Cross Our Bridges When We Come to Them (Derek/Stiles)
Word Count: 60k, but still a wip. 4/6 chapters complete.
Summary: The five times Derek called the Sheriff “Dad” on accident and the first time he did it on purpose.
It’s not as cutesy as it sounds and there are SO MANY FEELINGS that this story creates in you. If you like Kate Argent feels, Derek Hale point of view, addressing the trauma he went through and the age of consent and age gap between Derek and Stiles, then…
You should read this.
I really recommend it.
I really would love to see that crossover, repeatedly, in every possible position. Even if it would end in tears because let’s be real, everything the Winchesters touch ends in tears. Poor little shits.
“Look kid,” Sam says. It’s the third time he’s tried the good cop routine and Dean can hear it wearing thin. “We know you had nothing to do with the murders. But we also know you’re not the only werewolf in town.”
The kid tips his head and sucks on his lips, the total absence of fucks glaringly obvious. Dean is both frustrated as hell and grudgingly impressed because, hell, they’ve dealt with demons less sassy than this.
Sam sighs, and Dean has to cough into his hand to keep from laughing because that particular brand of exasperation is usually reserved for him. “Just be straight with us.”
For some reason, that’s hilarious. It takes a second before Dean remembers the dude they’d seen the kid with before they’d picked him up. Big, serial killer looking guy, sporting leather and a possessive hand on kid-snark’s back. Oh man.
Dean snorts and gives Sam patented ‘what? it’s funny’ shoulders when it earns him a glare.
“Trust me, dude,” the kid says. “I’m being as straight with you as…well, I was gonna say humanly possible but…”
A flash of canines has Sam rolling his eyes and sue him, Dean sorta wants to high-five the kid. You know you’ve been hunting for too long when you start rooting for your mark.
“You’re driving a stolen car,” Sam says. “You’re carrying a fake ID. Every word out of your mouth so far has been bullshit-”
“Says the hunter posing as an FBI agent,” the kid says, tapping a nonchalant beat on his water bottle.
Sam pulls out bitch-face number eleven. “Is anything about you real?”
The kid grins and bobs his head. “My boobs.”
Dean laughs so hard he almost pulls something.
MESSY PAINTER DEREK = MY FETISH
This is the moment when Boyd comes out of the woods carrying Erica’s body. It’s a shocking image; Boyd is bleeding all over and he can barely stand while holding Erica.
For a split second, Stiles thinks that she just needs help. It’s another seizure, he tells himself. He takes three steps before Derek puts a hand on his shoulder. Derek knows. There’s no heart beating, there’s… nothing.
Derek holds him still, without putting much strength, but it’s enough for Stiles to stop and realize that Erica is gone.
The best Pride & Prejudice Derek/Stiles AU I’ve encountered so far is Really, Derek Hale? and it’s a wip but I loved the spin the author took on it, incorporating The Lizzie Bennet Diaries as an influence as well.
Lydia has always been orange, fiery, eye-catching, the perfect mix of bold and bright. Even if she doesn’t think orange and blue go together (which they totally do, seriously, has she never played portal?) she always screamed orange to Stiles.
It doesn’t click for Stiles that maybe he isn’t blue until Jackson yanks his hood over his head and shoves him into a locker with a snide “move it, little red”. He can work with red. Energy, passion, determination, all very Stiles.
Somehow that helps, knowing that he and Lydia aren’t complementary, but analogous. Which makes sense because in a freaky way they’re a lot alike, smart, guarded, borderline pathological liars.
Stiles wonders if he hadn’t been so busy trying woo her, if they could have been friends. Maybe they still could be.
The complement to red is green, which Stiles is totally down with, because how awesome is Christmas? Stiles just needs to find his green so they can get with the merry making.
He starts to think of people in colors. Scott is yellow, cheerful, stimulating, and more often than not a sign of approaching danger. Of course Allison is his complement with all the ambition, nobility and passion of purple. Stiles smiles at the thought of them being the colors of the Lakers and wonders if he could get them to name their inevitable firstborn Kobe.
Stiles thinks Derek is black, what with the power, mystery and, you know, death. He’s got a definite “dark lord” vibe going for him, even if he wasn’t forcing the pack to get creepy matching tattoos.
He catches Derek one day, right after a run, bounding from out of the forest, eyes bright and chest heaving. He gives off this infectious aura of calm. It’s like he’s made for the forest, or maybe it was made for him.
Stiles remembers reading somewhere that green is the most restful color for the human eye to look at.
It symbolizes endurance, growth and, hope. Stiles is surprised when he realizes he wants Derek to be green, wants him to have that sense of safety and healing. He wants to complement Derek, Stiles wants to make him feel like Christmas every day.
He does what he can, finds way to peel back all of Derek’s layers until he gets to the heart of him. It’s slow going but Derek starts to blossom for Stiles and the more he reveals about himself the more Stiles wants to know.
They work well together, Stiles’ knowledge and Derek’s instincts filling in gaps the other misses. Derek’s also the only person Stiles has ever met who’s able to go blow for sarcastic blow with him. They fit together like the brightly colored puzzle piece mats Stiles used to love in preschool, like they don’t need anything more to be complete but they could add on a few more pieces if they want to, maybe a purple and a yellow, keep going until they have the whole rainbow.
And when Derek pushes him up against a tree, kissing him slow and sweet and Stiles fists his hands into the hem of Derek’s shirt, holding on for dear life, it feels Christmas morning.
this got REALLY long. whoops.
When Stiles wakes up he sees a pair of eyebrows knitted together. He blinks and a blurry face comes into view. The face looks angry, no, furious.
Stiles blanches and tries to pull away before realizing his leg is hooked up to something. He yells in surprise and strong hands shoot out to catch his shoulders.
“Stiles! Stiles, relax!”
“Get off me!”
The hands let go as if burned and the man stares down at him in shock. “You don’t— Stiles—”
“How do you know my name?”
The furious looking face is replaced by one of surprised hurt. Stiles feels bad without totally knowing why.
DEREK’S DAEMON NOT TALKING TO HIM SINCE THE FIRE
BECAUSE KATE MADE HIM DOUBT HIS VERY SOUL
MADE HIM DISTRUST HIMSELF COMPLETELY
“So why doesn’t she talk?” he asks abruptly.
Derek doesn’t answer for a long time. He turns off the dryer, unplugs it and wraps the cord around the handle. He sweeps up the stray bits of fur with his foot and throws it in the garbage. Stiles figures he isn’t going to and then, “She tried to tell me something once. It was—important,” It’s soft, stilted, understated mostly; in another conversation he’d be talking about raking the leaves, the headlines. “She doesn’t trust me enough to listen anymore.” -[x]
PLEASE STOP DYING?
Mrs. Krabappel hands out the small, slightly dinged but still brightly colored toys with the kind of tired resignation only a biology teacher can have when she’s asked to teach kids about personal responsibility and the human reproductive system through epiteths and technological metaphor.
“The rules are simple,” she says, thinking only of the joy she could find in early afternoon alcoholism. “If they die, you fail. The reset buttons have been made inaccessible. Don’t cheat, and don’t bring them into any classes where the teachers don’t want to be disturbed.” Which is any classes, really. “The world is cruel place and only the strongest survive. Let the games begin.”
For the first day or so, everyone thinks it’s kind of cool. It would have been much cooler about ten years earlier, but Stiles figures it’s almost enough time to make the little pocket aliens retro rather than super lame.
“This is so lame,” Jackson says over lunch, but no one listens to Jackson anymore. Most of the school treats him like he’s dead, which amuses Stiles greatly.
“Oh, shut up, you’re only grumpy because you can’t win the stupid guessing game.”
Jackson looks a little wild eyed. “It’s witchcraft. Wait. Please tell me it can’t be witchcraft.”
Lydia slaps the back of his head. “How many times do I have to explain random numbers and probability to you? There is nothing magical about these pixels.”
Except, Stiles thinks they have to be cursed.
Interest wanes pretty quickly and the entire pack takes advantage of the fact that their glorious Alpha is a bit of a rich bum, who has nothing better to do all day anyway. Erica uses her big eyes to convince Derek to take care of her electronic egg for just a bit, the rest of them just sort of drop theirs off in a pile after the dam has broken.
The strange thing though, the strange thing is that Derek actually seems to get into it, perking up every time there’s a little pathetic beep.
Stiles stays around because, well. It’s hilarious. And maybe he actually likes Derek’s company. Still, a man’s gotta make a joke if the opening is this good. “You could sit on them, see if they hatch?”
Then he runs for his life, saved only by the timely beep of his favorite pack egg.
Back to the curse though, Derek’s tamagotchi are all defective. Or Derek is. Because probability be damned, there is no way these eggs all start being sick or hungry at the same freaking time, and all through the night. It’s ridiculous.
It also makes Derek look kind of frazzled and that is more disturbing than anything. Because somehow Derek seems to care about these bits of plastic and cheap electronics.
“You know,” Lydia says at school when Stiles tells her, “they actually call that the tamagotchi effect. It’s kind of like your creepy obsession with your car.”
Stiles gasps. “Oh my god, leave Betty alone.”
The first one goes at night. They only find out about it the day after, when Derek, solemn and quieter than usual, tries to break the news to Boyd.
Boyd doesn’t actually care. He’s got a sold A in that class and no single terrible assignment is going to change that.
Stiles starts to worry when Isaac’s and Scott’s both die in the span of a pack meeting and Derek completely loses the plot. They break for pizza and no one says anything about Derek clutching the last one to his chest.
“Okay, this is too fucking weird, dude,” Stiles says as he wakes up to a looming but distraught werewolf in his room.
Derek’s breath hitches as he tries to speak. “I don’t understand. Everything I touch dies.”
Stiles gets up and buries the dude in a hug, because holy shit.
Erica’s is the last and it sits between Stiles and Derek on the bed like the last seal of the apocalypse. Neither of them really dares to touch it.
Then it beeps.
Stiles leans over and winces, because it couldn’t just be poop or wanting to play, oh no, it was a disease and hunger double-whammy. That weird little alien was so fucking dead.
“I-” Stiles chokes on the words a little. “I’m sorry.”
And fucking hell, are those tears?!
Early in the morning, Stiles hears the one unassuming beep he knows won’t be a problem. Erica’s tamagotchi passed away in the night, but his own, untouched by Derek’s curse, is only just waking up.
He looks at the little thing and sighs. “Want to share?”
Derek looks astonished and afraid, but when Stiles offers the bright little toy, Derek reaches out. “Are you sure?”
Stiles shrugs. “It’s easier with two people.”
He’s not talking about tamagotchis anymore and that’s probably okay. Derek’s smile seems to indicate he knows.
In the end, Stiles gets an A and some hands-on experience with the actual purpose of the class - how to take care of someone who doesn’t really have the words to tell you what they need.