boring holes through the bashful werewolves. Derek feels something curl around his ankle, and yelps when he sees a thorn bush trailing its way up his leg. The weed immediately retracts back into the ground, but not before it leaves at least five different trails of blood dripping down Derek’s leg. As it dries it gets caught in his leg hair.
“We’re sorry Stiles, we didn’t—”
“You didn’t mean to? I mean, I get it. I get that your lives are busy. But don’t fucking tell me that you’re going to get me out of here and that we’re going to come up with this great plan to unite our races and then leave me alone for three days wondering if you’re ever going to come back!” The dragon is livid, and Derek feels sick. Of course Stiles would feel that way. He’s a dragon in the company of two weres. How else is he supposed to act? What else is he supposed to think?
“We brought you something.” Derek says, attempting to diffuse the situation. He thrusts the gift at Stiles, heart beating fast until the dragon takes it.
Stiles carefully holds it, and you can tell he’s trying to guess what it is before he opens it. “Go on,” Scott urges, excited.
Stiles looks up at them, puzzlement obvious on his face. He spots Derek’s encouraging but shy smile and unwraps the present quickly, eagerly. And once he’s finished he just sits there, staring dumbly at the contraption cradled in his arms.
“Do you like it?” Scott asks eagerly, not noticing the need for silence.
Stiles nods mutely, still staring at the shabby prosthetic right in front of him.
Scott looks worried. “Is there—”
“Scott.” Derek says quietly, jerking his head to Stiles. The dragon sniffs once, and when Derek sees a tear fall he immediately joins the boy on the ground. “What’s wrong? I’m sorry, I’m sorry if we made you sad. Please, just…” Derek trails off, unsure.
Stiles sniffs again, this time with more congestion, and looks up from his lap to where Derek is crouched beside him. His eyes are red and his trembling mouth is twisted into a smile. “This is…the most thoughtful present I’ve ever received.” He trails his hand lovingly over the wood. “I love it,” he whispers softly.
“It was Scott’s idea,” Derek says gently.
Scott blushes when Stiles turns his head. “Derek did most of it. Do you want to try it on?” He expertly diverts attention.
Stiles nods vigorously, and the two werewolves heave him into a standing position, despite his sharp but playful protests. Scott crouches and sets Stiles’s nub into the contraption, and Derek can hear all the metal parts click together tightly when Scott twists them against the wood. The spring shakes gently against the force, and Derek lets Stiles lean even more heavily on him.
Once Scott had pronounced it perfect, Derek looks at Stiles. “You ready to give it a try?”
“Please,” Stiles says excitedly, and together they take a step. Stiles wastes no time falling, but Derek catches him before his leg gives out all the way, and they’re back on their feet to try again. It takes Stiles a while to kind of get the hang of it, and even then his knee is still really weak from not using it.
“It’s amazing,” Stiles says a few hours later when they’re lounging back by Stiles’s base camp, sipping perfectly fresh water and snacking on the oddly salty snails from the lake bay. Lovely yellow flowers—tiny, happy ones—are growing in the area by Stiles’s foot. “It really…it really means a lot to me that you guys would do something like that. And just for it, I, well, I have something to show you.”
Stiles doesn’t have his leg on anymore, but he stands up with the help of the wall and backs away from them a little. “Okay, so stay back a little bit. And just watch.” Stiles screws up his face in concentration. He stays like that for a little while before letting his expression fall as slack as heavy snow drifts. Then, suddenly, as if it happens daily, his perfect pale skin begins to sprout black scales and his eyes enlarge, along with his head and pretty much every single part of his body ever imaginable. Huge black bat wings sprout from his back, and his spine arches in odd angles, cracking and splintering.
And suddenly, standing before them, is a Night Fury. Derek shakes his head firmly. No, it’s Stiles. And he’s magnificent. His black scales glisten in the light that filters through the trees, his amazing honey eyes glow, and his large wings stretch up towards the sky with a great illusion of black waves coming to swallow the two werewolves up. Derek’s left speechless, but Scott spares no expense.
“Holy shit!” He says, looking up at Stiles who wide eyes. “Dude, you’re a dragon! You could eat me like a mid-morning snack!” He laughs, eyes dancing merrily. Derek groans and rolls his eyes at Scott’s word choice, but Stiles seems to find it hilarious. He snorts through his large nostrils and swigs his head down to their level, nuzzling the two of them with it. It’s a sweet and surprisingly werewolf-like mannerism.
“Can you breathe fire?” Scott asks, and Stiles snorts at him. No. Stiles does, however, show off his skills at shooting fire. They’re very small, very blue streams of hot, blazing fire, and he sends them into the large rock wall and the tiny lake. It really is impressive.
Once Stiles simmers down and gets close enough again to touch, Derek wastes no time running his hands along the dragon’s beautiful scales. When his hand finds a specific spot right under his jawbone, Stiles’s tail immediately thumps and he falls to the ground. Derek is alarmed at first, but Stiles is rumbling happily, and goes to stand back up when Derek does it again. Predictably, he falls. “Dragons got a soft spot, eh?” Derek asks, grinning widely, and Stiles hisses at him, which makes the whole thing even funnier.
Stiles changes back to human and immediately he’s talking. “Now that I can transform, we can use this to our advantage.” His eyes are shining. “The plan can be set in motion.”
“Stiles—” Derek starts, but the dragon shakes his head viciously.
“No. Derek, we talked about this. We have to do this. And we have to do it soon. When is your arena championship again?”
Derek sighs, turning away from him. “Two days.”
“Then that’s when we do it.” Stiles says fiercely, and when Derek turns to look at him he sees Stiles in an extremely aggressive pose. It’s the first time Derek has ever seen him like this; Stiles always takes the defensive, not the aggressive. It’s an odd change, but it’s oddly right.
Derek opens his mouth to argue, but almost the exact same second a loud howl echoes all the way to the canyon—soft, but still audible. Derek glances at Scott to find the other werewolf already flashing his red eyes. That was a warning howl. Something is up. Something very, very bad.
“This conversation is not over, but Stiles, we have to go,” Derek says. Stiles takes one look at his white face and nods, terrified.
“Do you think they saw me?” He whispers.
“Not at all. If they had, they would have brought the mob here.” He smiles weakly, but it falls.
“Derek, c’mon.” Scott is antsy, he needs to return to the pack. Derek feels the pull too, but on a much smaller level.
Derek nods, gives Stiles one last lingering touch on his arm, and turns away to follow Scott back home.
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When they get there, out of breath even with their werewolf strength and stamina, they find the source of the panic right away. There’s a small pack of humans that smell faintly like dragons standing in the middle of town, aiming their weapons at the circle of werewolves that surround them. Derek and Scott silently join the circle, as if they were here all along.
They make it just in time to see Talia stepping forward. “Weapons down.” She commands. The man in front shakes his head firmly. “Weapons down or I will not talk with you, you will go straight to the dungeons.” Derek admires the strength his mother has.
The silver-haired man deflates, nodding his head to his men and women as he lowers his crossbow.
“That wasn’t so hard.” Talia states. “Now we’ve had many humans here, but none as aggressive as you. Why are you here?” As Talia says the words, Derek realizes that his mother doesn’t know that the strangers smell like dragons. She thinks they’re just human. He looks to Scott and sees the same realization dawning on his face.
“We seek a dragon. He belongs to us.” The silver-haired man, definitely the guy in charge, says boldly.
“I have never heard of a human civilization keeping dragons.” She cocks her head. When it’s clear he won’t answer, she speaks again. “We do not keep many dragons here. We have a few for training our youths, if you’d like to take a look.” She gestures for the circle to break, and makes a hand motion for the humans to follow. “However, you must keep all your weapons here.”
The human—no, dragon—hesitates, but a girl from the back of their little pack touches his arm, and he lets his crossbow drop. She puts down her bow and quiver, and the rest of their team follows suit. “I’ll have our training pups keep your weapons safe. Now come.”
The second the men and women step away from their weapons, Erica, Boyd, Ethan, Aiden, Cora, and Isaac grab the guns and crossbows and sticks. Once everything is gathered, they troop towards their main city building. Scott and Derek share one look before following the group of dragons. The smell is like Stiles x 100, but lacks his faint flowery scent, and there’s no hint of apple. They follow only a few steps behind. Neither are very worried about being stopped. The son of the alpha and the True Alpha? They have every reason to follow whoever they wish.
True to her word, Talia leads the group to the closed-off alcove where they keep the dragons. The team looks into each cave, eyeing the inhabitants before realizing that whoever is in there is not who they’re looking for. A few of the dragons bristle when they see the team, some’s eyes light up in recognition, and some are just too out of it or too tired to do anything but stare blankly. But the team obviously knows each and every one of these caged creatures.
After Talia finishes letting them see, the dark-haired girl who had the bow steps forward. “He’s not here. Where are you keeping him?”
“Allison–” their leader says, stepping to stop her.
“No! Where is he?!” She asks, voice inching higher with each word. “Where is our dragon?” Derek watches the exchange, eyes wide. Who are they looking for? Scott mouths to him, and Derek just shakes his head slowly. Hell if he knows.
Talia’s eyes flash. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, and why this dragon means so much to you. But you cannot come onto my pack grounds and speak to me as such. This is a favor.”
The girl—Allison—turns away from the alpha and stands next to a man in clothes that are completely tan. The man looks absolutely broken, and she places a hand on his shoulder. “This dragon has something that’s very dear to me and my family. We must find it. Are you sure,” he asks, voice cracking, “sure that you haven’t seen a black dragon? He’d be entirely black, big eyes, fast.”
Talia frowns at the smell the man is emitting—it’s an awful, raw smell, one of hurt and loss and devastation. She must understand how much the answer means to him. “You must be talking about the Night Fury.” Her brow wrinkles as she tried to remember. “Yes, it was here during the last attack. Actually,” she looks towards the back, and Derek finds his mother’s eyes directly on him, “my son Derek took it down. His sister swears she watched him vault it down with one of our catapulting nets. The dragon must be dead. Derek, do you remember where it fell?”
Derek swallows, because suddenly the entire team of dragons turns to him, their eyes glaring. He quickly realizes who these people are: Stiles’s search party. They came to rescue him, and now they think that Derek killed their son/friend/dragon-brother. Today probably can’t get worse.
“I…it must be somewhere in the woods.” He answers, licking his lips. “It’s the only place that makes sense.” He swallows.
“Honey, you’ve been spending lots of time in the woods. Haven’t you seen the body?” Derek doesn’t miss the way the dragon pack flinches at the word.
“No Mom.” He answers. “But I think it’s probably dead.” Even to his own ears, he can hear the hollowness in his voice.
“There. You heard my son, it’s almost positively dead. I can have him take you out there, though, and you can search for the body. Perhaps the dragon kept whatever it stole from you with itself.”
“Perhaps.” Their leader whispers, eyes glazed. “I think we would greatly appreciate a guide through the the woods as we search.” He inclines his head towards Derek.
“Of course. Derek, please lead them through the woods. Maybe they’ll spot something you didn’t.” Talia gives him a hard look. “Scott, will you accompany him? And once you all return, we will feast and then send the humans back where they came from. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” She informs everyone regally, then leads them all out at a brisk pace.
“Thank you for taking us,” the leader says to Derek as his mother walks away and he begins to lead them, Scott by his side, into the woods.
Derek nods, chills creeping up his back at the hatred in the pack’s glares. It’s worse than the disappointed looks of his mother, back when he wasn’t a “dragon killer.” He steps cautiously over every branch, nudging Scott with his arm. “Where do we take them?” He whispers.
“That’s not really a question to ask me,” Scott says back softly. Derek shoots him a questioning glance. “That’s something you should ask Stiles.”
Derek’s eyes flick to the group of dragons. “Will you…?” He trails off, looking at them again.
“Of course.” Scott answers, shooting him a small smirk. Derek nods and places a hand on the alpha’s shoulder, swiping his palm along the nape of Scott’s neck. The warning is clear: be careful.
Derek turns to the team. “Some business has come up. I promise I’ll return shortly, but for now Scott will lead you on the search through the woods.” Derek nods shortly at them, looking but not seeing, and turns away before running off deeper into the woods. After he’s been running for a few minutes, he turns and begins to go in the direction of the chasm. He knows it’s a crappy masking job, but it’ll have to do for now.
When he gets down in the chasm, Stiles is already limping towards him with a smile on his face. “Derek! Back so soon? What happened up there?” He asks. “Were they sa—” he stops, seeing the look on Derek’s face. “What is it?”
Derek licks his lips. There’s no way to say this easily. “Stiles, a group of dragons disguised as humans approached my mother and pack today. They’re…they’re looking for you.”
Stiles’s eyes immediately widen. “Is there a blind man with them?”
“Stiles I don’t understand why—”
“Was there a blind man with them!?” Stiles presses himself against Derek, whiskey eyes desperately searching his own.
“No,” he says.
Stiles deflates. “Thank god. Who was it?”
“It was led by a man. He had silver hair and…blue eyes. There was a girl with dark hair. Allison, her name was.”
“Allison?” Stiles’s entire demeanor perks up, eyes alight.
“Yeah. Pretty, a leader.”
“That’s her. God, I’ve missed her.” He pauses, but Derek knows that he wants to say more. He waits. “Was there…was there a man dressed in a sheriff’s outfit?”
Derek’s eyebrows crinkle. “Sheriff’s outfit?”
Stiles waves his hands around himself, as if gesturing towards an imaginary outfit. “It would be long pants, short sleeves. Entirely tan.” He eventually spits out amidst his flailing.
“Oh! Yeah, he was there.”
Stiles gets a faraway look in his eye. “Is he really? Did he look sad?”
Derek senses that this is a sensitive subject, and Stiles is close enough to hit him if he starts being accidentally insensitive again. “He looked tired. I think he misses you.”
Stiles laughs humorlessly, mouth curving inwards. “He’s my father.”
Derek clears his throat awkwardly. “We have to make a decision. Do…do you want to alert your search party before the actual competition? Or do we want to wait?”
“Where are they now?” Stiles’s eyes are squinted.
“Here in the woods. Scott’s keeping them away from you right now.”
“What are they doing here?”
Derek purses his lips. “Right now? Looking for your body.”
Stiles bites the knuckles on his right hand, and begins pacing. “Well that’ll keep them busy. They won’t believe I’m dead until they see a body. My family is the most persistent bunch of sons of bitches I know.” He laughs, and it kind of sounds like a bark. “We can’t let them know that I’m here. They think that werewolves are the devil’s children. Demons from Hell. That’s what we’ve always been taught. If they know that I’ve been alive all this time, it won’t matter what I tell them. I can say that you’re the next messiah, and all they’ll think is that you’ve been brainwashing me. Stockholm Syndrome.” The words confuse Derek, but he’s more concerned with other things.
“So you want to…what?” Derek asks, palms splayed. “What’s the next move?”
“You have to keep them with you.” Stiles looks desperate. “You have to keep them close. But they can’t know I’m here. At all. If we can keep them calm and out of the way until your tournament, then we should be able to keep them away from the werewolves. Believe me, they won’t dare attack.”
Derek turns. “Why not?”
Stiles takes a step forward. Sighs. Steps back. “Because they’re here without permission.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks as if it pains him. “There…there are these three people. We call them The Leaders. They have…control over us.” He spits the words. “We have to do as they say. The attacks. They’re the ones who ordered them.”
“Why must you do what they say?” Derek asks.
“You have to promise me not to tell anyone. I’ve never…gods, I’ve never even thought of telling anyone this. Promise me!” Stiles says.
“Of course, I promise.” Derek steps towards the dragon. “Stiles, what are you not telling me?”
The boy visibly swallows, his eyes catching on random spots on the forest ground. “Every dragon is born with a name. A dragon’s name is his first tattoo: it’s etched above the heart. The mother should be the first one to say it. Once she says it, she claims the child as her own. She holds the child’s real name in custody until the dragon baby is old enough to take responsibility for his own name. Then she gives it away, and the dragon is in charge of himself.
“That’s how our flock functioned. Until the Leaders. They began saying the names of the dragon children, capturing their names and holding them hostage to their every command. Every single one of us are captives to the Leaders. We must do exactly as they say when they use our real names with a command. No one else but they can do it, because they are the official holders.”
Derek listens to the entire spiel in horror. “Well how can we get you your name back?” He asks.
Stiles shakes his head. “The Leaders either have to give it away willingly or be killed. Once the owner of the name is killed, the name can never be taken from the dragon again.”
“Haven’t you ever tried killing them before?”
“Of course we have. Ten years ago my mother led a resistance against them. However, they seem to have some kind of magic that lets them see our plans. They called out the names of the resistors and forced them to go out on a suicide mission against some werewolf villages. My mother and her followers were killed.”
“Stiles.” Derek says, and opens his arms so the dragon can fall into them. “We’ll find a way, I promise. Our plan will work. We’ll find a way.”
They stay like that, huddled in the comfort of one another, for a long time.
…
I’m actually working on a rewriting of this entire story so it’s better, so right now you all are reading the version I’m not very happy with. I appreciate each and every last one of you!
-Emma
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