#*wistful sigh* scott mccall..... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stereksecretsanta · 4 years ago

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Merry Christmas, happyjuicyfruit!

For @happyjuicyfruit. I'm not going to lie, I saw your request and an idea was born and aside from sleep and work I wrote non-stop until this was done because it felt so good to write it. So cathartic. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing.

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*****

Falling into Place

“The best feeling in the whole world is watching things finally fall into place after watching them fall apart for so long.”

Unknown

The warm hum of the TV mingled with the sound of the running shower through the small studio apartment Stiles rented in Sacramento. He scrambled on his small double bed (tucked into the corner alcove opposite the bathroom door) to try and get his sweats on without applying any pressure to his injured foot. He awkwardly half-hopped on one leg, falling back on his ass on the mattress as he held the cuff carefully open to maneuver his bandaged foot inside. Mission successful, he star-fished on the bed, fully clothed at last, damp hair mussing the sheets and his foot throbbing.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the shower, then forcing his eyes shut tightly to try and banish the image of exactly what body parts the less than average water-pressure might be crashing down on. Swallowing thickly, he hopped awkwardly along the narrow space, around the bookshelf he’d used as a divider at the end of his ‘sleeping area’ and into his roughly eighteen feet of living/kitchen space.

Careful not to clip his injured foot on anything, he managed to get the leftover lasagne out of the fridge and into the microwave with minimal disaster. He then frantically searched through the pile of unwashed dishes and cutlery to find enough for two people to eat with.

For some reason, it bothered him, the idea of Derek seeing his dirty dishes. He froze then, wondering if he’d left his laundry hamper spilling over. He didn’t have much time to panic, because the second he thought it, the shower shut off.

A few moments later, Derek stepped out into the room, steam billowing behind him, hair damp and…wearing Stiles’s t-shirt and sweats which looked a little tight in the shoulder and chest and across Derek’s thighs but mostly fit him just fine. Luckily Stiles preferred baggy. He didn’t realise he was staring until Derek started talking.

“I took them off the clothes dryer in the bathroom. I hope that’s alright? I washed mine in the sink. They had blood on.”

Stiles blinked, struck mute for a moment, still not really over the way his sweats clung across Derek’s hip area to form words. “Ah, no, sure, all good,” he managed at last, using the washing up to distract himself. “At least I’ve filled out a bit since the last time you had to borrow my clothes, right? And you’re lucky I had some spare. Laundry day is well overdue, to be honest. I’ve just been working on my assignments, which I got in on time, but then I found out about this case, the one with you in it and I had to find a way to convince them to let me in on it, to try and get you out, you know? So I’ve been so busy I just haven’t had time to–”

“Stiles,” Derek said, cutting his rambling off. “It’s fine. Really. This is hardly the worst place I’ve stayed.”

Stiles laughed. “Wow, ringing endorsement. Better than an abandoned bus station. Well, I’ll have you know this is a steal so close to HQ and it may be small but it’s just been done up. I am the first tenant to tarnish this kitchen. And because it’s one of the many investment properties Natalie Martin got out of the divorce, and of course Lydia is using emotional blackmail to my advantage, I can actually afford to live here without bankrupting my dad even further. Plus the roof-terrace, it’s amazing. I mean, I never actually go up there but some residents have this communal allotment and the view is amazing. Or, you know, it would be if I went there.”

Derek had crossed his arms, had rolled his eyes with that sigh, all of which weretelling signs Stiles was annoying him. And yet there was a little twist at the corners of his mouth that made Stiles’s stomach flip.

The microwave pinged then and Stiles came back to himself, prodding at the centre of the two chunks of lasagne to check they were heated properly before decanting them onto two plates. He went to offer one to Derek, complete with cutlery, before hesitating. He winced.

“Uh, would you mind carrying mine over to the ol’ dining area there? It’s a second hand couch but it’s in pretty good shape and I don’t wanna get lasagne all over it by hopping over there with my plate.”

Derek frowned at him for a moment, then down at his foot, as if he’d forgotten Stiles didn’t magically heal like he did from gunshot wounds – or, you know, splintered fragments of cement that had ricocheted off the wall from the gunshot that had largely missed him, but still. He’d been on the run again, Stiles knew, and before that likely just with Cora since he and Braeden had gone their separate ways. If their texts over the last few months or so were anything to go by, that is. He’d probably not spent much time with humans since last Stiles had seen him, except the ones trying to trap or shoot him.

Eventually, Derek took both plates and stepped back a little into the makeshift doorway between the wall and the shelf that stood as a screen at the end of the bed. It held his books, nicknacks and a TV that swivelled to face either the living area or the bed because Lydia was a goddess and a genius. Stiles hopped awkwardly passed him, supporting himself on the arm of the couch as he eased down onto it. Derek offered his plate to his sturdier lap rather than his hands, likely a survival skill taught after years of observing how erratic Stiles’s hands could be, before settling next to him on the couch.

The late night news was reporting the raid on the warehouse as a drug bust but they knew the truth. Thankfully, the FBI didn’t seem to know the truth, that the guy they’d been pursuing, namely Derek, was a werewolf. He thought they’d managed to get out of it without exposing that and hopefully, if Scott’s dad came through for them, Derek would be out of the spotlight soon enough.

Stiles had set it all in motion the second he’d seen Derek’s face on a slideshow of live suspects, but when he’d discovered they were planning on raiding a possible location of Derek’s, he hadn’t been able to wait for Rafael McCall. He’d made many contingency plans, but the one that’d ended up going into motion had been such a cliché he was almost disappointed in himself and the institution he was interning with.

He’d snuck in a spare FBI jacket and in the chaos, had managed to get Derek into it and offered up his cap and they’d literally walked out of there. Well, Stiles had been carried really, but semantics.

He hadn’t planned for there to be hunters there, who had happily started shooting the second the FBI had burst in looking for Derek. Derek, who had only been there because somehow those hunters were connected to the murders the FBI had linked Derek too. Stiles hadn’t gotten the full story out of him yet. But anyway, he hadn’t planned for there to be idiots there wanting to go on a shoot-out with the FBI, for bullets to be flying everywhere. He hadn’t planned for getting injured by exploding concrete, which was pretty much a bullet wound anyway.

That’s what his bosses were classing it as anyway – wounded in action pretty much. They were so pleased an intern that shouldn’t have really been there hadn’t been killed and that he was pretty much taking near-death in his stride that he thought maybe his reputation might have gained a few more points if anything.

And once Scott’s dad finished subtly helping Stiles’s team to connect the hunters to the murder instead of Derek, exoneration hopefully shouldn’t be too far behind.

“Where did you get this from?” Derek asked as he gulped down another mouthful of lasagne like a starving animal. Really, Stiles wondered when his last decent meal had been.

“Uh, I made it,” Stiles said with a mostly empty mouth. “I can’t afford to live off take-out, dude. I gotta live smart while I’m still an intern.” Even with the FBI an internship didn’t pay a luxurious dividend. “I can make a few things that can keep in the fridge for a few days. This is the last of the lasagne though, buddy, so if you want seconds the take-out menus are on the fridge.”

Derek blinked at him, looking almost owlishly startled which was sort of adorable on him really. He looked tired and confused and a few stray droplets of water trickled down his neck from his damp hair. “No, this is good. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Well, they haven’t given me my Michelin stars yet but I can eat a lot better than some of the other interns by being smart about it and thinking ahead.” Stiles finished the last few bites of his own and set the plate on the floor by his feet. “If I hadn’t learned to cook and make food stretch a little more, dad and I would’ve had to sell the house to keep us in take-out.”

Derek had gotten the larger portion, Stiles was a good host, so he was still eating and seemed to consider Stiles’s words for a long time before saying between mouthfuls, “Your mom taught you?”

Stiles offered a wistful smile.

“Yeah. Not gourmet or anything but cooking was our thing. I wasn’t the kind of kid that could sit down and watch TV while their mom cooked. I was always under her feet so she made me help, made me useful. Some things stuck, I guess. I learned enough.”

He thought that was going to be the end of it. They fell quiet and the late news bulletins had long-since finished and returned to some late-night comedy talk show. But then Derek spoke, quiet and distant, like he was somewhere far away, in a tone way Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever heard from him before.

“My dad was the cook. He didn’t really teach me meals, Laura always used to help him in the kitchen. But he did teach me to make his salted caramel brownies.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what to do with that.

It’d been a long day, a long few weeks for Derek, really. He looked both world-weary and yet less troubled than he had since Stiles had last seen him. He sounded at peace with a part of himself Stiles had only ever glimpsed in their two years or so of chasing monsters together around Beacon Hills.

“Those sound amazing,” Stiles offered with a little smile, because it was the truth. Derek’s face turned to him then, empty plate still in hand, the glow of the TV and kitchen light making his features soft and warm.

He studied Stiles for a long time, eyes roving his face as if he were relearning him, before he said quietly, “it’s really good to see you, Stiles.”

Stiles smiled and chuckled a little self-consciously, “well, you know, likewise. And hey, I’m always willing to put you up when you’re a wanted fugitive, you know this from experience.”

Derek raised a brow, lips twitching. “Did you mention that in your interview for your internship with the FBI?”

“Oh, we got a sense of humour since we last met, huh?” Stiles laughed, but as he put his foot down to rise, he winced, remembering his injury. “Holy shit,” he hissed, grasping his ankle in lieu of his throbbing foot, thinking of the medication the hospital had sent him away with, sitting on the kitchen counter.

When they’d made their initial getaway, Derek had literally skulked around in the shadows while Stiles reported to the field leader, before taking himself to the hospital. In matter of fact, Derek had taken him to the hospital, giving him sideways looks like he was equal parts pissed off and concerned. And he hadn’t left Stiles’s side until they’d come back to Stiles’s apartment and they’d taken their respective showers.

To be honest, sitting in Derek’s rental car while he picked up Stiles’s prescription was a bizarre feat he kept coming back to. Not an unpleasant one though. He was definitely more than capable of looking after himself, had proven that a hundred times over, really. But it felt nice, having someone there who looked worried, who took the dinner plates and set them in the sink, who brought his medication and water to take them with in the only clean glass and…oh god…

“Dude, you don’t have to clean my dirty dishes, you’re a guest–”

“Technically, I’m a fugitive in hiding,” Derek cut across him neatly, running more hot water into the sink, the last of it until the tank filled up again after two showers, Stiles thought. “Besides, you need to stay off your foot and if you leave these dishes another night they might run off on their own.”

Stiles glared at him as he drank from his glass and then downed his pills. “This is a small apartment, buddy, there’s only room in here for one wise-ass.”

Derek ducked his head as he started the dishes, but Stiles caught his smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles woke up with a little start, the kind you got when you caught yourself drifting off on the couch in front the TV. Except it didn’t look as if he’d caught himself. It looked like he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV and Derek had carried him to bed. The medicine must’ve knocked him out, Stiles thought, blinking blearily at the narrow strips of pre-dawn light peeking around his blind to the side of the bed.

He could hear soft breathing in the quiet from beyond the wall that the double-sided bookshelf made and it felt comforting. Even now, nearly a year-on from the event, he still had trouble with the feeling of waking up too quickly. He wondered why his initial panic hadn’t woken Derek, but then, he supposed Derek had been on the run for so long, again, it was no wonder he was dead to the world.

The fact that he felt safe enough to crash in Stiles’s place was another thing to think about all on its own. The insinuations and repercussions swirled around in Stiles’s brain as he fully came aware of himself, cursing the pain in his foot before sliding tentatively out of bed. He used the bathroom as quietly as he could, then realised if he wanted to take more medication, he’d have to eat something first and to do that he’d have to turn the light on in the kitchen to find something.

The sounds of Derek sleeping sounded so peaceful that he felt like a dick for contemplating it. In the end he crawled quietly back into bed, careful to keep the leg attached to his wounded foot out of the blankets and tried to ignore the pain.

It didn’t work. He fidgeted uncomfortably, the discomfort making him uneasy, letting his mind stretch to strange places, to worries that apparently simply had to be solved at 3am. It was cold in the apartment too which didn’t help, but Stiles was one of those defiant people that waited until he was cold enough to be wearing a beanie indoors before he would put the heating on – more blankets before heating.

He’d worked himself into a state wondering if maybe the nurse he’d seen earlier hadn’t managed to get all the fragments out of his toe and that was why it hurt so much, when he heard Derek shifting around on the sofa. On instinct, he squeezed his eyes shut, guessing he just wanted to take a leak, but his brow furrowed when he heard a click-clack sounds on his wooden floor. It reminded him of Scott’s old dog loping across the kitchen floor and it took him a moment to register what that noise meant until he felt a cold, damp nose snuffling around his foot.

An image came to Stiles behind his closed lids and he remembered the black wolf darting into the fray in the desert, eyes glowing blue.

He twitched at the contact, but Derek either thought that was an instinctive motion out of sleep or didn’t care if he was awake because he hopped carefully up onto the bed and draped his front legs over Stiles’s. One of his heavy, warm paws just rested over the place where Stiles’s sweats had ridden to expose his ankle and it was as if Stiles could feel all of the pain draining away from his throbbing foot through the place where Derek’s warmth rested.

Opening his eyes at the sheer relief, he of course found the same black wolf sprawled half over him, warm and soft and staring right back at him with piercing blue eyes that glowed in the dimness. Stiles could just make out his shape and without really thinking about it, he reached out to touch. It just occurred to him that maybe Derek didn’t want to be petted like a dog and that maybe he might give him a reproving nip when he felt soft, fine fur under his fingers and the pressure of Derek leaning into his touch.

Stiles stroked one downy ear and then, emboldened, scratched his fingers over the wolf’s head. It felt cathartic and he wondered absently about those therapy animals, before the flick of Derek’s tongue against his wrist.

A low, tired chuckle rippled out of Stiles, hoarse and sleepy. He thought in the pre-dawn dimness, in the little alcove the bookshelves created around his bed, that maybe anything was possible without complications. There were no rules, no posturing or pride or uncertainty. Derek had sensed his discomfort, his pain, maybe even his loneliness – maybe because it mirrored his own. The low, grumbling sound Derek made when Stiles stroked the side of his head and scruff told him Derek was as happy for it as he was.

Then Derek, still the wolf, laid his head down on Stiles’s torso, breathing evenly and Stiles fell asleep stroking his fingers over his fur. Fell into a slumber that was light and painless and full of dreams.

Derek was already gone from his bed when he awoke well into the morning. When he sat up and hobbled out of bed, Stiles found him doing push-ups in the space between his couch and the TV. He stared at him dumbfounded for a moment, still finding it surreal, a half-naked Derek Hale exercising in his tiny apartment with sweat beading between the muscles of his shoulders and down to the small of his back.

He had the terrible feeling that he was staring and that his lips were parted, as if ready to spill something embarrassingly appreciative so he quickly turned into the kitchen area – only to stop dead. It was spotless. The dishes were cleaned and stored away, the units were practically gleaming and to make it worse, there was a laundry basket in front of the fridge piled high with clean, neatly folded laundry.

Holy shit.

“Dude, please tell me you did not do my laundry?” he pleaded, dismayed.

Derek seemingly ignored him for a moment, pushing up from the floor, the tight line of muscles in his back drawing Stiles’s unwitting gaze until he eventually rose. He snagged the glass of water off the side and drank it down greedily.

Stiles couldn’t help but wonder how many push-ups a werewolf had to do before getting all sweaty. But then the thought drifted off on a tangent about how long a werewolf might have to do other things to get that sweaty. How long, how hard…

Oh god, his face was burning.

Green-hazel eyes considered him for a long time, bright with the sunlight streaking through the window and Stiles had the horrible feeling Derek could tell his thoughts by smell or something. Whether he did or not though, all he said was, “I had to wash the blood out of my clothes. It just made sense to take yours at the same time. It’s no big deal.”

“Even my dad doesn’t wash my dirty underwear, Derek!”

Derek snorted, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t roll around in them, Stiles, I tossed everything into two washers.”

Stiles spluttered at the idea of Derek rolling around in his laundry and his hands flailed. “You’re a wanted fugitive until further notice, you could’ve been caught!”

Rinsing the glass in the sink and setting it on the draining board to dry, Derek turned back to face him, leaning slightly against the units. “I went to the utility room downstairs. No one was going to be looking for me there. I don’t get what the problem is.”

Well no, Derek wouldn’t, would he? Because he’d always been awful at looking after himself. Because he hadn’t had to share space with a human since…forever and Stiles was hyperaware that Derek could probably tell his every activity for the last few weeks on his dirty clothes, that he could probably read Stiles’s mind from chemo-signals or whatever and Stiles was only just realising exactly how much he had to hide.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Stiles scrubbed at his hair and the back of his neck. “Ummm, you’re right, it’s nothing it’s…I still haven’t really woken up yet. Thank you, for…basically sorting my life out while I slept the morning away. You didn’t have to do that though, you’ve probably been under more stress, being on the run than I have doing an internship.”

“An internship with the FBI who have no idea about werewolves when you know pretty much everything there is to know about the supernatural sounds pretty stressful to me,” Derek offered lightly, glancing out the window and down at the city thoughtfully for a moment. He seemed to be struggling for the best way to phrase whatever it was that was on his mind, but then, Stiles supposed he hadn’t had much in the way of company the last few weeks.

He knew Derek had been with Braeden briefly, then Cora, then on his own when his life had turned upside down again. And there was a lightness to Derek’s face this morning that Stiles thought mirrored his own. Like last night had been the first time he’d slept well in a long time too. He looked more at ease than Stiles had ever seen him in his entire life and he was technically still a wanted fugitive.

Dragging his hand through his hair again to distract from his wandering thoughts as best he could, Stiles hobbled into the kitchen area properly and shoved the last two slices of bread into the toaster. Hmmm. He’d have to get some groceries. His foot was throbbing though.

“I have to report to work via video conference later, since I can’t really walk much.” He glanced to the crutches the hospital had given him on loan for a couple of weeks and tried to imagine scaling the insane amount of stairs he had to climb everyday. He’d probably end up with a broken neck. Luckily he had loads of paperwork, which he was good at and didn’t mind doing. They’d probably let him do it from home for a few days, if only so they didn’t have to do it.

His efficiency with the paperwork was probably a big part of why they liked him so much, since most of his classmates tried to beg out of it. But his single-minded concentration that came with his ADHD, as much as it was easing as he got older, was a godsend apparently. When it was a subject he had interest in, i.e. his job, he was like a machine.

“Can I stay?”

Stiles turned slightly to look at Derek, still staring out the window at the grey sky. “Until things are sorted out with the FBI. Can I stay?”

He sounded warm and awkward and almost longing, voice a little husky and Stiles swallowed tightly.

“Dude, stay as long as you want. You’re always welcome. Mi casa, es su casa, always. You don’t have to ask.”

Derek looked at him at last, lips slightly parted as if he were going to say more. In the end, his mouth closed and he nodded determinedly.

Work was pretty gracious about his request to work from home. He had reports to type up and some other paperwork to keep him busy for the rest of the week at least. Plus he was entitled to some medical leave if he couldn’t walk easily. Besides that, they were thrilled that one of their unsolved cases seemed to be coming to a close because of ‘his help’.

Rafael McCall had apparently planted the necessary evidence into the system to connect the guys they caught at the raid the other day to the murders Derek (although the FBI didn’t know his identity) was accused of. One of them with similar build to Derek had even sustained serious burns to his back during the raid, which Stiles had reasoned could be where the suspected tattoo was that they’d used to identify the unsub they were looking for. It was the idiot’s own fault really, for being an immortal hunter who murdered countless people, for packing a flamethrower and trying to turn it on the FBI.

Stiles had zero sympathy for people who wielded fire. Maybe it was just because he had seen what fire could do in the Hale house, on Peter Hale’s face before he’d healed himself. It was a dick move. Even if he’d technically done it himself once, he supposed.

So it all tidied up nicely, really and by the time the video call had ended, Stiles was sure Rafael had managed to erase any evidence with anything similar to Derek’s face or body. He should’ve felt bad using the guy, he supposed. But he’d never claimed to have scrupulous morals and besides which, it was Scott’s idea to ask for his help in the first place.

Daddy McCall had infinite favours to do before he could make it up to Scott, Stiles supposed. But in the mean time, as long as Scotty approved, he would use Rafael McCall’s powers for good and maybe the guy would get his head out of his ass along the way.

He’d shot a text to both McCalls, one a curt message of thanks, the other assuring Derek should be safe as soon as they were sure the guys they caught were going to stay caught. The only problem was, Derek had snuck out while he’d been on his conference call. He’d noticed mid-conversation with his boss and so hadn’t been able to act on it. The second the call came to a close, however, he shut the laptop and sprang up. Snatching his phone up, he dialled.

The phone rang and rang. Stiles was already toeing a shoe onto his good foot and reaching for his crutches when he heard the jingling of keys outside his door. He stopped dead at the sound, looking up just as the door opened. Derek stepped inside, arms loaded with brown paper grocery bags. He blinked at Stiles’s proximity to the door, as if surprised and neatly side-stepped him to set the grocery bags down on the kitchen floor.

“Where the hell have you been?” Stiles demanded.

Derek raised a brow, pausing in loading fresh fruit and vegetables into the fridge drawer. His expression said it all.

With a scowl, Stiles gestured to the front door. “For the next few hours you’re still potentially on their system as most wanted, Derek. You can’t just go for a walk around Sacramento.”

“Stiles, you have a grocery store around the corner – literally. I was in there for ten minutes. I wore your Mets cap. I kept a low profile – I know how to do that, I’m very practiced at it.”

Stiles hesitated. “You went to the rich people supermarket?” That was the only grocery store on his block. Sometimes Stiles hit it up on payday for their luxury cookie range when Lydia came to visit.

Rolling his eyes, Derek continued to load the groceries into the fridge and cupboards. It was all so domestic, the scene, the bickering and it made Stiles feel sort of funny.

“Nobody noticed me. There was no way you could manage the groceries on your own and you hopping around on crutches and fighting me over who was going to foot the bill would’ve made more of a scene that me going in alone.”

“Dude, I can be stealthy and I don’t need you to fill my fridge–”

“You do if I’m going to eat all your food,” Derek interrupted, tossing the paper bags into the recycling bin before turning to face him. His nostrils flared and he stared Stiles down for a long moment before shaking his head. “Sometimes you need help too, Stiles,” he breathed, exasperated and fond all at once.

Stiles swallowed thickly, darting his gaze to the side. He didn’t even like accepting his dad’s help at the best of times. With Lydia and Scott, loved them though he did, they had their own stuff going on and he couldn’t ask for their help either. Or he could but he didn’t want to. It was easier just to struggle through. And yet Derek was standing there, watching him expectantly, with that mixture of softness and annoyance on his face and Stiles didn’t want to reject the symbolic hand he’d been trying to grasp since he was sixteen. That had often come close but had never felt within his reach until now.

A sudden buzz on his intercom for the front door made Stiles jump.

“I also ordered Chinese,” Derek smirked, “think you can manage to get the door?”

Stiles muttered under his breath at the indignation of it, but still buzzed the delivery guy in.

“You don’t have to bribe me with food to let you stay,” Stiles said as they set the take-out boxes on the minute counter space a few minutes later. It smelled so good that the argument Stiles had been forming in his mind dissipated in the delicious smelling steam rising from the boxes. “You’re welcome here, even after your name is cleared for a bit, if you want.”

Derek huffed as he split the contents of each dish out equally. Because Stiles may have been human but he had the appetite of a wolf. “Nice to know, but this isn’t a bribe. It’s just something I want to do. Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?”

Feeling like he was getting some of his equilibrium back, Stiles grinned. “Isn’t this like…a courting ritual, a wolf sharing food or providing food?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek barked, ears flaming. He snatched the bowls out of Stiles’s hand and carried all of them over to the sofa so Stiles couldn’t hop across with them and, most likely, risk sending it all to the floor.

Some old movie was on with Humphrey Bogart – Stiles’s mom and dad had liked watching his movies together so he left it on and they ate and Derek half-watched with a wistful little look on his face that made Stiles wonder if someone in his family had liked the movie too.

Stiles talked about Katherine Hepburn and how his mom had loved her, how she’d watched her movies with her mother. He talked about World War One’s impact on Africa and how he’d drifted off on a tangent about it in the middle of one of his papers about World War Two, and how his dad had just smiled quietly through the whole meeting with the teacher when he called his dad in about Stiles’s attention span. And through it all, Derek smiled slightly, that private little half-smile as he sucked noodles into his mouth and toed off his shoes in the middle of Stiles’s apartment. The apartment that Derek had cleaned and it just made Stiles feel so…warm. Comfortable. He’d never felt comfortable with someone and yet hyperaware of their every little movement at the same time.

Derek had polished off most of his chow mein and shifted back on the sofa a little as Hepburn dumped Bogart’s gin into the river, relaxing with Stiles until their knees touched.

Heat swelled in Stiles’s stomach and he covered up the little splutter he gave and distracted himself by chugging down some more noodles.

“I haven’t had good Chinese take-out since I moved up here,” he sighed happily, licking the sauce from his lips. He turned to Derek more fully then and swore he caught those eyes dropping to the movement of his tongue and back again. Huh. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. We can alternate–”

“You’re injured–”

“And you’re a guest,” Stiles protested but Derek just shrugged, looking back to the TV.

“The couch is comfortable enough when I shift, and plenty warm. It’s fine, I’m not turfing you out of your own bed Stiles and that’s the end of it.”

Stiles’s tenacity was sidetracked by curiosity. He set his now empty plate down, sitting back a little to let his leg stretch out and relieve any pressure on his throbbing foot. He’d had medication with his food and it was starting to kick in. “Do you always shift when you sleep or is my couch just that uncomfortable?”

“It’s fine, Stiles,” Derek half-groaned, polishing off his rice now, thumb tracing the edge of the plate distractedly. He stared at the screen without really seeing it. His silence only lasted a moment longer than it should have, but Stiles noticed. He noticed everything, he noticed the way Derek was still relaxed next to him, not uncomfortable at their proximity, the way his mouth had a slight shine from his tongue and the way the light struggling to peak through the clouds touched his cheekbones.

“I don’t shift in my sleep a lot. But it’s…it’s like letting go, I guess. A release of tension.”

Stiles nodded. “It feels good. Like sinking into a hot bath or eating really good food. It lets you process stuff?” he suggested and when Derek nodded his own lips twitched. He couldn’t help himself. “So that’s why you’re so zen now, huh? You’re one with the wolf and the wolf is one with you?”

But Derek didn’t laugh, didn’t really seem to register the joke, he looked hesitant, oddly vulnerable even as he was obviously trying to guard himself. “I can control it. If it bothers you.”

“Nah, you do you. Just don’t shed on my sheets or anything.”

With a scowl, Derek watched as Stiles snatched the last prawn cracker out of the complimentary bag between them. “I do not shed. I’m a werewolf, not a dog.” But there was that fond exasperation again that made Stiles a bit giddy. It made him feel stupid and hungry and happy and brave and scared all at once.

He drummed his fingers nervously along his thighs as he chewed and swallowed, and then of course his mouth moved of its own volition.

“Thanks, by the way. For…you know, last night. Taking the pain? And, well…you know, I…” He looked at Derek for some sort of clue, because Derek hadn’t mentioned last night and Stiles was almost half-convinced it’d been a dream. That was until he saw the way Derek’s eyes were molten and so, so close.

Stiles gave a nervous, breathy little laugh. “You’re better than that crap the hospital gave me.”

Considering him for a beat, Derek seemed to scan every inch of Stiles’s face. “Probably not half as addictive anyway.”

Stiles wasn’t entirely sure about that.

He spent the rest of the day doing his paperwork while Derek seemed quite content to alternate between reading one of Stiles’s books, flicking through the TV and messaging Cora on his phone.

It felt like they’d always shared this, comfortable and easy and gravitating around each other. When Stiles finally went to turn in, he found himself hesitating. His hand rested lightly on the bookshelf as he turned back to look at Derek, who was curled up under Stiles’s blanket that he snuggled up under on the couch on the colder evenings. For once in his life though, words failed him and after too long staring at Derek on the couch, all he could say was “goodnight Derek,” before heading into the bathroom.

His head was buzzing as he watched his reflection scrub his teeth, eyes too bright and face a little pink. Because it felt like everything he’d thought he’d imagined between them, once Derek had left them in Mexico, had just picked right back up where they’d left off. The easiness, those little half smiles that made something twist deep in his belly. He spat into the sink and splashed his face and throat with cool water to try and compose himself. Then he turned on the extractor, just in case there was some whiff of Stiles’s emotions or whatever in there.

It took another forty-eight hours before he got the short, not quite curt phone call from Rafael McCall saying Derek’s appearance was officially off the FBI’s radar (and unofficially off their records completely, as if it’d never been). But Derek stayed. He watched Stiles as he finished the call and then as he hung up, he held his gaze as he asked simply, voice warm and almost husky, “can I stay?”

Stiles wasn’t even thinking about the way Derek kept his apartment clean and his laundry done as he said, “as long as you want.” He thought about the fact that they liked the same cheesy old movies, that Derek liked to curl up with Stiles on his modest couch in the evening to read, while their feet pretty much touched under the blanket because the apartment was still a touch too cold, but not cold enough to turn the heating on yet.

He thought about their bickering and the way he liked to listen to Derek breathing as he drifted off. But mostly he thought about the way Derek had looked at him in Mexico, as he’d gotten into that car.

Now he was as safe as he was going to be, Derek used his modest little rental car to give Stiles a ride to work, saving him from struggling on the crutches all the way there. There were lifts in the actual building so it wasn’t so bad and Stiles’s life returned to a new sort of normal, but one where Derek picked him up after work. Where, when Stiles was poring over something for work on his laptop, Derek went out for a run and came back sweaty and breathless, or brought home the fresh doughnuts from the bakery a few blocks away until Stiles sang his praises through a mouthful of delicious warm sugar and cinnamon.

Stiles’s toe was healed enough that he could walk without the crutches in record time (if he was careful), so he soon started walking to work. But his heart still skipped a little when he walked out of his work building one evening to see Derek leaning against one of the fountains, just across from the glass doors.

“Hey,” Stiles breathed, feeling warm at the sight of him. He stayed late, he always did and Derek knew that but he’d still waited. Only a few of his fellow interns walk passed, looking interested. Stiles watched as Derek cleared his throat, ducking his head a little as if embarrassed and wondered what they were whispering to put that look on his face. Stiles had to know, but Derek gave no clues of course.

“So there’s a sale on at the furniture place just on the edge of town. I was thinking, you know, if you wanted to stay for a while longer, we could pick up a decent sofa bed? Give you a bit more space to sleep? Because honestly, there’s barely enough room on that thing for me to sleep on and you’re just a tad broader in the shoulders.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Derek assured him as they walked and Stiles knew a little prickle of disappointment. Because of course Derek wouldn’t be staying forever.

“Yeah,” he offered, running a hand through his hair, eyes on the sidewalk. “You’re probably so ready for a bit more space. I mean my apartment is a bit small for a werewolf–”

“It’s not too small,” Derek cut across him, sounding as confused as he looked when Stiles glanced at his face. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Stiles. I only meant that I’m fine where I am. My family spent half our time sleeping out on the porch in the summer, or camping out in the living room in front of the fire. I don’t need a fancy bed or a bigger apartment. I asked you if I could stay because it felt right.” He looked as if that was a bit more than he wanted to say and quickly looked back to the path ahead, waiting at the crosswalk in silence.

Derek was pretty poor at self-care, always had been, worse than Stiles’s dad, really, but outside of the life or death situations that came with Beacon Hills, he’d never gone along with anything he didn’t want to do. If he wasn’t happy where he was, he’d tell Stiles so, or leave.

It wasn’t until they’d crossed the road and started round the corner that Stiles spoke again, mind grasping at the tangent he was spinning onto. “You’ve never really mentioned your family much, except for the essential stuff,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying.

“It’s easier to talk about the little things,” he shrugged, “I guess I’ve gotten used to talking about some things. When I spent time with Cora, she’d like to hear about them all the time. Everything I could remember. She was younger, didn’t really remember some of it. Not the good things.”

Stiles nodded, wondering how much of the good stuff he would’ve remembered about his mom if his dad hadn’t been there to refresh those memories.

“Is that like…your new anchor now or something?” When Derek looked confused, he continued, “just…your anchor was anger, wasn’t it? Only you’re not angry anymore, you seem…well you seem pretty amazing, if you ask me.”

He hated how fast his heart beat. The way Derek’s eyes flicked to him as if he’d heard. He probably had. Probably knew it wasn’t because Stiles had lied either.

“Not really. It hasn’t been anger for a long time. I can’t really pinpoint when, it’s not something that happens suddenly. It’s a gradual thing.”

Like grieving, like healing, like fighting beside someone everyday and missing them and only realising after they barrelled back into your life that you were falling in love.

It took Stiles a beat to realise his mind was drifting and Derek was still talking.

“…suppose I found myself in a situation, where someone was talking to me, maybe something I didn’t like, and I’d think…what would Stiles do?” Derek looked at him then, pausing on the sidewalk outside Stiles’s building and staring into his eyes with that wistful look.

Stiles’s stomach swooped and his head spun, even as Derek continued to talk.

“Of course, you’d always say something stupid or random–”

“Dude, you know me so well,” Stiles interjected, a little breathlessly, but Derek continued.

“–but whatever it was I felt…more focussed.”

The chilly evening air whipped around them, picking up a little now and Stiles exhaled shakily, breath coming out in the lightest of mists between them.

Unbidden, the memory of being in the back of that van, with Derek and Liam came to him. Derek, trying to teach Liam to control his shift, both of them trying to tell him about anchors, about his focus. Back then, Derek had given him a look that Stiles had assumed was surprise at Stiles’s keen observations about werewolves and their anchors. Now he thought it had been a betrayal of a much more personal secret.

He tried to think back further, tried to think about their random text message thread over the last year, where Stiles had annoyed Derek as much as ever but Derek had always replied back. He thought about Scott and Allison, about Malia and him, the friendship their once-relationship had blossomed into. He thought about Jackson and Lydia and then he just stared at Derek as his scrambled thoughts fizzed out into quiet realisation. Like water rising up the bank where he’d camped with his assumptions of the world, until the flame he’d resigned himself to nurture there was swallowed up by the tide.

For just a moment, he felt like he was treading water again, only this time Derek was kickingback alongside him.

“You…you never said,” Stiles managed at last.

Derek stepped closer, the traffic going by, the glow of the streetlights and those of the business signs and windows all around blurred and inconsequential. It all wrapped around them in a flurry of sound and movement that fell away, as if they stood in the eye of the rush hour traffic’s storm, serene and untouched by the world as it passed on by. Stiles could feel the warmth radiating off of Derek and thought longingly of the solitude of the apartment above.

His tiny apartment that he loved but had also been a bit self-concious of. But now he supposed he knew why Derek loved it so much.

“It wasn’t…I didn’t…” Derek set his jaw, looking annoyed with himself. “I didn’t want you to expect anything from it. You were seventeen and I was…I was messed up, Stiles.”

Stiles glared. “I’m messed up. We’re all messed up, Derek, anyone who the Argents or the Nemeton or that goddamn town touched is messed up. What did you think I would like…jump you or demand a promise ring or something?!”

Exhaling impatiently, Derek shook his head. “I’d been on the run my whole life, Stiles and by the time I realised what was letting me keep my control, it’d all caught up with me at once.”

At that moment, Stiles thought of that Dire Straits song his dad loved, and that line, ‘When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong’ and he thought about what had happened. Probably happened anyway, if he could trust Peter’s story about Derek’s first love, and then his knowledge of what had happened not long after with Kate Argent. He thought about what that would mean for Derek, and how even a diminutive age gap with someone not quite of age would matter more to him than a lot of people. He thought about how angry and scared Derek had been when they’d seen him in the woods that day, when they’d been looking for Scott’s inhaler, and the man who stood before him now. He thought about the journey Derek had taken himself on after Mexico to get here.

Suddenly, the door to the apartment building opened and one of Stiles’s neighbours smiled apologetically as she stepped out onto the street between them and headed off down the sidewalk. The moment broken, Stiles shuddered as the chill crept down his neck and Derek tilted his head slightly, assessing him for an extended moment, before urging him inside.

They ate carbonara in front of the TV with Derek’s choice of a British series called Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, which Stiles felt a bit lost with, mostly because he wasn’t paying attention. He kept finding himself humming Romeo and Juliet without meaning to. This was so domestic. He couldn’t help but notice just how domestic it was and at the same time revel in it. Revel in the comfort of it and the tiny hope that maybe, if Derek had told him all this now, then that might mean this time he intended to stay.

Derek washed the dishes and Stiles dried, before excusing himself to the shower, if only for some space to process everything. Washing off the office was always cathartic too though, even if you did love your job. He dragged his hand across the surface of the steamy mirror as he roughly towelled his hair dry.

He couldn’t begrudge Derek his need for space or to process shit by himself after everything he’d been through after Mexico. He’d not exactly vanished off the face of the earth, except for the weeks he was on the run and understandably too busy for their usual text message sparring. There were so many things he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to tell Derek and he wasn’t sure where to begin.

But amongst all that, among the repeated verses of Romeo and Juliet that just would not get out of his head now, he couldn’t help but keep coming back to the same question. If Derek had told him now, was that because it was okay for Stiles to expect something? Or…maybe not expect but…to want? Did Derek want?

Everything was still a blur when he opened the bathroom door, steam furling out around him – around Derek, who was standing right outside the door, in the narrow walkway between Stiles’s bed and the bathroom wall. There was nowhere to hide. Stiles was wearing his sweats and t-shirt and Derek was barefoot right next to his bed and the narrow space brought them so close Stiles could feel his heat. He was so perilously close and there were so many things he wanted to say.

He had plenty of time to say them.

Later.

Suddenly, there was nothing more important than showing this imperfect, verbally challenged man exactly how he felt. He stepped forward, effectively closing the minute space between them, exhaling in an unsteady breath as his eyes traced the shape of Derek’s mouth. His hands slid up Derek’s neck. As he cupped his jaw, as he traced his thumbs across the soft bristles on Derek’s cheekbones, Derek’s eyes slid closed as if the pleasure in it was almost unbearable.

It was like Derek shuddered without the movement of it and his hands, broad and so warm and gentle, slid up Stiles’s back, chasing the damp chill from his shower and leaving prickling bursts of heat in his wake. Derek tipped his head to press his forehead to Stiles’s, breathing deeply as he held Stiles close.

Stiles’s hands cupped the back of Derek’s neck, fingers threading through his short hair and Derek made a low sound like a groan deep in his chest.

“When I watched you get into that car, I felt like I lost something I never even really had,” Stiles murmured into the scant inch between their mouths. Derek’s hands slid warm up over the goosebumps on his back. He dragged his nose down the side of Stiles’s, across his cheek and jaw and chin, all without opening his eyes.

Even with his heart screaming in negation, Stiles drew back, just enough to turn them, so Derek’s back was to the bathroom and Stiles was standing in the gap beside the bed, using the shift in positions and minute space between them to say what he needed to. Derek’s eyes looked glossy and dark, considering Stiles with confusion, hands gripping his waist as he watched Stiles tried to find his words.

“I know why you had to go, then. But I really want you to stay now.”

Derek’s smile grew slowly, tentatively, but it dazzled him with its authenticity. He was still smiling when he started to lean in. Stiles wrapped his arms around his shoulders, the two of them pulling each other in close in tandem until their mouths slid together.

It was so sweet he felt himself sink into Derek at the same time that Derek pushed back. His bed had storage drawers underneath for his clothes so it was pretty high, high enough to scoot back onto and have Derek stand between his legs and just plaster the heat of his body against Stiles’s – all without their mouths separating. The slow press and caress of lips was like a question, like a request, like the shy affection of two people who had done this dance without even realising exactly what it meant until now and god, he didn’t expect Derek to be so soft.

They tilted their heads to press deeper and Derek dipped to nudge his jaw with his nose, graze the corner of his mouth with his lips until Stiles’s skin tingled pleasantly from his beard. It was like werewolf scenting and human kissing mixed up in a way that was purely just Derek until Stiles panted against his lips. He parted his lips slightly, shifting back and cupping Derek’s neck to take him with him until they were sprawled on the bed. The soft, warm shadowy place illuminated only by the glow from the lamp in the living area beyond the bookshelves.

The warmth they created between them lit Stiles up from the inside out. Derek rolled him on his double bed, tussling with him in his sheets. Stiles couldn’t help but think they must smell of them and that was maybe what was driving Derek crazy most of all. He tugged his shirt off between kisses, Derek catching his mouth the moment it passed over his head, pinning Stiles’s arms so they were still all caught up in the sleeves. He was ridiculous and perfect and making Stiles laugh at the awkwardness that felt so right. Derek’s answering chuckle against his lips and tongue was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

“I’ve never heard you go this long without talking,” Derek mused as Stiles lifted his head to nip at his jaw, to scrape his lips across soft, scratchy hair and relishing in the slight burn.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Stiles mock-chided, struggling, flailing out of his t-shirt at last and smoothing his hands up Derek’s back, all tight smooth muscle. “Just your shirt?”

“Mmm.” It was nonsensical but Stiles only had a moment to wonder what it meant before Derek kissed him with bruising force and drew back. He tugged his shirt off and dropping it somewhere near the end of the bed.

There wasn’t a moment of worship or godlike awe. Stiles didn’t doubt Derek had had his fair share of experiences like that. Stiles was too desperate for him to gape and gawk. He caught Derek’s shoulders and tugged him back down to him the moment his shirt was off, holding him close, bare skin sliding together hotly. Stiles’s hands gripped at his impossible shoulders and the small of his back in little spasms, wanting him everywhere, dipping between their bodies to stroke over his chest and stomach until Derek’s abs shuddered against his fingers. He groaned against Stiles’s mouth, bracing himself over Stiles’s head with his forearms, letting him touch everywhere and hold him close.

Stiles grinned against him, before nuzzling back into his cheek and wrapping his arms around him again completely.

He squeezed, pushing a little to roll them again until they were on their sides. Derek’s hands slid down his back so slowly, holding him, one hand sliding into his hair to cup his head so, so gently. Stiles nuzzled him again, just under his jaw and Derek pressed his nose into Stiles’s hair. They were both mostly hard and that was fine for now. This was what they both needed.

At some point as they lay tangled together, Stiles started to drift. He found himself half-over Derek, still wrapped in his arms in a messy sprawl but with the blankets over him now, warm and close and breathing only Derek in.

“You smell amazing,” Stiles mumbled, half-asleep. Derek’s chest jumped slightly under his hand with mostly silent laughter. He felt him press into his hairline sleepily, not as chaste as a kiss to his forehead, somehow more intimate in a way that sent little tendrils down Stiles’s spine.

“You feel amazing.”

Stiles muttered something about them not even being started yet but it was mostly smothered by his mouth smooshed against Derek’s shoulder and he definitely heard Derek say something about Stiles drooling. Stiles thought he fell asleep before he’d even finished laughing.

He was in that blissful place that wasn’t quite sleeping, just drifting pleasantly in relaxed consciousness. The calm tranquillity of someone just awoken, slowly drifting down to reality like a feather on a soft, warm breeze. There was something tickly nuzzling into the hollow of his neck. He groaned, stretching his limbs under the heavy blanket of heat, his arms coming up instinctively to wrap around broad shoulders and stroke clumsily until he cupped the back of Derek’s neck.

Derek was half-kissing, half burrowing into his neck and shoulder. He was only half awake himself, it seemed, and urging them both out of slumber in what Stiles thought was actually just the most fantastic way imaginable. Actually, he wasn’t sure even his imagination could come up with something this good. He felt his neck throb, as if Derek had been at it for a while and he squirmed. He tugged gently on Derek’s hair until Derek nosed across his adam’s apple and down to the opposite side of his neck to worry him there, just beneath where his collar would sit – if he ever put a shirt on again.

After a blissful eternity just lying warm and content under soft caresses, under Derek’s weight, held off him just enough by Derek’s arms either side of his head, he started to roll his hips into Derek’s soft, diminutive motions like a question again.

Derek lifted his head then, eyes glazed and dark and beautiful, hair sleep-mussed. Stiles was struck with how beautiful and soft he looked, asking for his silent consent. In answer, Stiles tilted his head and slanted their mouths together and rocked up against him until they were pressed together where they were both hard. They moved like that for a while, unhurried and lazy and perfect.

It was early morning and Stiles thought distractedly that he was going to be Derek’s workout that morning. He chuckled into Derek’s mouth and gripped Derek’s ass to pull their hips tighter together. It was firm and perfect and Derek went with it, with a little almost-growl, rutting into him even as Stiles clumsily tugged their sweats down, only just enough to bring their cocks together. He panted, tearing his mouth away from Derek’s to look down and watch them grinding together, both straining and hard and sticky.

Derek pushed up on one arm, the other coming down to hold them both together. The flat of his thumb danced under Stiles’s head as he stroked and Stiles shuddered, stomach quivering. He gripped Derek’s wrist, but not to stop him. He pressed his head back hard into the pillows as he fucked up into his hand.

He blinked bleary-eyed up at Derek, who was watching him through lust-blown eyes, half-lidded with thick lashes. Stiles grunted as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders again, holding onto him, rolling up into him even as Derek pushed back. They were just carried off fast and hard, as sudden and swift as Stiles’s heart beat and Stiles came in thick stripes between them. Hungry and shocked, he reached down to stroke them both as well, clumsy and urgent until Derek’s heat splashed over his own release before he’d even recovered himself.

He was shaking, he was pretty sure, still rocking as if he couldn’t help himself, even though he was sensitive. Derek kissed him everywhere like he was the most precious thing he’d ever seen – sweaty and mussed up and completely gone, drunk on Derek.

Derek had nice arms, Stiles thought dazedly, not for the first or last time. Those oh so nice arms scooped him up and held him close, sheets still tangled around them. Together, they fall into that soft, dreamy place that Stiles just realised only lazy morning sex could bring.

“Did you love me before I was your anchor?” he asked sleepily against Derek’s mouth sometime later. Derek liked to touch his nose to Stiles’s a lot, to drag it over his cheek and the corner of his lips so they lay at the same level mostly, on Stiles’s favourite pillow he’d brought from home that he couldn’t sleep without.

Derek opened his eyes then, hand warm on Stiles’s hip and he looked freer than Stiles had ever seen him.

“I think there was always something, an understanding or–”

“A spark?” Stiles mused.

Derek rolled his eyes but his lips were quirked in a little smile as well. “If you like. I can’t pinpoint when it changed exactly, it just…I started to change. And when I was stuck in that desert, I dreamed about you – I only dreamed about you, Stiles, and that’s when I knew.”

Stiles studied him closely in the muted light. “That I was your anchor?”

“Yes,” Derek said softly, so openly. “And I was messed up then, we both were and the timing wasn’t right, and you were seventeen and part of me felt like I’d never really stopped being sixteen but I knew that somewhere along the way, you’d become the most important thing to me.”

Stiles stroked his face. Derek was getting laugh lines around his eyes, and they were the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.

“I think I fell in love with you when you were hiding out in my room all that time from the sheriff’s department, even if I didn’t really understand what it meant.”

He still wasn’t sure he understood it entirely now, but they had plenty of time to figure it out.

He leaned in this time, bringing their mouths together just a split-second before his phone buzzed. No, Derek’s phone buzzed in the living room. They ignored it at first, then it started vibrating frantically, signalling a phone call in silent mode and Derek huffed in annoyance before hopping out of bed. He pulled up his sweats as he went, but not before Stiles got a glorious glimpse of that perfect ass. He couldn’t wait to see more of it.

As Derek answered, he stumbled into the bathroom and ran a washcloth under warm water, sponging himself down and wringing it out to take out to Derek, but as he turned, he found Derek in the doorway, phone still to his ear, a worried look on his face. Or a worried scowl at any rate.

“What sort of trouble?” Derek said to the person on the phone.

Stiles didn’t have super-hearing, but the apartment was quiet and Derek’s phone was loud enough that he heard a woman’s voice on the phone. Cora?

“You’re telling me that their whole pack was destroyed?” His tone was difficult to read and Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek was summarising Cora’s words for Stiles’s benefit, or just simply floundering in disbelief. Because Derek had just been on the run for months because hunters, the ones they’d helped the FBI catch, had annihilated an entire pack and somehow pinned the blame on Derek, who had stopped by to check it out at exactly the wrong time.

The second hit on a werewolf pack in less than six months was a bit of coincidence and usually hunters were a bit more circumspect about their attacks, even the crazy ones.

Genocide on a wider scale was harder to ignore.

Stiles glanced at his own phone through the doorway, sitting currently silent on his side table. His work may not be aware of it yet, or maybe they were, but interns weren’t privy to this sort of dangerous information – the kind of information that could start a wider scale of panic. There were people like Rafael all over the FBI and CIA, trying to keep the secrets of the supernatural world secret. They were either doing a really good job of it or the officials were being pretty secretive themselves.

Stiles wouldn’t have time to find out which it was. He just knew. Stepping closer, he pressed his ear close and Derek held the phone away from his ear slightly so they could both listen.

“They weren’t even careful about it Derek,” Cora’s voice said, sounding fast and afraid. “The pack I’m staying with are in contact with this one in Brazil everyday because they’re the alpha’s in-laws and communication completely stopped. When they sent some people to check it out, they were just…everyone is gone. It was a blood bath. A scale of attack no one could’ve defended against. We’re working on other packs, telling them to go underground, get into hiding so I can’t – I wouldn’t ask you, but you know there are kids in this pack I’m staying with, Derek, in some of these other packs we’re trying to get to safety and something huge is going on here and I need to know someone I trust is looking into it.”

Stiles swallowed thickly, hands shaking and Derek held his gaze, as still as stone. In the short time Stiles had known Cora, he’d never heard her this shaken and desperate. This was bad. They both seemed agreed on that.

“I’ll check it out. Send me the location,” Derek said.

“Just for reconnaissance,” Cora insisted, voice shaken but determined now. “You promise me, Derek. This isn’t a battle you can win alone. You stay out of sight, find information and get out.” When Derek didn’t reply she persisted more firmly, “you promise me.”

It was not a question.

Derek sighed and though his expression was tinged with worry, his eyes were soft and affectionate. Stiles had heard him talk about his time with Cora and the pack she was staying with fondly, so he thought they’d gone some ways to mend the fractures in their relationship. He couldn’t wait to find out more – once they got out of whatever mess was headed their way, because there was no question they were heading straight for it.

“I promise, Cora. I can be careful.”

Stiles swore he heard something like “yeah, now you can” muttered down the phone from Cora and he smirked in spite of himself.

“Don’t go alone. Are you still in contact with Chris Argent or Braedan? Or can Isaac meet you?”

“Isaac’s still in France, he’s…” Derek looked thoughtful. “He’s happy there, Cora. He’s got a whole life.”

“Argent or Braeden then,” Cora said impatiently, more like a mother than a sister. “You can’t go alone.”

Derek straightened a little then, staring directly into Stiles’s eyes without any reservations and with meaning so much more significant than his simple words suggested. “Don’t worry, I’ve got back up.”

They had to get a flight to Brazil. Luckily there was space on the next flight out with only one stop over and Stiles was thrumming with nerves the whole time.

On the last leg, Derek laid a hand over his on the arm rest to still his twitching fingers when it looked like the woman in the window seat next to them was about to kill Stiles.

He wondered if it were possible that Derek could anchor him as well as the other way around, because after that he did actually manage to get some sleep. He didn’t know then just how much he would need it.

The next seventy-odd hours of Stiles’s life were non-stop. He wasn’t even sure he could process it correctly for days, weeks, months after, but somehow, while they were checking the wide area the murdered pack had claimed as territory, he and Derek had gotten split up. The ‘hunting party’ that’d attacked the pack had disbanded but some were still in the nearby town and some, Derek had apparently found at the scene of the crime. All of course, while Stiles got into trouble with the former.

Stiles wasn’t even sure how but by the time Derek had met him back at their hotel, Stiles had already had most of the hunters he’d encountered taken in by local law enforcement as suspects and Derek…Derek had parked up out front in what Stiles was pretty sure was a stolen car.

“Oh my god!” Stiles declared more than gasped as he scrambled into the passenger seat. “Are you insane! There are Brazilian police all over this town now and you park up in a stolen car!”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It’s not reported as stolen, they didn’t live long enough to make the call.”

Stiles scowled, scanning the street anxiously but the police that’d made the arrests were gone with their charges now and those that’d been left to clear the scene still seemed to be inside.

“Dude, where have you been?! You were meant to be back hours ago!”

Pulling back out into the street with all the calmness of a man out on a morning stroll, Derek made the turn at the junction toward the airport. “I was a bit caught up. I text you as soon as I could.” Before Stiles could do much more than process that the fact that he himself had also not really had time to check his phone, Derek added wryly, “Looks like you’ve been pretty busy too.” His eyes followed the three police vans they passed, currently transporting their suspects to the local jail.

They might not stay there, Stiles’s dad had been brief and distracted when he’d put Stiles in contact with someone trustworthy in Brazil. He was probably working on a big case himself as he was very hasty to get Stiles off the phone, so Stiles still wasn’t sure exactly how much Detective Silvos, who’d helped Stiles get these guys nailed down, knew about the supernatural. He hadn’t really blinked at Stiles’s vague and suspicious story though. Not when Stiles’s dad had spoken to him on the phone.

He also hadn’t asked Stiles to give him his address or contact details or to stay in town while the investigation continued, which was standard even in another country, of that he was sure.

He had the nagging suspicion somehow his dad was involved in this, which was impossible, surely? How could he be involved in a hit on werewolves in Brazil and Mexico that were somehow linked?

And why weren’t Lydia or Scott answering their damn phones?!

He stared at Derek then and the sight he made. “Is that your blood? Dude,” he hurriedly stripped off his outer shirt for Derek to put on when they reached the airport. They did not need that kind of attention.

Derek set his teeth. “Get your phone out and book us on the next flight out of Brazil.”

Stiles studied him carefully for a moment before digging in his pocket for his phone. “Sacramento flights are–”

“Not Sacramento,” Derek cut across him, focussed solely on the road ahead, as if he dared not let his mind drift back to whatever he’d left behind.

Watching his face in profile carefully, Stiles waited for Derek to explain or clarify what he meant exactly. But the haunted look in Derek’s eyes as the street lights flashed by made the uneasiness at the back of his mind settle heavily in the pit of his stomach. “Derek?”

“Book the fastest route to Beacon County airport,” he said at last, casting Stiles a little sideways glance.

Of course whatever crap was going on here was leading them back to Beacon Hills, the place they’d both tried so hard to escape. Stiles was so getting his dad a job somewhere in Sacramento because his life expectancy was definitely going to go up with that move. He shot his dad a text to check in as he pulled up the flights options.

It was night when they landed in Beacon County Airport after a long two stop flight and the taxi they took from there dropped them off at the Stiles’s house. An uncomfortable sense of foreboding filled him when they found that his dad wasn’t there. Even as Stiles felt his panic sky-rocketing, even as he dialled his dad’s cell and the line rang and rang, Derek stood poised on the threshold of the front door, listening to the cool, quiet night.

Stiles watched him, knowing, just knowing somehow that he was picking up on something Stiles couldn’t have a hope of sensing.

“They’re in trouble – we’ve got to go,” Derek said quickly. Stiles snatched the Jeep’s keys off the rack in the hall. He hoped that the fact that Scott had left the Jeep here meant his dad was with him, or at least protected somehow.

“Your driving will get us pulled over in five seconds, we want to avoid attention not get shot off the road by the anti-werewolf militia,” Stiles said as he shut the front door behind them and darted for the Jeep. Because his brain had been working overtime on both flights and he was starting to put it all together now.

He thought as he pulled his seatbelt on and Derek wrenched open the passenger door with distaste, that Derek was about to argue, but then he stiffened as if he’d heard something, eyes going wide and he jumped in.

“Drive,” he barked, before he’d even closed his door.

Stiles floored it, going five over the speed limit the whole way despite the way Derek was braced forward in his seat and scowling at the rate of movement.

“Look, if they see us speeding down the street it’s going to draw even more attention than a werewolf running down it,” Stiles snapped, heart pounding, mind racing as he thought of his dad, of Scott and Lydia and everyone else.

Scott hadn’t had time for specifics it seemed, hadn’t even had time to finish the phone call properly or reply to Stiles’s messages. Stiles wondered if his phone had been caught in the crossfire again, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Derek rolled down the passenger window roughly using the lever and glared at Stiles as if daring him to make a dog comment as he inhaled the sharp night air.

“Turn right,” he barked and the Jeep protested loudly as Stiles jerked the steering hard.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Stiles snapped and Derek turned his head to level him with a withering look. Stiles wasn’t deterred. “It still hurts if you fly through the windshield doesn’t it? Now don’t lean too far out of the window or a streetlamp will take your head clean off, fido.”

He had the brief, glancing thought that it was good their bickering banter hadn’t changed. That, and that they made a pretty good team. He only hoped their success of the last few days, weeks really, was going to hold true for whatever they were getting themselves into now. It was Beacon Hills, after all.

Derek helped him follow Scott’s trail toward an industrial site and as Stiles pressed harder on the gas, even he heard the sounds of gunfire. His stomach dropped and he and Derek locked gazes briefly. He saw his own worry etched into Derek’s expression and swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

“Blood?” he breathed, not wanting to know.

“Not Scott’s. Not the pack’s, I don’t think but…” he frowned then and stiffened in his seat, grabbing for the door handle. “Keep going. Put your foot down.” With that, he leapt out of the door, landing easily on his feet.

Stiles swore, glancing repetitively in the wing mirror only to see Derek quickly keep speed alongside the passenger window, pushing the door shut hard.

A stream of gunfire pinged down from one of the rooftops to their left.

“Snipers!” Stiles shouted and Derek snarled, leaping onto the nearest structure and scaling the concrete, up and out of sight.

Ahead of him, Stiles could see the conflict now, a force of guns flashing in the dark, aiming for a barely covered alcove with wide open arches and he knew, just knew this was them. The militia that were trying to kill everyone he cared about. Maybe they even had? One man side-stepped out of the shadow of the building they were targeting, position prime for fire and Stiles knew without thinking the guy was preparing a kill-shot.

He floored the gas and slammed into him, sending the guy skidding forward with a crunch. Panting hard, Stiles turned out the still open window and saw Scott staring at him from his crouched position behind a pillar.

“You didn’t think you were doing this without me, did ya?” Stiles called out, a little breathless but with a wave of relief filling him at seeing Scott alive.

“Without us?” Derek added as he came up alongside the Jeep once more, evidently having disposed of the snipers that had sidetracked him. Movement just ahead, of more gunmen rounding the corner caught his eye though and his eyes flashed, fangs extending as he leapt forward.

If Stiles hadn’t been head over heels for him before, he sure would’ve been then. Because Derek wasn’t the same erratic, scared little kid in a man’s body. He was focussed, more dangerous and stronger now because of it. He may not have been an alpha but he was unstoppable. Maybe the others felt it too or perhaps their arrival had simply rallied their morale because he saw Malia move, saw Peter and for probably the first time, Stiles appreciated that they were wolves – a pack of wolves acting as one, all of them. He stood struck still as stone at the sight of them working together like a single force and didn’t really come back to himself until what was left of their enemy tore away with a screech of tyres.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about any of this, not a word not a single word,” he rounded on Lydia as the others moved toward…toward Deucalion, broken and limp on the floor.

“We had reasons, really good reasons,” Lydia muttered sheepishly, and as they moved, as Scott and the others focussed on Deucalion, she levelled him with a shrewd glare. “Why didn’t you tell me about Derek?” She challenged under her breath and Stiles wasn’t even sure how she’d known from just a glance, or if it’d only been a hunch that he’d confirmed with the full-facial flush he had absolutely no control over.

“Well that’s a…fairly recent development. Like…sort of shiny new…”

“Please, there’s nothing new about that,” Lydia scoffed under her breath.

He felt Derek tense as he came up behind them, Peter close by, Malia too and he wondered how much they had heard or if they’d been focussed on Deucalion’s last words.

“It’s already started, hasn’t it?” Malia asked.

Stiles frowned. How much had they missed here? “What’s started?”

“It’s an all out war,” Scott breathed, lifting his gaze from Deucalion to each of them in turn, as if confirming each and every member of his pack were unharmed after such a close call. An instinctive motion, Stiles thought, after years of running with wolves.

Stiles’s head was still spinning as Scott embraced Derek, relieved and glad to see him and so well, Stiles thought. Scott was the alpha but Derek represented a force of strength for Scott, a big brother figure and support that Scott didn’t have from anyone else. As they spoke, as Derek explained what had brought them there, Stiles suddenly found himself among all the conflicting feelings that had gripped him since they’d started heading back toward Beacon Hills.

Because their connection, this thing he and Derek had found together, their little den back in Sacramento felt so fresh, new and delicate like a bubble and whatever Beacon Hills touched, it fucked up. But standing there, watching Derek, watching Derek watch him with those soft eyes, he realised every inch of Derek was calm and collected. He was focussed because Stiles was there, anchoring him and whatever else happened, they were going to be okay.

“We found a pack slaughtered in Brazil, there were two words written on the wall, Beacon Hills.”

“You came back for Beacon Hills?” Scott asked, bemused.

“No,” Derek replied simply. “I came back for you.”

“We came back for you,” Stiles corrected.

Malia gave him a wry look. “Yeah, are ‘we’ going to explain that anytime soon?” Stiles honestly forgot how much she loved to tease him. He’d missed her, he’d missed all of them really and he felt a little giddy at the thought of sharing this happiness he’d found, this inner strength he’d cultivated, the person he’d become.

Derek moved to his side then, a subtle but distinctive movement. His eyes searching his, a smile touching the corners of his mouth as Stiles’s gaze dropped to it. It was like Derek felt invincible with Stiles beside him, and that knowledge was heady. The backs of Derek’s fingers brushed his where they hung limp at his side with such subtle, shy tenderness and yet Stiles’s stomach fluttered and he gave a nervous little laugh.

“Sure, we’ve got…stuff and you guys have stuff – a lot of stuff, actually. Huge stuff. But can we go somewhere with heat and light because I haven’t slept properly in like literal days and I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Derek’s soft little burst of laughter, almost too quiet to hear, was a beautiful sound, a moment of calming clarity, like the last gulp of fresh air before diving into deep water. They had a war to win.

When the smoke cleared, when they had defeated the militia that had tried to wipe out anyone with supernatural blood, they stood together in the darkness.

Stiles watched Scott bring a freshly turned, freshly afraid werewolf into their protection, if not their fold. Watched the beginnings of their future unfold before them and for once he didn’t feel afraid. He glanced to Derek, who gave him that little quirk of a smile, saw his own future, as well as his pack and he couldn’t wait for the rest of his life to begin.

The Jeep couldn’t make the drive to Sacramento, so he left her back in Scott’s loving hands to drive the newbie back to the loft. Derek’s old apartment had been renovated by the pack into ‘pack ground zero’ and now housed quite a few of their newest recruits slash recues. Scott had only looked a little bit annoyed, mostly indulgent, when Stiles had called it ‘Scotty’s School for Gifted Youngsters’.

He climbed into the passenger seat of Derek’s Camaro, a new model, not the old classic that apparently Derek had left with Cora. Derek looked so good and Stiles wondered how much begging it’d take to get Derek to stop for a milkshake on the way home. He was guessing not much, Derek was pretty good at taking care of him. He’d even looked ready to take on their friends when they’d effectively outed themselves to everyone in Deaton’s clinic before the final showdown. It had been unnecessary though, as nobody seemed very surprised, except Scott, who bless his heart was oblivious about most things.

“Your dad gave me ‘the speech’ when you were loading the car earlier,” Derek mused as he pulled out onto the quiet main road. “It wasn’t exactly the ‘shotgun’ speech…”

Stiles cringed. “It wasn’t the safe sex speech either was it?”

Derek smirked. “It was more along the lines of, I’m glad it’s you and good luck you’re gonna need it.”

Stiles made a sound that was a mixture of outrage and amusement. “Oh my god, traitor! You guys are gonna gang up on me at Sunday dinners aren’t you?”

Derek’s quiet laughter caressed his ears as Beacon Hills fell away in a blur of twinkling lights into the darkness behind them. He reached out, stretching fingers across Derek’s denim-clad thigh and relaxed back into the seat, staring out at the road ahead where the headlights greeted the tarmac.

Derek’s fingers came down to cover his as he drove.

“Do you think another militia will pop up like that again?” Stiles asked after the lights of Beacon Hills had long since vanished behind them.

“I think it’s always possible. Hunters are still out there. People like Monroe are still out there,” Derek said thoughtfully. “But rumour is spreading, about the Beacon Hills pack, about the safety they provide, their strength. It makes anyone think twice about making an attack like that again, but it also means newly turned werewolves and people like them have somewhere to go instead of getting into trouble, instead of causing mayhem with powers they can’t control.”

Stiles nodded, “it actually helps to have so many people in the town in on the secret too, I guess. They’re like an extension of the pack.” Plus his dad had been elected sheriff again and he had never been more respected by the community. While that kept him rooted in Beacon Hills too for the foreseeable future, Stiles didn’t worry as much as he had before. The bitterness that had once tainted his connection to that town had dissipated somewhat, his bond with his hometown, with the pack stronger than before.

It was funny how it’d taken him and Derek finding each other, really finding each other to enable them to reconnect with the pack and the town the way they were meant to. They would always belong to Beacon Hills and the pack there, it would always be theirs, but what they had with each other was home. Home was wherever Stiles curled up next to Derek at night and the rest of the world was a better place outside because of that.

Stiles couldn’t even put his finger on why, exactly. He thought though, perhaps, that they’d both been two very capable but misguided kids. Two strangers that, for their own reasons, had been forced to learn to take care of themselves. And while they’d both managed fine, they hadn’t necessarily been good at it. They’d been drawn to each other from the start, had always known how to push each other’s buttons but also known that they were both missing something.

Now they were whole. Cracked, a little chipped here and there and definitely dented, but for all those flaws, they were together and complete.

They’d looked out for each other as allies in war, but now they looked after each other as partners, as equals. As the other’s most important thing, the anchor that held them tight, steady and sure no matter how rough the seas around them grew.

“You’re totally gonna rip my throat out if I open this bag of Doritos in your new shiny baby aren’t you?” Stiles mused as he tugged the aforementioned bag out from his backpack that sat between his legs in the footwell.

“With my teeth,” Derek agreed automatically, completely deadpan. But his hand squeezed Stiles’s gently where they were still connected.

Stiles grinned.

There was also the fact that no one quite enjoyed Stiles’s own special brand of crazy like Derek did. That sort of unconditional love was something more powerful than anything, supernatural or otherwise. It was hard not to feel invincible knowing that. And when Derek looked at him sometimes, even then when it was just a quick peek between keeping his eyes on the road, like he couldn’t help himself, he could see Derek felt the exact same way.

“So at the end of the month, my boss is holding this sort of…I guess the term would be a dinner,” he began as he gently wriggled his hand free from Derek’s to open the dreaded Doritos. “It’s like this unofficial thing he does, to sort of congratulate us all for our hard work. Like a work’s Christmas party except it’s way too early for Christmas. But anyway, we’re allowed to bring significant others.”

When Derek glanced at him again, Stiles waggled his eyebrows and stuffed some Doritos in his mouth. “How significant do you wanna be, Derek?”

Derek flushed but turned back to the road. Honestly he rocked the angry-embarrassed thing, Stiles was so gone for him.

“Is he going to recognise me?” Derek replied eventually, but as he did so, Stiles leaned over to poke a Dorito into his mouth, forcing him to partake in the desecration of the Camaro’s spotless interior and lingering new car smell.

“Only one way to find out hubby-wolf.”

“Oh my god, Stiles, no pet names.”

“I’m also thinking we can probably fit a queen bed in the apartment,” Stiles continued as if he hadn’t spoken. We should stop at Ikea tomorrow. Just something with a little more room for you to, you know, have at me with all your wolfie desires. The full moons are gonna rock.”

Derek made a noise that was torn between dismay and adoration and annoyance all at once and Stiles grinned, stuffing his mouth full again before poking another chip between Derek’s lips. He prodded it until it was almost fully in Derek’s mouth, but when Derek resignedly sucked it in fully, he nipped at the end of Stiles’s fingertip, looking both irritated and pleased with himself.

Stiles beamed and dusted his fingers off before starting to mess with the radio.

Derek had to know what he was in for, after all.

#happyjuicyfruit #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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