Title: Green Grass All Around
Author: Brigantine
Characters: Lydia, Derek, Isaac
Rating: PG
Length: 1,413
Warnings: None
Summary: Derek's pack are a bit vexed with the big guy for trying to go all Lone Ranger against the Alpha Pack. Derek/Stiles if you squint really hard.
A/N: We're only up to Episode 4 (a bit spoilery for that maybe) of Season 3, so only Heaven and Jeff Davis know how the rest of the season will go, but this little bit started rattling around in my head, and I figured, what the hey.


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First thing Derek notices when he begins to come around is pain. A lot of pain, really. Deep, throbbing aches, lines of fire dug into his skin, torn into his flesh from his face down to his feet. He'd like to indulge himself in a long, pathetic groan of protest, and maybe a little bit of self-pity, but he doesn't know where he is, or who might be nearby to hear him.

He remembers bits and pieces, jerks and flashes of movement, of damage. Deucalion's disdainful smirk, then the twisting of his face into raw hatred, red eyes blazing. Ennis landing on Derek's back, claws like razors in his shoulders, shredding down his back. Kali slashing with her feet, like a velociraptor, kept her hands free for blunt instruments, sharp objects never intended to penetrate a person. The twins, morphing together into a giant mutant mega-wolf, as though returning to the split egg. What happened to their pants? They were both wearing--and then--nope, it's over, just let it go.

Second thing Derek notices is that the bed he's cocooned in is soft and squishy and good... Wait. Bed. What? Derek's last conscious memory is of bleeding out on the hard floor of his loft, waiting helplessly for the death blow, while Kali laughed at him, and then there was a lot of noise and Deucalion roaring not at him, okay that's interesting, but then he remembers... not a damn thing.

This bed smells like Scott. Scott, his mother, something floral. Must be the McCall house. Mrs. McCall knows. Makes sense. Derek swallows. He should be thirsty, wouldn't mind washing the taste of blood out of his mouth, but he hasn't got the energy for it. Can barely move, would rather not, thanks. Bed is nice. How'd he get here? Also, how did he get naked? Someone had to… Yeah, not going there right now.

Third thing Derek notices, when he finally risks peering out at the world through swollen eyelids, is Lydia.

"Ah, there you are," she says. Her face is kind today. This morning? Evening? Her voice is gentle, but still, this is Lydia, and she clucks at him in that 'Other people are terribly slow on the uptake' tone that seems to be her default setting. Derek has often wondered that the overall obtuseness of the world at large must be very frustrating for her.

"Mm 'ere," Derek confirms, unwilling to move his face out of the soft comfort of the pillow, or, really, to move anything anywhere. His eyes are only half open. Good enough.

Lydia shuffles a little in the chair next to the bed, presses her knees together in her skirt, and leans forward to rest her elbows on the edge of the mattress near Derek's head. She peers into his battered face, touches a well-manicured fingertip lightly to one of the deep slashes over his left cheekbone. Derek winces. The wince hurts his face more than Lydia's curious touch. Typical.

"You, young man, have put yourself and your pack through all sorts of unnecessary mental and physical anguish. Honestly, some days - no, make that most days - I hardly know where to begin with any of you."

Derek tries to scowl, but it hurts too much. He's pretty sure he was recently dead, though God knows Derek has been built to endure. Enduring seems to be what Derek does best. Staying out of trouble in the first place, not so much. Oblivion holds a certain attraction, if he's honest.

"Unneces'ry? Di'n' wanna kill anybody." Derek swallows thickly. His breath likely stinks of old blood, but Lydia doesn't flinch. "Wasn't sure I could keep it from happ'ning."

Lydia touches Derek's hair, almost affectionately. Ow. Even his hair hurts. Jesus, even dragged back from probably dead, Derek's life is ridiculous.

"So you pushed everybody away. Naturally that was your solution." Lydia gives an impatient little huff. "Yelled and growled and roared and threatened, scared your sister, and broke Isaac's heart the same way his father used to."

Derek quips a "Yup" that doesn't quite have the decisiveness behind it he was going for. Yelling at Isaac was not his favorite moment ever.

"As usual," Lydia chides, "you completely misinterpreted the situation, then proceeded to make a series of rash, emotion-based decisions and ended up trying to take on the army of darkness all by yourself."

Derek manages a small snort, and possibly that's a smile stinging the left side of his face. "Army o' Darkness."

Lydia tsks, "Clearly we've both spent too much time around Stiles. Listen--"

Stiles. Plotting plus Lydia equals Stiles meddling, of course it does. Derek's heart rate revs up, and he snaps, "Where's Stiles?" before he can think better if it.

Lydia arches a perfect eyebrow. "Stiles is downstairs, and he is fine. Shall I tell him you were worried?"

Oh God, she's smirking knowingly. Knowingly. Heaven forbid that the least amount of Derek's dignity should be spared. He is in no condition to deal with this. He groans, "No. Tired. Go 'way now, please."

"My point," Lydia persists, "is that when the Alpha pack tried to bully, brainwash, torture and otherwise persuade you into destroying your own pack, it wasn't only because Deucalion wanted you bound to him by your self-inflicted loneliness, and the innocent blood you would have spilled. What he wanted, Derek, was to avoid having to fight your pack, as a pack."

Derek jolts painfully. "--the fuck?" All that noise, just before he blacked out. So much roaring and screaming. He struggles to sit up, but Lydia presses him back down with one small hand. One hand. It's humiliating. He's very much awake now, however, and with a pained grunt he rolls onto his back. "They fought the Alpha pack?"

Lydia sits up straight in the chair. "We fought the Alpha pack," she corrects him proudly.

Derek squawks feebly, "You're kids! You're just kids! The Alphas, they're--"

Lydia interrupts, "Might have thought of that before you went around biting teenagers."

Derek grimaces, abashed. He can't argue with her there.

"Regardless, you're still mostly a kid yourself, Derek. You're what, all of twenty-two, twenty-three now?" Lydia's gaze narrows at him. "The last year has been a very sharp and unpleasant learning curve for all of us, but in spite of everything, we are still here. The Alpha loser-pack won't be back any time soon, if they know what's good for them." Her expression hardens. "They still owe us for Erica."

Derek feels his heart beat; slow, firm, pushing his blood into healing gashes, purpling bruises, makes his mending ribs throb, reminds him that he, too, is still here. He says, "Thank you," and he means it, with all his living heart. He can't think of a single other appropriate response.

Lydia nods, gracious.

Derek hears footsteps coming up the stairs, a half dozen voices. Mrs. McCall, Boyd, Scott. Stiles, babbling too fast for Derek to keep up, something about transformers? Cora, Isaac. Christ, Isaac, the desperate hurt on his face the day Derek turned on him, drove him out. Had to. Had to let Scott be there for him when Derek couldn't, and Scott, finally growing into his strength instead of fighting it all the time...

Isaac is standing at Lydia's shoulder, Scott and Stiles ranging behind him. He's got a long pink mark across his cheek, more criss-crossing his arms. Wounds received from the Alpha pack, healing slowly. Isaac fixes Derek with an expression of stern affection, that lopsided half-smile of his that reminds Derek the kid's a lot tougher than he looks.

"You should have told us what they were doing to you," Isaac scolds. "Lydia figured it out when she saw what you were doing, chasing us all away. We're not just your pack, Derek. You are our Alpha, and Deucalion knew it. Did you think we would let them just come around here and take what's ours?"

Lydia reaches forward to ruffle Derek's hair. "Silly Sourwolf."

"Ow," Derek grumps. "Hey." But he can't be angry, can't do anything but be quietly pleased, thoroughly grateful. His body still hurts, he's just been schooled by his youngest pack member, his tragic ass was rescued by a gaggle of sarcastic teenage misfits led by a petite red-head with a mind like a Bond villain, and he is too exhausted to scowl properly at anybody. Overall, Derek's feeling pretty good, for a recently probably dead guy.


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