Chapter 2: The Reunion: A Wolf and His Mate
The heavy door clicked open, and it hit Derek like a physical blow – the scent. Old paperbacks, that cheap sport deodorant clinging stubbornly to worn cotton, and beneath it, the vital, crackling energy uniquely Stiles. Five years vanished in a breath. He was on his feet before he consciously willed it, the metal chair legs scraping harshly against the concrete floor.
Stiles stood framed in the doorway, the sterile light glinting off the FBI badge clipped to his belt. Gone was the lanky teenager; this man had sharper edges, wiry strength coiled tight, eyes the color of aged bourgone narrowed and assessing, locking onto Derek with an intensity that crackled. A woman – dark hair pulled back severely, posture radiating controlled readiness – stood slightly behind him, her gaze sweeping the room: Agent Garcia. But Derek barely registered her.
Stiles stepped in, letting the door sigh shut. The air thickened, charged with unspoken years and the bitter residue of Derek’s rejection in that sterile hospital corridor. A muscle jumped in Stiles' jaw. "Well, well," he drawled, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on, his voice rougher, deeper than Derek remembered, vibrating in the small space. "If it isn't Derek Hale—my favorite material witness."
The words, laced with old hurt and professional disdain, were a spark to tinder. Derek’s control, already frayed by the explosion, the interrogation, the years of gnawing regret, snapped. His inner wolf howled, a soundless roar of possession and desperate need that flooded his veins with fire. All thought, all caution, evaporated.
He moved. Not human speed, not even close. A blur across the small space.
One hand slammed into the wall beside Stiles' head, caging him. The other fisted in the front of Stiles' cheap, government-issue shirt. The scent of him – the real, living Stiles, not the phantom memory – was overwhelming, intoxicating. Derek saw the shock widen Stiles' eyes, felt the startled jump of his pulse against Derek’s knuckles, smelled the sudden spike of adrenaline and something else, something hot and forbidden beneath the anger.
Before Stiles could form a word, before Garcia could move, Derek crushed their mouths together.
It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming. A desperate, furious press of lips and teeth and tongue. Stiles stiffened, a muffled sound caught in his throat. Derek growled low, deep in his chest, the vibration traveling into Stiles. He deepened the kiss, forcing Stiles' lips apart, his tongue plunging in, tasting coffee and rage and the familiar, maddening essence he'd starved for. The hand fisted in Stiles' shirt tightened, pulling their bodies flush. Derek could feel every hard line, the rapid hammer of Stiles' heart against his own ribs. He didn't fucking care about Garcia, the bomb, the consequences.
Stiles didn't freeze; he exploded. Training kicked in, a brutal counterpoint to Derek's raw instinct. His knee drove hard into Derek’s diaphragm, a practiced blow knocking the wind out with a painful gasp. Simultaneously, Stiles grabbed Derek’s wrist, the one pinning him to the wall, twisting it sharply with vicious leverage against the joint. Derek’s grip on the shirt tore fabric as Stiles pivoted his entire bodyweight, using Derek’s own momentum against him.
The world lurched. One second Derek was crushing Stiles against the wall, tasting fury and coffee; the next, his back slammed into the unyielding concrete floor, the impact rattling his teeth. Stiles stood over him, chest heaving, eyes blazing with cold fury that barely masked the frantic rabbit-pounding of his heart Derek could hear perfectly. "Garcia! Now!" Stiles barked, his voice rough but controlled, not looking away from Derek’s prone form.
Before Derek could gather himself to lunge again, Agent Garcia stepped forward. She inhaled, a sharp, deliberate sound, and then spoke. Her voice wasn't loud, but it vibrated, a low, resonant thrum that bypassed thought and slammed directly into Derek’s hindbrain. "SIT. DOWN. STAY." The command pulsed through his veins like liquid lead, an irresistible siren-song woven with pure, paralyzing authority. His muscles locked, his rebellious snarl dying in his throat as the compulsion forced him rigidly upright and shoved him back into the hard metal chair. He strained against it, teeth grinding, claws pricking his palms, but the siren’s will held him fast.
"Jesus Christ, Stilinski! What the hell was that?" Russo demanded, hand hovering near his holster, eyes wide and alarmed, flicking between Derek’s immobilized rage and Stiles’s deceptive calm. He hadn’t seen the move, only the blur and the result – Derek flat on his back.
Stiles smoothed his ripped shirt, the gesture casual, almost bored, a perfect mask. He shrugged, the picture of baffled nonchalance. "Beats the hell out of me, Russo," he lied smoothly, though Derek could smell the sharp tang of his lingering adrenaline, the frantic pulse beneath his ribs, and beneath it all, unmistakably, the hot, musky scent of Stiles's arousal, thick and undeniable, mingling with the ozone and sweat in the sterile room. "Guess I'm just too damn irresistible," Stiles added, forcing a wry smirk as he met Derek’s furious, knowing gaze. "Even for cranky werewolves."
The air crackled with the aftermath of violence and Garcia’s binding command. Stiles finally looked away from Derek’s trapped fury, his nonchalant mask firmly back in place despite the ripped fabric at his collar and the scent of his own conflicted arousal clinging to him. He pulled out the chair beside Garcia, the scrape echoing sharply in the quiet room, and sat.
"Agent Russo," Stiles began, his voice professionally flat, a stark contrast to the sharp sarcasm he'd used moments before. "This is my partner, Special Agent Elena Garcia, Supernatural Threat Assessment Bureau." Garcia gave Russo a curt nod, her dark eyes watchful, her compulsion still vibrating faintly in the air around Derek, keeping him pinned. "And as you can see," Stiles continued, gesturing vaguely towards Derek, his knuckles white where they gripped the table edge, "this charming individual is Derek Hale."
Russo’s frown deepened, his gaze flicking between the agents and the immobilized werewolf. "I know who he is, Stilinski. Why are STAB agents walking into my interview?"
Stiles sighed, the sound heavy with feigned reluctance. "Because it just became our interview, Russo. And our problem." He leaned forward slightly, meeting Derek’s burning gaze for a split second before addressing Russo again. "That tango Hale described? The fast one planting the device? She wasn't just targeting Congressman Rathbone."
Russo stiffened. "Explain."
"Intelligence suggests the primary target was actually Hale himself," Garcia stated, her resonant voice cutting through the tension. "The congressman was likely opportunistic collateral, or deliberate misdirection." She glanced at Derek. "Someone wants you dead, Mr. Hale. Very specifically."
Stiles picked up the thread, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Which means, courtesy of the Director and a mountain of inter-agency paperwork Garcia magicked into existence," he shot his partner a look that held grudging respect, "you now have a protective detail. Congratulations. It’s us." He gestured between himself and Garcia. "24/7. Starting now."
Russo scoffed. "You can't be serious, Stilinski. Protecting him? After that?" He jerked his chin towards Derek.
"Orders are orders, Russo," Stiles snapped, a flicker of his own anger resurfacing. "And your secure site is blown. We need to move him. Immediately." He finally locked eyes with Derek again, the professional veneer cracking to reveal the deep, resentful fury underneath. "You're coming with us, Hale. To a safe house. Try anything like that again," he warned, his voice dropping dangerously low, "and Garcia won't just tell you to sit."
Garcia snapped her fingers, a sound like cracking ice, and the invisible chains binding Derek dissolved, leaving only the ache of suppressed rage in his muscles. He surged to his feet, claws unconsciously extending before he ruthlessly retracted them, knuckles white. He met Stiles’s furious glare, saw the flicker of apprehension behind the professional mask, and made his choice: not here. He breathed deep, the scent of Stiles’s lingering arousal and fury a torment, and remained still.
“Fine,” Derek growled, the single word scraped raw from his throat. He wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, not yet. He needed to understand who wanted him dead, and why Stiles was here.
Russo stepped forward, his contemptuous gaze sweeping over Derek. “Careful, Stilinski,” he sneered, nodding towards Derek’s tense form. “A werewolf claiming like that? It doesn’t stop. It festers into an obsession. Starts believing you’re his mate.” The word dripped with disdain.
Derek’s jaw clenched, a low, warning rumble vibrating in his chest, but he kept his eyes locked on Stiles, not the agent. He said nothing. Stiles just waved a dismissive hand at Russo, his expression unreadable. “Save the supernatural prejudice for someone who cares, Russo. Garcia, let’s move.” He turned sharply, gesturing for Derek to follow.
Stiles led the way out of the sterile interrogation room, Garcia falling into step slightly behind Derek, her presence a silent, potent threat. They moved quickly through the labyrinthine, fluorescent-lit corridors beneath the White House, the air thick with ozone, polished stone, and tension. Derek focused on Stiles’s back, the set of his shoulders rigid, the scent of cheap deodorant, old paper, and unresolved fury radiating from him.
They descended deeper, the air growing colder, the sounds of the building fading. Finally, Stiles pushed through a heavy, unmarked door marked ‘Motor Pool Access’. They emerged into a cavernous underground garage, the smell of exhaust and cold concrete replacing the sterile corridors. Parked near the exit ramp sat a large, black SUV with deeply tinted windows. Stiles stopped beside it, pulling keys from his pocket, his expression hardening as he turned to face Derek. "Get in the back," he ordered, his voice tight. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."