They’re hiding in the bushes on a hill overlooking a small group of women who are chanting in what Stiles assumes is Latin. The moon overhead is bright enough to see pretty clearly, even without the light from the small fire around which the women are gathered. He’s got a tight grip on his little bag of mountain ash (because you never know when that stuff’s gonna come in handy), and a loose grip on the sleeve of Derek’s dark green Henley. It only took five years of near-death experiences together for the older man to stop slamming him into hard surfaces and/or glaring at him every time Stiles touches him. He’s kind of stupidly pleased that Derek trusts him that much.

“This is never going to work.”

Okay, but he does trust him.

Really.

Derek’s face is its usual mask of near-perfect stoicism, but Stiles has known him for several years now, and he’s very aware of Derek’s tells. Like the way his left eyebrow is slightly quirked, and his nostrils are flaring. The former alpha is afraid. It’s a rare enough occurrence that Stiles feels the need to reassure him.

“You don’t know that,” he says, as gently as he can without sounding condescending. Derek is still Derek, after all. Plus, they’re sort of bros, and Stiles cares about Derek’s feelings. “This could totally work. It will work.”

At Derek’s unimpressed snort, Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Stop your huffing and puffing,” he snarks, ignoring the indignant growl that escapes Derek at the taunt. Stiles is not above Three Little Pigs and Little Red Riding Hood jokes. “It’s magic, dude. Half of it is belief, and I know this is going to work. Like a charm, even.”

“Stiles. There are three of them, and one of you.”

Of course. To Derek, the fact that they’re outnumbered by magic-wielding baddies is troubling. To Stiles, it’s practice. He tries not to smirk and fails miserably.

“I know,” Stiles drawls, eyes roaming from one chanting figure to the next, “but we’ve got something they don’t have.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks. If it’s possible, he sounds even less impressed. “What’s that?”

“Me.”

Now it’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. Stiles will give him that. He hasn’t had the chance to see him in action yet. No one really has, except Deaton, and he’d also been less than impressed by Stiles’ abilities, though not for the same reasons. Stiles prefers to think he’s jealous rather than genuinely concerned for his safety. He is perfectly aware of the dangers inherent in mixing magical practices, but so far, everything has been coming up roses. Sometimes literally. As in, one time he brought a dead rose bush back to stunning, vividly-blossomed life. It was awesome. It also briefly put him into a catatonic state, and Deaton had actually yelled at him after he’d come to. Deaton. Had yelled. Stiles used it as a learning experience and, rather than stopping as the former emissary had suggested, figured out new ways to generate energy for the more taxing of his incantations.

That’s how he’d realized what had come over the town, and how he knew he was the only one who could stop it. Okay, so maybe he was here with Derek instead of Scott because Scott was in Fiji on his honeymoon with Allison, but. He’d still been the one to figure out that the entire population of Beacon Hills wasn’t going through some kind of mass depression, with its accompanying lethargy. He was the one to suggest witches. To find them, even. Stiles was the one who’d learned the women planned to use the town’s collective energy to not only reactivate the beacon of Beacon Hills, but to rip open a sort of Hellmouth as well. Because his life wasn’t already enough like an episode of Buffy, apparently. Anyway, he was the one who’d come up with the plan to stop them, and he’s going to be the one to single-handedly execute that plan, no matter how many times Derek tells him it’s a Bad Idea. Because seriously? Derek is the King of Bad Ideas. Stiles has totally got this.

“I’ve totally got this,” he says. “Just hang back unless it looks like things are going to Hell. I’m not as vulnerable as you are.”

Derek’s eyebrow rises toward his hairline. At least his nostrils have stopped flaring.

“To their magic,” Stiles clarifies, ‘duh’ silently tacked on at the end. “I’m serious about not interfering, man. There’s going to be a lot of magic floating around—”

“Is that what it does?”

Stiles narrows his eyes. Sometimes he forgets how annoying Derek’s sense of humor can be. Stiles isn’t enough of a hypocrite to actually call him out on it, though. “If you get zapped with an errant curse I am not helping you undo it,” he grumps instead.

The chanting below them rises in volume. Stiles tugs nervously at his hoodie and gives Derek’s arm a little squeeze. He’s 99% sure his plan is going to work, and he’s going to come out of this looking like a badass, but just in case things go tits up, he figures it’s better to have felt those muscles under his fingers than not. Derek’s eyes shift down to where Stiles is touching him, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even frown. Stiles gives him one last squeeze, then pats his shoulder.

“Wish me luck,” he grins. Stiles turns toward the witches, takes a deep breath, and thanks all the deities he believes in (and some he doesn’t) that it’s been a particularly warm Spring.

No one but Deaton has really seen him do what he can do, since things in Beacon Hills have been relatively quiet the last few years, and that also means no one but Deaton has seen what Stiles has done to facilitate his use of magic on the path to emissary-dom. So it’s no surprise to hear Derek’s sharp inhalation of breath when he drops the bag of mountain ash to his feet and strips off his hoodie. Stiles can feel the wolf’s eyes tracing hot paths over his exposed flesh. He might smirk. Just a little.

Stiles’ upper body is covered in magical words and symbols. His arms, back, and chest are decorated with scores of black lines and swirls of color. The runes are the most prominent markings, with uruz front and center at the very top of his sternum. This one strengthens his will, the most vital thing to any magic user. He concentrates on this and hagalaz, a rune on his left shoulder blade that is used in the removal of unwanted influences. It’s a tricky thing, wielding the runes to suit his purposes, but if he’s learned anything from Deaton, it’s that will and intent matter. The spell he’s casting is forged entirely from these things. Sure, he could have used herbs and talismans like the witches below him are doing in order to draw on their power, but magic generated from one, pure source is stronger, more effective. Plus, this makes him look like even more of a badass. Which is important to Stiles. He’s never claimed to be perfect, okay.

He’s halfway through his incantation—halfway to saving everyone’s collective asses with one spell, holy shit, he’s feeling awesome—when one of the witches spots them. They’re far enough away that Stiles isn’t too worried. He’s sure he can rattle off the rest of the spell before Maleficent and her two friends figure out a way to stop him. But because he’s Stiles Stilinski, and the universe just does not generally let him do things the easy way, Derek decides the women in the clearing are enough of a threat to charge down the hill toward them in full wolf mode. His concentration is shaken, but Stiles closes his eyes and doesn’t stop casting. Not until Derek lets out what is definitely a yelp of pain.

One of the witches has managed to stab him. In the leg. With a ceremonial silver dagger used for binding. Derek is down for the count, rooted to the spot, and the witch is raising the dagger again. Stiles doesn’t know if werewolves can survive a knife to the heart, and he’s not about to find out.

As quickly as he ever has, he shifts the focus of his use of hagalaz. Rather than concentrating on the spell the witches are using to siphon energy from the good citizens of Beacon Hills, Stiles turns his attention to the magic that has incapacitated Derek. It’s a simple thing to break its hold on him, but he sighs in relief anyway when the werewolf rolls to the side, narrowly escaping the blade as it plunges down for the killing blow.

Stiles resumes his original incantation, the words flowing faster and with more force as he watches Derek circle the women until he’s put himself between them and Stiles once again. If he wasn’t completely focused on destroying the witches’ influence, Stiles would roll his eyes. Who said chivalry was dead?

It takes only another few moments for Stiles to do what he’s come to do. The active runes on his body glow with spiritual energy, and his voice rises from the murmur it had been. Spells don’t have to be shouted to be effective, but he ends up screaming anyway, because using your body as the focal point for so much energy hurts like a bitch. All three witches in the clearing below him look up in shock as his spell overrides theirs. Like they hadn’t honestly considered his presence a threat. No one takes him seriously, even when his half-naked, tatted-up body is glowing with otherworldly power.

It’s a lesson the witches aren’t afforded the chance to learn. They drop dead the moment the last Norse word falls from his suddenly numb lips. And then Stiles collapses onto the forest floor.

Derek is there in an instant, pulling at his shoulders.

“You could have killed yourself, you idiot!” he bellows, eyes flashing blue in the moonlight, thankfully clawless fingers probing him for injuries. Stiles grins at him stupidly.

“But I didn’t.”

Derek purses his lips as he turns Stiles’ face in his palm, then sighs in what Stiles interprets as relief when he finds no cuts, bruises, or anything other than unblemished, mole-dotted skin. “No, you didn’t,” he reluctantly admits. “But, they…”

“They’re dead,” Stiles says. Derek meets his eyes steadily. He probably thinks Stiles should be more broken up about taking their lives, and if this was happening a few years ago, and the witches hadn’t been aware of what kind of dark power they’d been calling on, he might be. “They knew the price their actions carried. Magic is about balance. If they hadn’t died, lots of other people in this town would have. I don’t regret it.”

They hold each other’s gaze until it becomes a little weird, and Stiles attempts to struggle to his feet. He fails in the most spectacular fashion.

“Those spells took a lot out of me,” he wheezes at Derek’s concerned grunt as he helps him to stand.

“Magic is about balance,” Derek deadpans. If Stiles had the energy, he’d punch him right in his stupid, smug face. But Derek’s right. And he needs to achieve some sort of equilibrium, so.

He grabs the werewolf by the hairs on his chinny chin chin and hauls him in for a nice, wet kiss instead.

Stiles feels the uruz symbol on his chest grow warm at the surge of sexual energy the contact produces, and he sighs into Derek’s mouth, which is parted in shock. And hey, his legs have stopped shaking! Sweet.

“What—” Derek begins, but cuts himself off when he pulls back to find a Cheshire grin curling up the corners of Stiles’ mouth.

“Magic is about balance,” Stiles intones. “I’m just tipping the scales back in my favor.”

Derek’s face does this really strange thing, then. His lips pull back from his teeth. Stiles has seen this expression once before, many moons ago. And he’s pretty sure Derek is—yep, he’s smiling. He’s grinning. At Stiles. Then he chuckles, just a little, throaty thing, but if Stiles had known nearly killing himself by casting powerful magical spells would have produced this kind of result, he would have done it ages ago. He might have actually killed himself in the process, but what a way to go.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m awesome,” Stiles corrects.

One of Derek’s broad palms comes up to wrap around the base of his neck, and his bright smile fades. For a split second, Stiles thinks he’s back to being pissed off, but then he catches a glimpse of the older man’s pupils. They’re blown wide. And his irises are flashing blue. And he’s nodding.

“Still an idiot,” Derek growls, and then his mouth is on Stiles’ mouth again, and it is the best thing ever. And Stiles has had sex. With, like, three people. The soft brush of Derek’s tongue against his blows all of those experiences out of the water.

The uruz marking on his chest feels like it’s about to catch fire. The ancient pagans didn’t just use it as a channel for sexual energy because it looked cool. Stiles can feel each point of contact with Derek’s mouth as if it’s connected to every individual nerve ending in his entire body. Their chests are pressed together, and Derek’s heartbeat thumps fast and strong against the uruz. In all the years Stiles has been practicing magic, this is the most spiritually connected he’s ever felt to anyone or anything.

That is, of course, the moment his phone starts ringing. The dulcet tones of Puppy Love drag him from the warmth of Derek’s lips back to cold, hard reality. There are three dead women in the small clearing below them, and Scott is calling from 6,000 miles away to see how they fared without him. Stiles rolls his eyes skyward in annoyance, but it’s going to take more than the unhappy prospect of hiding the bodies of some very bad people and what he just knows is going to be every sordid detail of Scott’s honeymoon to dampen his spirits.

He kissed Derek Hale. Without bodily injury!

Derek kissed him.

When he glances back down, it looks like Derek very much wants to stomp his phone into the ground and continue balancing Stiles’ scales. Stiles is inclined to let him, but.

“The Sanderson sisters have been taken care of,” he announces to Scott, who’s telling Allison to cut it out, babe, when he finally answers the phone. The reference seems to sail right over both Scott and Derek’s heads, and Stiles sighs. He can’t even make a horrible, inappropriately-timed joke because no one gets it.

“Oh, awesome, dude,” Scott chirps, oblivious. Sometimes Stiles really envies him. “Did anyone get hurt?”

Stiles’ entire face scrunches up as he looks down the hill at the witches. “Uhh. Derek and I are fine,” is what he settles on, because it’s true, and he doesn’t want to possibly upset his best friend in what is supposed to be one of the best times of his life by telling him why he and Derek are fine. Scott is obviously preoccupied with his new wife, and thankfully doesn’t notice the way Stiles’ voice cracks at the end of the sentence.

“That’s great!” his Alpha continues. Stiles can hear him making kissy sounds at Allison over the line. “So, you guys don’t need any help, then? ‘Cause I can call Isaac, and—”

“No!” Stiles barks. Even Derek is shaking his head. “I mean, we’re good here. No reason to interrupt the scarfed one from… whatever it is he does when he’s not being a pain in my ass.”

“Hey!” Scott cries, unsure as to whether or not to be offended on his beta’s behalf. But Stiles just hums and scuffs a foot into the dirt between Derek’s boots. They’re still pressed together. Stiles is still shirtless. It’s awesome.

“Really, dude, we’ve got everything under control. You go make sweet, sweet love to your wife and leave the cleanup to me and Derek.”

“Cleanup?”

“Don’t even worry about it,” he says, grinning up at Derek, whose face is once again inches from his own.

“Stiles, what do you mean—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow love you bro bye,” he manages to rattle off in one giant slur before ending the call and shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Really, everything is fine, and Scott can wait for his full update when Stiles doesn’t have much more important things to think about. Like how he’s going to keep from climbing Derek like a tree now that he’s channeled so much energy into the sexual potency-increasing rune on his chest. He doesn’t want his first (of many) time(s) with Derek to be on the dirt, surrounded by dead bodies. This is mostly in consideration of Derek’s feelings. Stiles kind of wants Derek in all the places he can get him.

“So,” he begins slowly, gaze sweeping over the high slope of Derek’s impressive cheekbones. “I’m riding pretty high on both the literal and figurative magic we’re making here.” Derek snorts at him, but Stiles can tell he’s just trying to hold back laughter. Because he thinks Stile is funny. “What do you say we bury these bitches and head back to my place?” Stiles has a place. A place where his father does not live.

Derek just stares at him incredulously, like he cannot believe the shit coming out of Stiles’ mouth right now.

“I’ll make you dinner. Or breakfast. Or both,” he adds, with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Who even are you?” Derek asks. But his eyes are soft, and fond, and yeah. Stiles could get used to that look. He curls one hand around Derek’s bicep and squeezes gently, just because he can, and feels a mischievous smile part his lips.

“Stiles Stilinski, emissary.”