#but the egg man has taken over every corner of my brain and is smothering the rest out

[freesidexjunkie]

I need yall to know that I have like, three BG3 fics clawing to get out of my skull and they're all being trampled by this solas fic

[1989dreamer]

No Time Like the Present

Inspired by this post.

No Warnings.

Saying goodbye to Isaac is the hardest thing Derek’s had to do in a while. For his part, Isaac’s been with him for nearly a year. It’s taken that long to draw the young man out of his shell, to get him to smile at Allison, the regular who always orders pancakes with a side of hash browns. She’s been here almost as long as Derek (that is to say, he remembers her walking through the front door shortly after he woke up).

Unfortunately, for Allison, she’s going to be waiting a long time yet. Her aura is still dark. Isaac’s was powder blue when he tumbled in, unwinding a scarf (that in all likelihood had been the cause of his demise, if the bruises ringing his neck were anything to go by).

Derek’s getting better about helping people Move On.

For Isaac’s going away party, Derek scrambles eggs and adds cheese and ham. Hold the green peppers. Isaac grins at him with a teary smile, aura gone so light it’s nearly invisible.

Allison’s gets darker by a shade or two when Isaac fades, his fork clinking onto his plate where it dropped through his incorporeal fingers.

The other regulars, Lydia in the corner with her coffee and mathematical equations, Danny leaning on the jukebox playing everyone’s favorite songs, the skulking figure in the back corner by the grill, applaud when he vanishes completely. Even Allison begrudgingly cheers.

Derek allows it for a minute (hey, he was fond of the kid), before he glares everyone into semi-silence again and goes back to cleaning the grill (even though it never needs it no matter how much food he makes), the skulking figure sighing wistfully at him.

About an hour later (time is relative. Derek hasn’t given up Earth time even though he’s nearing a hundred years at the diner), a thin man stumbles into the diner, much like Isaac did.

He pulls his cherry red scarf free and throws it over the coat rack by the door. At least his neck is unblemished skin (minus a beauty mark or three).

His wide mouth is stretched in a smile as he shakes his body, like a dog shaking off water. His eyes sparkle, amber highlights dancing merrily. Derek scoffs to himself—he doesn’t wax poetic about eyes for fuck’s sake. He must be coming down with something (even though that is nearly physically impossible).

“Garçon!” the man cries, voice vibrant, electrifying. Derek feels a shiver slide down his spine, a strange heat curling at the base of it (something he hasn’t felt since his life before and he doesn’t like it). “A cup of your finest soup!”

Derek scowls at him. This man is making him uncomfortable, and Derek does not like it. He recoils when he notices a major part of his new customer missing. This man has no aura.

“Just for that,” he says, snappish to cover his surprise, “you’ll get split pea soup.”

“Lovely!” The man slides onto a stool at the counter beside Allison and leans his elbows on it, folding his hands together, propping his chin on them. “It’s colder than a yeti’s ass outside and I’m starving.”

The snort Derek wants to let out is dutifully smothered, but the man still smirks at him like he hears it. Derek doesn’t often do it this way, preferring instead to rely on actual cooking, but he snaps his fingers and the cup of soup (chicken noodle—he can’t make split pea worth a damn) materializes in front of the newcomer. The man eagerly digs in, slurping noodles and broth alike obscenely (endearingly. No one eats Derek’s cooking like they are starving, no matter how good it is). Derek turns away to hide his pleased blush and goes back to cleaning his grill, scraping at a particularly clean spot.

“By the by,” the man says between bites. “Name’s Stiles. I’m your shepherd.”

“What do I need with a shepherd?” Derek asks, glancing up. Stiles shrugs.

“All I know is I go where I’m needed.” He snaps his own fingers and Derek feels his eyes widening at the drastic lightening of Allison’s aura.

Allison notices where he’s staring and glances down at her hand. She holds it up in front of her face. She looks delighted.

Derek knows she does because he can see her face through her hand. She’s Moving On. He’s never had two people Move On this close together, much less in the same day.

Stiles grins and goes back to his soup.

Allison fades away to a large round of cheers and applause. Derek barely has time to snap up some apple pie with vanilla ice cream for her before she’s gone.

“Betcha I can get Danny ready in a jiffy too,” Stiles brags, spoon scraping the bottom of his cup. Danny shakes his head while the skulking figure chitters hopefully. Instead, Stiles refills his cup again (probably not the first time, now that Derek’s thinking about it).

“Did you know your own aura is pure white?” Stiles asks, blinking at Derek with feigned innocence.

Derek nods. “I always thought it was because I was the proprietor.”

“Interesting theory. Completely wrong, though.”

The skulking figure rises up and moves toward Stiles, waving fingers elongated into claws. Derek shakes his head until it sinks back into its spot again.

“It’s a position I inherited,” he explains. “There were all these people waiting when I arrived. I assessed their auras, fed them their favorite foods, and Moved them On.”

“But you’re not the proprietor,” Stiles says. He sets his spoon down and waves Derek around the counter to take the seat next to him. Derek snaps away Allison’s remaining dishes before slumping onto the stool. “This place has always existed. Just because you’re the one behind the register, it doesn’t mean that’s where you belong.”

“No one was in this position when I arrived,” Derek emphasizes. “And Allison came in shortly after. I’ve helped thousands of people Move On.”

“But you’re still not the proprietor,” Stiles insists. “That would actually be the creature you seem dead set on keeping here.”

The creature chatters happily, oozing along Derek’s clean counter until it can dip its grotesque fingers into Stiles’ soup.

Stiles sets his hand on the creature’s hand and closes his eyes. Slowly, the creature loses its shadowy features and solidifies into a gaunt woman with matted blonde hair and haunted brown eyes.

Derek knows he should recognize her, know what the faint smell of smoke clinging to her means, why she has a pitch black aura, but his brain skips, like a needle over a damaged record, and all he can do is wave forth a sandwich and a cup of chicken noodle soup for her.

“She isn’t the original proprietor either,” Stiles says to his mug. “Actually, that was me, a million millennia ago. Every hundred years or so, the diner gets a new proprietor. You and Kate arrived so close together that the diner was confused.”

“Kate? Kate Argent?” Derek eyes the woman. Now he knows why she is familiar.

She looks so different from the vivacious, sensual woman that approached him before his life here. She won’t make eye contact, stirring the soup as she nibbles at the sandwich. He turns back to Stiles. “I was never meant to stay?”

“Neither of you were. You make your amends, and you Move On. Or, if you’re lucky like me, you get to go wherever you please.” He reaches out and grabs Derek’s hand. Where he touches, Derek’s aura fades away into nothingness.

“What?” Derek tries pulling back but Stiles tightens his grip, pulling more of Derek’s aura from him. It doesn’t hurt to lose his aura. In fact, it feels amazing, like finding himself. His head spins with giddiness and he grins at Stiles. The diner gasps in shock—Derek never smiles. “What happens now?” he asks.

“Now,” Stiles replies, lifting a new mug he conjured to his lips, “you let Kate run the diner until she can Move On. You can do anything you want.”

“You said you were my shepherd. What does that mean exactly?”

“Well, typically, it means I need to show you the ropes of moving through time and space. How to do more than just conjuring food or lightening auras. After that, it depends on what you want to do.”

“And what if what I want to do is go with you?”

“Even after your training?”

Derek claps his hands and Stiles’ scarf appears in his hands. “Even after my training.”

Stiles looks delighted. “Well, to that I say, no time like the present.”

He hooks his arm with Derek’s and leads him to the door. Derek hasn’t stepped foot outside in nearly a hundred years, just before Allison arrived.

There was nothing there, the sidewalk and maybe a street sign. Then it ended in a wall of dense fog.

Now, when Stiles throws open the door, Derek can see the end of the street. It looks like his home from before. If he squints, he thinks he can see his parents on the front porch and his sisters playing in the yard. He glances back at the customers, waves at Lydia, at Danny, even at Kate, and then takes a deep breath and steps forward, Stiles by his side.

He doesn’t look back again.

~ Fin ~