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poipoi1912 · 7 years ago

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Barisi Episode Tag, 19x03

(7.9K. Inspired by ‘yummy.’ A canon-compliant story about Sonny and Rafael’s relationship through the seasons. No detail left unexplained, no stone left unturned. Please enjoy.)

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Three Years

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“Meet me at The Double Windsor. 9 o’clock.”

Rafael can’t stop reading the text.

Carisi’s text.

Rafael can’t stop reading Carisi’s bold, matter-of-fact text.

A time and a place.

Nothing else.

No ‘would you?’

No ‘unless you have other plans.’

No ‘please?’

Just “Meet me.”

Like he’s sure Rafael will be there.

Rafael is there.

Rafael is here, at the bar Carisi suggested, or picked out unilaterally, because that text was no suggestion, Rafael is here right now, sitting at a corner table, Rafael is here with his jacket off and his tie loose, to appear more casual, Rafael is here and he’s drinking and he’s waiting.

Rafael has been waiting all afternoon.

Rafael has been waiting for three years, actually, but Carisi’s text only came this afternoon, and Rafael swears the last three hours felt even longer.

He almost didn’t check his phone.

His phone, it went off during a meeting with the D.A., and he almost ignored it, like he always does, except he saw Carisi’s name on the screen.

Rafael had to sneak a peek.

After all, maybe Carisi was texting to brag, because his obfuscation idea had worked like a charm. Or, just maybe, it was ‘yummy’ which had worked like a charm, and Carisi was texting to belatedly respond to that.

As soon as Rafael saw, ‘Meet me,’ he knew it was the latter.

As soon as he saw, ‘The Double Windsor,’ he knew this was a date.

Finally.

And it only took three years.

Despite this truly lamentable delay, and despite the fact he had almost resigned himself to eternal blue balls, Rafael can’t say he was too surprised.

He caught the look on Carisi’s face, as he was leaving Liv’s office.

He saw the way Carisi’s eyes followed him all the way out the door.

Rafael knew ‘yummy’ struck a chord.

He just didn’t know what Carisi was going to do about it.

Send a suggestive text, apparently.

A pretty straightforward tactic, and one Rafael wasn’t quite expecting. He was banking on a smirk or three, next time Carisi came to his office. He was waiting for some gloating, and some teasing, and some more ‘Oh, Rafaels’.

The text was better.

Marginally.

Rafael had to struggle to keep his expression neutral as the D.A. kept yammering on about new hires at the Manhattan office, and about highly qualified recruits from outside New York, and about ‘promising’ prosecutors placed in positions Rafael could only dream of attaining, despite his years of experience, because he had one too many suspensions on his record now and his career was dead in the water.

Or something like that.

Rafael chose to focus on the positive.

Carisi’s text.

Rafael pretended he was listening as he emailed Carmen to clear his schedule for the rest of the evening.

Right after he replied to Carisi, of course.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

A cliché, but for a reason.

Carisi didn’t text back. Rafael assumes it’s because he wants to have the rest of that conversation in person.

At The Double Windsor.

This isn’t the first time they’ll be meeting here.

That’s how Rafael knew.

He and Carisi, they’ve been here once before.

Before.

This bar, it’s around the corner from Carisi’s place. Technically, Rafael shouldn’t know that, but he does.

From before.

Before Rafael screwed everything up.

It doesn’t matter.

They’re here again.

Now.

They will be here.

Carisi will be here, any minute now, and that’s all that matters.

Rafael’s eyes are glued to the main entrance.

He’d be embarrassed by his own eagerness, by the way he sits up every time a tall and slender enough man walks through the heavy doors, but the time for embarrassment has long passed.

Rafael is excited.

He’s excited to be meeting Carisi, he’s excited to be sharing a bottle of bourbon, just like last time, he’s excited to be here.

Again.

Rafael knows Carisi didn’t pick this place by accident. Carisi didn’t pick it because it’s convenient, because he had a long day and he wants to get home as soon as possible after their date.

It is a date.

If Carisi wanted a professional meeting, he would have picked one of the many cop bars within a four-block radius of the precinct.

Carisi does not want a professional meeting.

Rafael knows that.

He doesn’t know why ‘yummy’ did the trick, of all things, and he does feel it was almost too easy, but he’ll take it.

Lord knows Rafael has tried everything. He’s tried booyahs, and broken clocks, and kewpie dolls, he’s tried agreeing with Carisi, he’s tried disagreeing, he’s tried being there for Carisi, he’s tried being indifferent, he’s tried insults, he’s tried jokes, he’s tried flirting, he’s tried the cold shoulder, Rafael has tried everything short of actually making a move, and now he gets to sit back and enjoy the fact Carisi made the move for him.

Finally.

After three years of dancing around it, it’s finally happening.

Well, after one year of arguing, and one year of dancing around it, and one year of fighting, because Rafael is an idiot and too proud to admit it.

They were so close, before.

In this bar, they got so close.

Once.

Before.

Carisi mentioned it, over-enunciated the name like Rafael might get a kick out of it, Carisi said, ‘There’s this bar I know, it’s called The Double Windsor. Real classy place. You’d like it, counselor,’ and Rafael laughed, Rafael said, ‘I shudder to think what you consider classy, Carisi. Probably what I’d call a dive bar,’ and Carisi snorted, and Rafael closed the case file he was reading, and Rafael said, ‘I’m not doing anything right now,’ and Carisi smiled at him, so sweet, and they left Rafael’s office together, late at night, almost a year ago, now.

This place, it means something.

Or it did.

Almost a year ago.

As Rafael sips his bourbon slowly, as he remembers the rich flavor of the surprisingly high end brand, the same one he chose almost a year ago, as he remembers saying, ‘I have to admit, even I would call this classy, Carisi,’ as he remembers Carisi’s beaming face, Rafael knows.

This place still means something.

Tonight.

It’s taken three years, two of them wasted, but tonight, it’s finally happening.

Their first date.

If Rafael was a little more honest, or a lot more drunk, he would admit this is their second date.

Their real first date happened right in this bar, almost a year ago.

Rafael doesn’t even know if that should count, but that’s because he’s sober.

It counts.

Maybe this can be their second first date.

All because of ‘yummy.’

All because Carisi has forgiven him, finally, and that’s what Rafael is really happy about.

Not this date. First, second, whatever. That, that’s just the icing on the cake.

Rafael is happy because they’re back.

Back to normal.

Carisi is joking again, and smiling, and calling, and texting, and showing off.

That’s what Rafael is really happy about.

Carisi, showing off for him.

Just like the good old days.

Carisi always had a way of making Rafael happy.

And then he spent a year making Rafael miserable.

Because Rafael screwed everything up.

Carisi spent a year sending Rafael cold and lengthy and perfectly businesslike emails to suggest potentially helpful jurisprudence, every time he thought Rafael needed an assist. Carisi didn’t set foot in Rafael’s office for months, not alone. Carisi chose to rely on linked excerpts from law journals, instead of popping by unannounced, pastries in hand, and regaling Rafael with the contents of his latest paper for his Advanced Criminal Law class at Fordham.

Rafael misses that.

Rafael will never get it back.

Carisi is not at Fordham anymore.

Carisi is a lawyer, now, Carisi passed the bar, and Rafael didn’t even get to celebrate with him, not properly, because that’s when the death threats escalated.

Among other things.

Rafael is deeply, painfully grateful Carisi got a chance to say thank you before it all fell apart.

It’s taken almost a year, but Rafael thinks they’re starting to put it back together.

Carisi suggests strategies in person, now. In Rafael’s office, when it’s just the two of them. In front of the others, too. Liv’s office has become a makeshift auditorium, where Carisi carries out his little presentations, the bigger the audience the better.

It’s all for Rafael.

Carisi’s dimples give him away.

The audience is a bonus, because Carisi’s always been a cocky when it comes to the law, but it’s all for Rafael.

Just like the good old days.

Exactly like the good old days, except for the fact Carisi’s suggestions are much more sophisticated, now. Impressively sophisticated. He’s even managed to outsmart Rafael, on the odd occasion, and that feels better than it should. Rafael’s never felt pride for someone else’s accomplishments before, certainly not when they were at his own expense.

It feels weird.

Rafael feels weird, and proud, and grateful, and happy, and he only has Carisi to thank.

And to blame.

Rafael would have totally come up with those ideas first, if not for Carisi distracting him.

That bubbling potential between them, that rekindled connection, it’s so distracting, and beguiling, and Rafael is slipping, sometimes, and he doesn’t even mind.

Just like the good old days.

Exactly like the good old days, except for the fact Rafael says ‘yummy’ out loud, now. He always did think Carisi was delicious, but that was a thought he kept private.

Regrettably.

No more regrets.

Which is a course of action that has backfired in the past, badly, when it sucked all the joy out of Rafael’s life for almost a year, because Carisi was all the joy in Rafael’s life, but that won’t happen again.

Rafael won’t let that happen again.

Carisi won’t let it.

Things are better now.

Their old relationship has been restored. Their old patterns, intact. Like they never stopped being friends. Like they never almost became more.

Rafael takes another sip as he watches yet another man who isn’t Carisi enter the bar.

He’s rationing. He doesn’t want to be even remotely intoxicated when Carisi arrives. He’s been waiting for half an hour, still nursing that first drink, the bottle almost full next to an empty tumbler.

Rafael got here early.

He wanted to take in the atmosphere without having to worry about concealing his reaction. He was irrationally relieved to see the décor was exactly the same, and he’s even more relieved Carisi wasn’t here to see the emotion on his face.

This place, it means something.

Rafael can see their table, from where he’s sitting.

He didn’t even consider sitting there again.

He wouldn’t dream of it.

Not tonight.

Carisi has forgiven him, but Rafael doesn’t want to push it.

That table, by the window, to the left of the door, the one lit more by the streetlights than the bar’s dim lamps, that’s where he and Carisi had a pleasant conversation for the last time.

Until ‘oh, Rafael,’ and ‘yummy,’ that is.

Rafael refuses to take that for granted.

Forgiveness.

Even if he thinks there’s not much to forgive.

Even if he thinks Carisi overreacted.

Holding a grudge for a whole year? That’s the type of tenacity Rafael would normally both admire and wish to emulate, that’s the kind if pettiness Lucia Barba would be proud of, but it’s hard to appreciate it when you’re the intended target.

Rafael was blindsided.

That was the worst part.

Rafael screwed everything up, somehow, by asking to be relieved of his security detail.

Four months had passed without incident, and he had gotten sick and tired of being trailed by unmarked police cars, and escorted in and out of his home, and his office, and the 16th, and every other restaurant on the Upper East Side. Rafael had endured enough strange looks from his de facto bodyguards while trying to enjoy his almost-dates with Carisi, and even stranger looks that one time he attempted to go tie shopping with an entourage of three underpaid cops who blanched at every price tag, so he asked to be freed.

Who could blame him?

Carisi blamed him.

For some reason.

Rafael only wanted some privacy, but Carisi saw things differently. Carisi stormed into his office, mere hours after Rafael’s request, and yelled at him for ‘not caring about his own life.’ Rafael really wanted to say, ‘You care about it enough for the both of us,’ Rafael wanted to say, ‘No one else does,’ Rafael wanted to say, ‘I don’t need the security detail, I have you,’ but he didn’t have the nerve.

Carisi didn’t speak to him for two weeks.

Next time they saw each other, Carisi yelled at him again.

Over a case, this time, but that was only a pretense.

Rafael didn’t argue. Didn’t yell back, didn’t even defend himself. He assumed Carisi needed some time to get over it.

Whatever ‘it’ was.

So Rafael waited.

Rafael even tried to butter Carisi up with a job at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office, everything pre-arranged, all the details worked out, a well-timed vacancy and an old friend conducting the interview.

Not because Rafael wanted Carisi to leave, of course.

Because Carisi wanted to leave.

That’s what he said, that’s what he yelled, in Rafael’s office.

‘You’re the reason I stayed, Barba. You… the death threats, the threats to your life, that’s why I stayed, that’s why I couldn’t leave, and now you don’t care? We haven’t even arrested anybody yet, except for Heredio. Why do you think you’re any safer now? Why did you… Why did I bother?’

Carisi turned down the job offer.

Rafael thought that was the end of it. His act of selfless lov… his act of selflessness had changed Carisi’s mind. That’s what he thought. Rafael was willing to lose Carisi, if it meant Carisi’s happiness, or lose him to Brooklyn, at least, which wasn’t even that far, and fine, maybe Rafael’s sacrifice wasn’t that dramatic, but whatever, Rafael put Carisi first, and he thought Carisi knew that now, so things would eventually go back to normal.

Better than normal, maybe.

So Rafael waited.

Things got worse.

Carisi yelled at him again, a couple of weeks later, Carisi used another case as an excuse, again, and the yelling didn’t stop for months.

Everything else stopped.

Rafael’s life stopped.

Rafael had gotten used to having Carisi around, ever since those death threats, Rafael had gotten used to Carisi’s constant presence, Rafael had gotten used to their late night dinners at the office, and their Saturday brunches, because Carisi wanted the early Saturday shift, so he’d have his Sundays free for Mass, Rafael had gotten used to their drinks after work, and their weekly lunches, Rafael had gotten used to Carisi, and all of a sudden Rafael’s life felt alarmingly empty.

It was almost offensive, how deeply Carisi’s absence was felt.

Rafael was sure he used to have a life of his own.

Before.

Still, Rafael waited.

Several weeks had already passed. He figured he wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

Carisi was still mad, and frustrated, clearly, but that was okay. He simply needed to get all that anger and frustration out of his system.

Carisi needed to punish Rafael, just a little bit more, he needed to punish Rafael by not being there, which was the harshest of punishments, apparently, and Rafael didn’t want to dwell on that too much, and then he would forgive and forget.

Soon.

Carisi always was the forgiving type, and he always did have a soft spot for Rafael, so whatever this was, it would be over soon. That’s what Rafael thought.

Turns out, Rafael severely underestimated Carisi’s stubbornness.

Which is saying a lot.

Turns out, Carisi was too passionate to simply give in.

It took months.

It took months, but eventually Carisi did thaw.

It took about six months, but Carisi stopped yelling.

That’s when he finally started to accept that Rafael would be alright. That Rafael would be safe. That the threat had passed.

That’s Rafael’s theory, anyway.

The distance between them persisted, but Rafael wasn’t willing to rock the boat. He remained respectfully formal, and he waited until Carisi was ready for more.

One day, about eight months in, which marked a year since Heredio’s little stunt, Carisi cracked a smile, and Rafael knew it was time to close the distance.

Rafael started smiling back, and letting Carisi sit in on meetings with defense attorneys, and weigh in on plea bargains, Rafael started acting like he used to, like before, Rafael started letting his eyes linger, Rafael even started joking, all, ‘You’re gonna deport me to Cuba? And take him to Italy?’ and he could tell Carisi appreciated the shift back to normal.

He may have felt Carisi’s absence deeply, but sometimes Rafael thinks he had it easy.

Carisi missed him too.

Carisi cared about him.

Cares.

Carisi cares about him, and it’s as heartwarming as it is unnerving.

Rafael can say ‘yummy’ all he wants, Rafael can lick his lips and bat his eyelashes and shamelessly flirt with Carisi in front of Liv and the others, Rafael can pretend this is a game, meant to wind Carisi up, he can pretend this is about Carisi eagerly lapping up his attention again, but it’s not.

It’s more than that.

Maybe they’ll rekindle that part, too. Or kindle it, because they never got a real chance to start.

Maybe someday they will.

Have more.

Until then, Rafael will stick to shameless flirting.

It’s worked so far.

It got him a date.

If Carisi shows up, that is. It’s nine fifteen.

Rafael keeps glancing at the big clock hanging over the bartender. The guy is new. Rafael doesn’t recognize him.

It’s been almost a year. A lot of things have changed.

Rafael is slowly trying to change them b-

Carisi’s here.

Finally.

Rafael almost gets up, but he decides to stay seated and lean back on his chair, as enticingly as he can, loosening up his tie even more in a transparent attempt to signal that he’s treating this as a date and he’s out for the kill.

Carisi’s eyes fall to Rafael’s collarbone immediately, and Rafael almost undoes another button, but then he remembers this is not that kind of establishment, so he smirks, instead.

It works just as well.

It gets a quick smile, and then Carisi catches himself, and shakes his head, and starts taking off his coat and jacket.

Neither of them says anything.

They’re barely looking at each other.

Rafael is waiting for a cue. Letting Carisi set the tone.

Which may not be the best idea, since Carisi suddenly frowns and stops moving, stops as his jacket is still hanging off his right shoulder. It’s almost as if he changed his mind. As if he regrets ever coming here. At least according to the sharp sense of panic Rafael feels low in his stomach.

It’s an impossibly quick shift. In an instant, Carisi’s face darkens, and it’s such a stark contrast to his little smile from just seconds ago, and Rafael is confused. The change is so abrupt, Rafael wants to pretend it’s a joke. He doesn’t know what else to make of it.

It could be a joke. Maybe Carisi’s mad because he’s been here for less than a minute and he’s already falling prey to Rafael’s manly charms. Maybe Carisi is exaggerating for effect, and the frown is a joke.

It’s not.

Carisi’s expression is definitely serious, and Raf-

Oh.

Carisi is looking at their table.

Not this table.

Their table, all the way across the bar.

That explains the frown.

The emotion in Carisi’s face, gone before Rafael’s even had a chance to identify it.

Rafael wants to say, ‘You’re the one who picked this place, Carisi,’ but he doesn’t.

Rafael is glad Carisi picked this place.

He’s glad he’s not the only one who had a visible reaction upon seeing the mid-range tablecloths and the faux weathered finish of the mass-produced chairs.

They’ve only been here once, but this bar holds a lot of memories.

Rafael is glad, Rafael is happy to see that Carisi is not immune to it.

So he says nothing, and he waits for Carisi to sit next to him.

Not across.

The table is small, and square, and dating conventions would dictate that they sit on opposite ends, the better to soulfully stare into each other’s eyes, but Carisi sits to Rafael’s left.

The better to touch.

Hopefully.

To test that theory, Rafael leans in and tries to find the most casual way to casually let his hand casually fall on Carisi’s forearm, but th-

“Yummy?”

Rafael casually laughs.

As far as opening lines go, this one’s n-

“In front of Liv? Yummy?”

Rafael pours Carisi a glass of bourbon, simply so he doesn’t start cackling. He thinks Carisi just might up and leave if he d-

“Seriously, Barba. Yummy? Are you for real?”

Rafael is trying not to lose it as Carisi keeps finding new ways of intoning ‘yummy.’ There’s disbelief in his voice, and then amusement, and then exasperation.

There’s no cockiness, though, and that’s what Rafael really wanted to hear, so he figures he’ll double down to see if that works.

“What’s the problem, Carisi? I was just being honest.”

Carisi snorts, and Rafael momentarily remembers the good old days, but then he focuses on the way Carisi’s cheeks redden, and the way Carisi’s dimples show, and the way Carisi’s mouth falls open, and it’s almost as if Carisi wasn’t expecting the blatant flirting to start right off the bat, which is sweet, if not insulting.

Rafael Barba does not say ‘yummy’ lightly.

They’re here, and this is a date, God willing, and Carisi willing, and Rafael fully intends t-

“Right. Honest. That’s what you call it.”

Rafael shrugs as Carisi finally gives him a cocky smirk.

Yummy, indeed.

“Yes. You made a clever observation, and I expressed my honest approval as any colleague would.”

Carisi narrows his eyes by way of calling bullshit, and it’s such a Barba expression it almost looks foreign on his fac-

“Uh huh. You expressed approval. As a colleague. By saying ‘yummy.’”

Rafael is proud of himself for not laughing out loud.

“Yes, Carisi. Why? Would you have preferred something else? ‘Delicious,’ maybe?”

Rafael licks his lips for the big finish, and Carisi’s nostrils flare, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep a straight face. It’s always been so easy to get Carisi all riled up. Rafael’s always loved doing it.

Rafael missed doing it.

Missed Carisi letting him do it.

It feels so damn good to have this again.

It feels s-

“Nah, yummy was bad enough, thank you. Come on, Barba. In front of Liv? And Amanda? And Fin? He spent the rest of the day callin’ me Detective Yummy around the unis!”

Rafael can’t help but laugh at that.

He knows, and Carisi knows, that the squad stopped being fazed by their borderline inappropriate banter a long time ago. Somewhere between, ‘Save it for night school’ and, ‘It pains me to say this, but you’re right, Carisi.’

That was a long time ago.

Rafael wonders if the others were as surprised as he was to see that flirtation continue.

As relieved as he was.

Liv was pretty relieved. Rafael knows that.

Because she told him.

Just the other week, Liv said she w-

“I mean, is this your idea of a joke? Tryin’ to embarrass me in front of Liv? Cause, let me tell you, counselor, I don’t appreciate it.”

Carisi is really committing to this bit. There’s an irritation in his voice, now, and Rafael almost feels contrite.

“You called me Rafael in front of Liv. That was pretty embarrassing.”

Carisi almost chokes on his bourbon.

“That’s your name! How is that embarrassing?”

“It’s embarrassing when you say it, Carisi.”

Carisi starts laughing, loudly, and Rafael wants to kiss him.

Carisi is laughing, and he’s leaning on the table, sleeves already rolled up and elbows resting well within Rafael’s personal space, and their hands are so close, and the lights are so low, and the memories are overwhelm-

“So, Rafael, you thought my ‘clever observation’ was yummy?”

There’s that Carisi cockiness.

“No.”

And there’s that little scowl Rafael likes so much.

“I thought ‘obfuscate’ was yummy. You know I love it when you use LSAT words.”

Carisi rolls his eyes, and that’s another Barba classic, but it looks perfect on his face.

Carisi, rolling his eyes because he thinks Rafael is shameless, it’s perfect.

“I don’t see the issue, Carisi. Isn’t that why you said it? To make me think you were yummy?”

Rafael is totally shameless, by the way.

And that ruffles Carisi’s feathers in a way that’s impossible to ignor-

“Wait, so now you think I’m yummy?”

Oh.

Perhaps Carisi is less ruffled than Rafael thought. Not only did he catch that slip-up, he also called out Rafael on it.

Very well.

“I’ve always thought you were yummy, Carisi.”

Now Carisi is ruffled.

Unmistakably.

Carisi is blinking, and gaping, and so desperately trying to come up with a response, and so adorably failing.

“Uh…”

Yeah.

Rafael smirks and tops up both their tumblers.

He lets that statement linger in the air.

He gives Carisi some time to think about what to say nex-

“See, that’s what I’m talking about, Barba. You can’t just say that stuff. I mean, you can say it to me, when it’s just us, but not when the others are around. It’s not… It’s unprofessional.”

Not the response Rafael was expecting, but he’ll go along with it, because Carisi still seems a little flustered.

“It is just us here, Carisi.”

Carisi nods.

There’s an uncertainty in his eyes, and Rafael can’t understand why. Rafael’s intentions have to be crystal clear by now. Almost pathetically so. Right? Maybe he should have undone that extra button, after all. Maybe that would hav-

“Yeah, but… But when we’re at the precinct, you shouldn’t… Just… don’t do that in front of the others. Okay?”

Rafael starts to think that his intentions aren’t the problem. It’s Carisi’s intentions which are vague.

“What do you mean by ‘that,’ detective? What am I doing?”

Carisi downs half his bourbon in one go.

“You know. Callin’ me yummy. Lookin’ at me like you wanna… You know. Stuff like that. Flirtin’ with me. That’s… that should be private.”

Carisi does have a point.

A poorly conveyed, barely articulated point, but still. Perhaps such behavior is better reserved for more private settings.

Like a quiet bar.

Unlike Liv’s overcrowded office.

Maybe saying ‘yummy’ in that setting was a little much. Maybe that’s what’s bothering Carisi.

Maybe that’s why Carisi looks uncertain and can’t finish a sentence to save his life.

Maybe Carisi’s irritation isn’t an act.

Maybe Rafael should feel contrite.

Maybe Rafael got this all wrong.

Maybe Carisi gulped down the fancy bourbon because he wanted to broach an uncomfortable subject.

Maybe that was the purpose of this meeting.

Maybe this isn’t a date.

Maybe Carisi wanted some privacy to talk about the status of their restored relationship. To set up some ground rules, to re-establish boundaries, before anything else happens.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

After all, Carisi did say flirting was okay when it’s ‘just them.’

But not when they have an audience.

Rafael can’t find the fault in that logic. It was somewhat inappropriate of him to flirt like that in front of the entire squad. Rafael should have resisted the urge, but he forgot where he was, for a moment. All he could focus on was Carisi, and ‘obfuscate,’ and his desire to make Carisi smile, so Rafael just blurted it out.

Which is a problem in itself.

Rafael doesn’t speak out of turn. He doesn’t forget where it is. He can’t afford to. Since he was a kid, since he was in college, Rafael has always been acutely aware of his surroundings, and the behaviors expected of him.

Or so he thought, until Carisi came along.

Carisi makes him slip.

Always has.

Right now, Carisi looks all intense, brows furrowed and lips pursed, and Rafael wants to slip all the way into his mouth.

Not tonight.

They’re not there yet.

The distance between them has narrowed, but it hasn’t been eliminated. They’re close enough for ‘oh, Rafael,’ but not close enough for ‘yummy,’ and that’s Carisi’s decision to make, and Rafael’s to respect.

Rafael is happy to respect it.

He can’t deny he’s disappointed, but the date was just the icing on the cake.

They’re back to normal.

Maybe they’re not all the way there, but they’re close enough, and Rafael won’t screw up again.

He’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer. If Carisi wants more time before they can pick up exactly where they left off, Rafael is happy to provide it.

He’ll even provide some distance.

Literally.

Rafael grabs his tumbler and sits back, moving away from the table, and Carisi’s eyes follow his hands.

“You’re right, Carisi. Perhaps ‘yummy’ was a little too forward. I apologize. I’ll choose my words more carefully next time.”

Carisi smiles, like that’s what he wanted to hear, and Rafael is more relieved th-

“Delicious is no good either. Just so you know. For future reference.”

Rafael chuckles, and Carisi laughs along with him. They’re turning some heads, because this bar really is too quiet, and there’s not much laughter to be heard elsewhere, but Rafael doesn’t mind the attention. Not when Carisi looks even more relieved than he feels.

“Duly noted, detective.”

Carisi blinks, slowly, and Rafael could swear they were sitting further apart just a moment ago.

Rafael doesn’t even know who moved. If it was Carisi, or if it was him.

Just like the good old days.

Just like the first time.

Right in this bar.

Almost a year ago.

The last time he and Carisi had a pleasant conversation.

It was the night before Rafael filed the request to dismantle his security detail. Carisi was in his office taking the late shift, as always, protecting him, as always, distracting him, as always, and if Rafael was truly honest he would admit he and Carisi have been on countless dates.

Not one or two.

That night, they left Rafael’s office together, and they took a cab to The Double Windsor, because Rafael refused to be driven to an almost-date by a plainclothes police officer who reported to Carisi for a living.

Carisi kept the conversation going.

As always.

On the way there, Carisi said, ‘Maybe I should call ahead. I know the bartender. I’ll tell him to break out the good stuff. It’s not every day that a Manhattan A.D.A. graces their establishment with his presence.’

When they arrived, Carisi took the lead. He picked the table, and he nodded to the bartender, the one who’s gone now, and he pulled out a menu from out of nowhere, with a flourish, and he let Rafael pick the liquor.

Smooth by any measure.

As smooth as he could be, with three cops watching them like hawks from a few tables over.

Rafael doesn’t remember what they talked about. That last pleasant conversation, it’s a blur, blending into all the warm, easy conversations that came before it. Rafael just remembers Carisi’s smile, and the bourbon, and the way Carisi’s knee rested against his thigh.

Rafael just remembers wanting to get out of there, with Carisi but without the police escort, and knowing that was impossible.

Rafael remembers Carisi mentioning his cooking. Always a favorite topic. Carisi always had a habit of randomly reciting full recipes at the drop of a hat, complete with exact measurements and ingredient substitutions. He’d start and he’d keep going until somebody stopped him. Rafael never stopped him.

Rafael remembers saying, ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.’

Rafael remembers Carisi saying, ‘You’ve come to the right guy, counselor. I got a home-cooked meal waiting at home. Enough to feed an army. Well, it’ll be home-cooked reheated leftovers, but that’s still better than what you’re eatin’, probably.’

Rafael distinctly remembers not saying, ‘I doubt your cooking is better than the haute cuisine I’m used to, Carisi.’

Rafael remembers asking, ‘Where is home?’ instead.

He remembers Carisi’s smile, and then the answer, quiet and hopeful.

‘My place is right around the corner.’

Rafael doesn’t remember Carisi’s apartment.

He doesn’t remember walking there. He just remembers Carisi’s long coat brushing against his leg.

Rafael doesn’t remember what they had. If they even had anything to eat.

He doesn’t remember Carisi’s living room, or the contents of Carisi’s bookcase, or the color of Carisi’s curtains.

Rafael just remembers how hard it was trying not to kiss him.

There was an unmarked police car downstairs.

Rafael remembers that.

Rafael remembers, because his driver rang the doorbell just when he decided to stop trying to stop.

Rafael can still see Carisi’s face.

They were so close.

Before.

They were standing so close, but that was as close as they were going to get, because Rafael’s driver had to check on him before a shift change.

Carisi smiled, and all Rafael could see was gratitude. Like Carisi was grateful they had even gotten that close. Like that was enough.

Rafael had never been so happy not to be kissed.

The next morning, he filed the request.

That afternoon, it all fell apart.

Almost a year ago.

Rafael doesn’t mean to dwell.

It’s this place.

It’s Carisi, looking at him with that same expression of gratitude.

That’s where the similarities end.

That, and with Carisi’s knee, still pressed against his thigh, as always.

Rafael was hoping to start over, to start from there, to start from that moment when they both leaned in and breathed out, but that’s not going to happen tonig-

“You alright, counselor?”

Carisi.

The question is rhetorical.

Rafael isn’t the only one affected by this place.

By the memories.

Still.

They needed this.

This first step.

The rest, it may not happen tonight, or even any time soon, but if it’s ever gonna happen, they’ll know where they stand.

For the most part.

Rafael empties his glass and thinks he’s still left with a question.

Rafael thinks maybe Carisi shouldn’t be the only one who gets to air out his grievances.

“Can I make a confession, Carisi?”

Carisi’s smirk looks even better three drinks in.

“I’m no priest, but have at it, Barba.”

What the hell.

“I’ve been treating this outing as a date.”

Carisi keeps smirking.

His eyes fall to Rafael’s neck again. He’s staring with a purpose, like he could undo more buttons if only he looked hard enough.

Rafael does his best to ignore it.

That, and the way Carisi keeps glancing at his lips.

Constantly.

This may not be a date, but the attraction between them is still there, still strong, Carisi’s desire is still strong, and Rafael almost feels guilty when he realizes Carisi is reacting to him instinctively. Grudgingly, maybe. This isn’t why Carisi asked him out tonight, or wh-

“You don’t say. What with the way you’ve been sittin’ all loose, with your tie all crooked and your hair all mussed. I never would’ve guessed.”

What’s that about Rafael’s hair?

Never mind.

“But since this is clearly not a date, and since you’ve already said your piece, maybe I can say mine.”

Carisi stares.

“Uh… You…”

“Let me finish, Caris-”

“No, wait, y-”

“Please.”

Carisi looks like he’s bursting to speak, but he stops trying to interrupt.

“I assumed this was a date, because of our more recent interactions. Because things between us have gotten better. Because lately you’ve been…”

Carisi, to his credit, does not try to finish that sentence.

“You’re more animated, and you’re smiling, and you’re giving me pointers again, and you call me Rafael, and…You seem to be over it now. What I… Right? You’ve forgiven me. You’re over what happened.”

Carisi exhales.

For several seconds.

“We can put it behind us. Right, Carisi? The death threats. You’re not going to… That’s over. You’re over it.”

Carisi’s jaw tightens with every word Rafael speaks. He probably wasn’t expecting this conversation, he wasn’t expecting Rafael to bring up the death threats after all this time, but Rafael had to do it.

Rafael wants to know.

“Right, Carisi? Obviously I’m still kicking, which means I was right, so y-”

“You weren’t right, Barba. You were lucky.”

Carisi is not over it.

Not even a little.

It’s written all over his face. The smirk is gone, and the irritation, and the confusion, and the desire is gone, too, and now Carisi just looks two parts angry and three parts sad.

Rafael both regrets asking, and is happy to have asked.

If this is ever gonna happen, they’ll need to know where they stand.

“Yes. I suppose I was lucky the extent of the threats was exaggerated by Heredio.”

Carisi winces at the mere mention of Heredio’s name.

Regret is starting to edge out happiness.

Rafael needs to lighten the mood, as much as it’s possible to lighten the mood when speaking of your own potential demise.

“Then again, it was a small risk to take. Regaining my ability to frequent high end boutiques versus possibly losing my life? I didn’t even have to think about it.”

Carisi does not laugh.

He just bites his lip.

His drink stays untouched.

He looks angrier and angrier by the second.

Carisi’s expression is giving Rafael flashbacks. It’s making Rafael think of all the time they wasted, one entire year, wasted, fighting, and it hurts more than he cares to adm-

“Yeah. Of course. Of course you didn’t, Barba. Why would you? It’s only your life.”

Rafael now regrets this completel-

“It’s a good thing, too. It’s a good thing you were okay with that. Dying. Possibly. That’s all that matters, right? What you thought. Guess the rest of us didn’t get a say.”

This is not what Rafael wanted when he got here tonight.

Rafael wanted to say ‘yummy’ again, to whisper it, he wanted to get Carisi to blush again, just like old times, Rafael wanted to get Carisi to kiss him, like they almost did, once before, Rafael wanted to end this night with his hand down Carisi’s pants, and his tongue in Carisi’s mouth, and his body pinned against Carisi’s ugly purple plaid bedspread, the one he only caught a glimpse of, the first and only time he ever found himself in Carisi’s home.

Not this.

Rafael doesn’t want this.

He doesn’t want to keep rehashing the past. He doesn’t want to see that anger on Carisi’s face ever again.

The pain, on Carisi’s face.

The love.

Not like this.

Rafael doesn’t want to waste another year fighting.

Rafael wants Carisi.

Now.

Rafael doesn’t want to waste another second.

So he doesn’t.

Rafael leans in and kisses Carisi hard, and clumsy, and off-center, and it’s rushed and it’s awkward and it doesn’t matter because Carisi is kissing back.

Carisi breathes out and gives in, Carisi turns his head and opens his mouth and Rafael closes his eyes.

They’re not alone.

They have an audience.

It doesn’t matter.

Rafael wants to touch Carisi’s face, Rafael wants to feel Carisi’s stubble, because it’s late, and Carisi practically looks unshaven now, feels unshaven, too, against Rafael’s lips, Rafael wants to grab Carisi by the shoulders and hold him in place, because this could be the first and last time they kiss, and…

And Rafael keeps his hands to himself.

Rafael wants to give Carisi the option to stop. To pull away and call him an idiot, for thinking this was okay.

Carisi does no such thing.

Carisi keeps kissing him.

Carisi grabs him by the shoulders instead, hands bunching up Rafael’s shirt sleeves, Carisi holds him in place, fingers digging into skin, and Rafael thinks this won’t be the last time.

It better not be.

Carisi’s hands move to Rafael’s neck, to his chest, fingers slipping under Rafael’s collar, right where Carisi’s eyes have been glued all night, and it’s like Carisi was dying to touch him, right there, and Rafael absently thinks that Carisi has a problem with flirting in front of an audience, but heavy petting is apparently A-Okay.

Rafael licks his way into Carisi’s mouth and stops thinking.

This is yummier than h-

“Yummy enough for ya, Rafael?”

Oh.

It’s over.

For now.

At least if the dreamy look on Carisi’s face is to be trusted.

Rafael wants to laugh. He spent the entire duration of their first kiss being emotionally compromised, and thinking he had screwed up all over again, while Carisi spent it fondling his chest hair and coming up with a cheesy line.

“Yummier than I expected.”

Carisi does laugh.

This is what Rafael wanted when he got here tonight.

Carisi, laughing again, like the time they lost has been erased.

The time they wasted, forgotten.

Rafael is s-

“You’re an idiot, Barba.”

Rafael is not exactly sure why Carisi would choose to say something like that in this particular juncture, but he’s too dazed from their kiss to really argue the point, so h-

“This was a date.”

What?

“What?”

Carisi smirks, again, and it’s the exact same smirk he had on his face when he ‘explained’ Baker v. Carr, or when he said ‘obfuscated,’ and Rafael wants t-

“This. It was a date. Or at least I wanted it to be. That’s the whole reason I asked you out. Things between us have gotten better, and I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. To make sure you weren’t just yanking my chain. It’s hard to tell if you’re bein’ serious when you say stuff like ‘yummy’ in front of, like, twelve other people. You gotta stop doin’ that, by the way. I just… I wanted to know if this was for real, or if you were just teasin’ me, like you did back when I first got here.”

Rafael is an idiot.

And so is Carisi, and Rafael loves him for it.

“It was real back then, too.”

Carisi’s jaw drops, and Rafael thinks they’re done wasting tim-

“Wait, so what you’re sayin’ is, you’ve been wasting my time for three years? We could’ve been doin’ this for three years?”

Rafael appreciates Carisi’s insight.

Carisi’s graceful way of turning that intimate confession into a joke.

Rafael was dead serious, and Carisi knows that, it’s written all over his face, the surprise, and the happiness, and the affection, but he refuses to let Rafael suffer the indignity of expressing genuine emotion.

Rafael loves him for that, too.

“You want to talk about wasting time, Carisi? How about that entire year of my life that you wasted? I’m not getting any younger. Somewhere down the line, you just might regret not spending that time with me.”

Carisi’s face is all sadness again, in the blink of an eye.

Rafael belatedly realizes that, not only did he indirectly reference the death threats again, he also made another insensitive joke about his own mortality.

He can only hope ‘somewhere down the line’ makes up for it, because it implies he and Carisi will still be together down the line, and he hopes Carisi picked up on that, Rafael hopes Carisi wants that, becaus-

“You weren’t wrong, Barba. I’m… I’m kinda over it. I’m gettin’ over it. There hasn’t been a threat against your life in over a year, it’s been… It’s almost sixteen months, now, and you’re safe, so... I’m trying. I don’t wanna waste any more time, you know?”

Rafael does know that. And he also knows that Carisi has been counting the months since the last threat, the days, too, probably, if not the hours, and that makes Rafael’s chest tighten.

What Rafael doesn’t know is why.

“Why did you get so angry, Carisi? Why waste all that time in the first place? If you cared about my safety that much, you could have stayed to protec-”

“Of course I care.”

Carisi’s statement is loud, and agonizing, and absolute.

Of course Carisi cares. Rafael didn’t mean to imply otherwise. He just wanted to know why Carisi didn’t stay with h-

“But I couldn’t stay. Not after Dodds. Not when I knew what that felt like. Loss. Not when Heredio refused to give up his bosses. Not when you suddenly decided you didn’t need a security detail because they were a minor inconvenience while you were out shoppin’.”

A minor inconvenience?

Rafael begins to suspect that Carisi has no idea wh-

“What if something happened to you, Barba? And we were… And we were together? I couldn’t live with that. I figured, better if we’re fighting. If we hate each other.”

Rafael pours the rest of the bottle, half in his tumbler and half in Carisi’s. And then he reconsiders, and dumps out all of Carisi’s bourbon in his own glass.

Rafael takes a sip, and another, and another, as Carisi watches him.

They’re both idiots.

“I got rid of my security detail because of you, Carisi. Because we had gotten close, and I wanted to get even closer, which is technically not allowed, as I’m sure you’re aware, and we couldn’t do that with two patrol cars parked outside my apartment building every night.”

Carisi looks hilariously angry.

For once, Rafael doesn’t min-

“What? Are you crazy? Is that wh… Is that why you filed the request right after we… You… You put this, you and me, you put this over your own life?”

That’s now how Rafael would put it, but it’s not wrong, either.

“Haven’t you been listening, Carisi? I put high end boutiques over my own life. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Carisi deflates, just like that.

“I… I didn’t know, Barba. That’s why I was so mad. And… And the longer I avoided you, the longer I stayed mad, the harder it was to… I thought you had a death wish, or somethin’. I thought this was your suicidal streak talking.”

Rafael smiles at the memory.

“I’m afraid not, detective. I was just horny.”

Carisi laughs, sincere, free, and now, now they’re back to normal.

Carisi radiates happiness, just like he’s supposed to.

Always.

Carisi is happy, and his happiness is so clear, and so bright, and Rafael thinks maybe genuine emotion isn’t that bad.

“If something happened to me, Sonny, and we weren’t together. That’s what I couldn’t live with. I figured, better if I have you.”

Carisi, Sonny, looks completely and utterly in love.

That’s the only word that comes to Rafael’s mind.

Love.

It’s possible he’s projecting.

And then Sonny kisses him again, and Rafael realizes it doesn’t matter.

The time they lost has been erased.

The time they wasted, forgotten.

Three years, and they never got a real chance to start.

“You know, Rafael, my place is right around the corner.”

Rafael smiles.

They’ll start tonight.

192 notes · View notes

scapegrace74-blog · 2 years ago

Text

Artificial Nocturne, a Metric Universe Story

A/N This is an idea I’ve had banging around in my head for quite a while, and I’ve finally got it down on paper. It’s about Metric Jamie and Claire facing a huge test in their relationship, and how they react to it.

When I first wrote Lazy Dancer and Calculation Theme, the two ficlets that eventually became the multi-ficlet Metric Universe, I had no idea at what time they were set, beyond being modern. Since then, the Metric Universe has grown into a twenty-four (and counting!) installment beast with actual hooks into a particular point in history, so I've gone back and assigned Metric-canon-compliant timeframes to those first two stories. That's important, because this installment takes place a full three years after Jamie and Claire get together officially as a couple in No Light, No Light, and nine months after Calculation Theme, which up until now was the latest in the series, chronologically. This is a seasoned couple with a lot of water under the bridge. I have other ideas for ficlets that take place in the intervening years, but it felt important to get to this installment first.

With that said, this story is for all the readers who patiently waited for me to come back to this universe. I'm glad I didn't let you down, and I hope that you're satisfied with the result!

The entire Metric Universe, in chronological order, can be found here.

November 6, 2021, Spittalfields, London, England

The fact that the voice on the phone wasn’t Jenny was a harbinger of disaster arriving at their door. Claire knew the tone; had used it herself in countless conversations with loved ones. Measured. Clinical. At one remove from emotional connection. Being the recipient of such a call made her want to track down every family member she’d ever spoken to in such a way and beg their forgiveness.

Jamie slept, blissfully unaware of the anguish that awaited him on waking. Nearing midnight, it was far too late to catch a flight or train to Scotland. She briefly considered waiting until his alarm woke him for his early morning shift but dismissed the notion as selfish. If their situations were reversed, she would want to know. Pain did not lessen by being deferred, but the numbing of raw nerves took time.

He was asleep on his side, one arm curled on his pillow as though fending off a blow. She ached for his oft-fractured innocence, longed to take him inside her flesh where nothing more could hurt him.

“Jamie, wake up,” the night’s peacefulness shattered with her words. “There’s been an accident.”

***

Phone calls. Internet searches for last minute flights. Packing an overnight bag for an indeterminate trip. She understood why Jamie rushed into burning buildings. There was purpose in action, a conduit through which to siphon the poison of fear, the viscousness of futility.

“I’ll take an Uber tae Gatwick. There’s no need fer ye tae miss yer shift.”

They were standing in the kitchen, both staring vacantly at the fridge as though willing it to provide further imperatives to guide their shipwrecked purpose.

“Alright,” Claire replied without truly hearing him. “Did you remember to pack the Atkinson novel? I promised Jenny I’d return it the next time I saw her.”

This was skirting the borders of absurdity. Jenny’s spouse lay in an Inverness hospital, the victim of a farming accident that saw an over-turned tractor crush his body into Lallybroch’s fertile dirt. The literal last thing on her mind was a borrowed book.

“Aye.” Jamie opened the fridge door, peered inside, then let it swing closed again.

“Let’s go to bed,” she suggested. “There’s nothing to be done for a few hours yet.”

“I canna sleep, Claire,” Jamie protested, following her dutifully towards their room all the same.

“I know. Just rest your eyes.”

She slipped, fully dressed, beneath the covers. Beside her, Jamie lay still like the effigy of some noble lord, the sharp angles of his profile limned in silver-blue streetlight.

“I am a coward,” he confessed to the ceiling, “for I dinna want tomorrow tae come.

She took his chilled hand in her own and held on tight.

***

“What are you thinking about?” she asked as shadow continents drifted along their wall.

She knew he was awake from the measured cadence of his breathing, from the tight grip he maintained on her hand. She hadn’t expected prompt candour, however.

“How Ian helped me after the explosion. Jenny was flailing about wi’ all the subtlety of a jack-hammer, sticking her stubborn wee heid inta everything. I was in a terrible state, hooped up on morphine an’ feeling right sorry fer myself. Ian jes sat by my side, night after night. When I woke screamin’, he would use his voice tae calm me down. When I refused tae get outta bed, he dragged me up wi’ his own two hands. He stood in the middle of the path tae despair, and he wouldna let me get past. Ian Murray an’ the memory of ye: those were the two ropes I used tae pull myself back onto my feet.”

Considering Jamie’s memory of her at that point consisted of a drunken encounter and half an hour keeping him from flat-lining in her emergency room, she couldn’t imagine how she’d earned equal standing with his life-long best friend. It was a conversation best saved for another day.

“We have to believe that he’ll be okay,” she said, despising the hollowness of the words but unwilling to make empty promises.

Rather than responding, Jamie rolled into her side, burying his nose in the concavity of her neck. She half-expected tears, but he lay still, breath ratcheting like a xylophone on each exhale. After a time, his mouth began to move, pressing urgent moist kisses to her clavicle, nosing her shirt away so that he could reach the uppermost swell of her breast.

“It feels as though there’s a fist tight about my throat,” he muttered into her sternum. “I canna draw a decent breath.”

“Come closer and let me breath for you, then,” she offered, raising up to peel the uppermost layer of her clothing away.

In their three or so years together, they had made love a hundred different ways: shyly, tenderly, teasing or passionate as a raging storm. This was something new. A desperation that hurt to witness. An unfailingly considerate lover under normal circumstances, Jamie seemed driven purely by his own base needs. With impatient fingers, he shoved her underwear to the side, burying himself a hundred absolutions deep inside her body. This wasn’t about sex, she understood. He was seeking solace and succour from her at the most primitive level, chasing the tabula rasa of release.

With nerves raw as copper wire, Jamie finished within minutes. A rough expulsion of heated breath and he crumpled towards the mattress, his weight pressing her down like lead. She prayed he would drift to sleep and gain the temporary reprieve of oblivion, even if it meant laying crushed beneath him. Instead he rose silently to use the washroom, coming back with a warm cloth to clean between her legs.

“I love ye, Claire,” he whispered once they were again lying side by side, waiting for the muster call of dawn.

In the days and weeks that followed, she would revisit those words and remember how they had the finality of a farewell.

***

Their flat rang with the sepulchral expectancy of an empty train station. An independent loner since her youth, Claire nonetheless found herself filling the silence left by Jamie’s absence with inane chatter.

She spoke of her penultimate clinical rotation, and of her absolute certainty that gerontology was not the specialty for her. She narrated her list of chores, assuring him she wasn’t over-watering their spider plant and that his mobile phone was in no danger of being cut off for late payment. She debated the merits of various residency programs and confessed her doubts that she would be accepted to any of her top choices.

By contrast, their actual communication was brief and infrequent. Ian’s condition was no longer life-threatening, but the doctors had to amputate his left leg above the knee where the tractor had crushed the bones beyond repair. The surgery and post-operative rehabilitation took place in Edinburgh, forcing Jenny to chose between abandoning her husband or leaving her children and the estate in her brother's care. Jamie’s emotional state shifted from blind terror to a weary aloofness as the long road to recovery stretched before them. His grim mood added metaphorical distance to the physical divide already in place.

“I sure wish you were here to talk to,” she whispered to his pillow after a particularly grueling twenty-four hours. “My life only makes sense when I see it reflected in your eyes.”

***

Upon due consideration, Jamie determined that he would sooner run into a burning building than be solely responsible for putting two children under the age of six to bed every night. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock and his neck ached with the accumulated strain of holding his head upright.

Since arriving at Lallybroch three weeks earlier, his days had taken on a relentless sort of routine. Mornings revolved around dressing, feeding and transporting his niece and nephew to their primary school. Midday was reserved for the countless tasks and duties that went into the running of the estate: finishing the harvest, caring for the livestock, making minor repairs and keeping the house at least a step above squalor. By afternoon, he was mentally and physically exhausted but there were still five hours of child-minding, meal preparation, bathing and story reading before he could collapse, nerves brittle and eyes tacky, onto the sofa where he more-often-than-not fell asleep listening to the fire crackle, a half-finished dram of whisky teetering precariously in his hand.

It was from that sofa that he leapt, realizing he had failed to pack the children’s lunches for the next day. A cursory glance in the fridge confirmed that he had not shopped for groceries in several days. With few nutritious options to hand, he settled for toasting sliced bread with two dabs and a smear of butter. Despite his exhaustion, he smiled when he pictured Wee Jamie and Maggie discovering their bologna sandwiches decorated with happy faces the following day.

For the thousandth time, he considered at what juncture he would need to capitulate and accept the kindly offers of neighbours and more distant relatives to pitch in and carry part of the load. Jenny was insistent that the bairns’ routine be upset as little as possible, considering the many inevitable adjustments they would need to make once Ian came home. In principle, Jamie agreed. In practice, he was holding things together with only the most tenuous of grips.

Seen through the haze of fatigue and apprehension, his life in London took on the quality of a fevered dream. He yearned for Claire with a burning ache that migrated from his wame to the back of his throat. Not unlike Ian’s amputated limb, he diagnosed himself with phantom pains. A vital part of his life was missing. With time, he would adjust. His heart would learn to beat despite its missing half.

That’s not how the cardiovascular system works, my lad. He drifted to sleep with Claire’s voice correcting him, rounded vowels rolling about in her haughty mouth.

Insistent rapping infused his dream, translated as musket fire that startled him awake. The mantle clock read half eleven. He briefly considered leaving whatever maniac was beating down his door at that hour to the tender mercies of the night.

Upon unbolting the door, he was greeted by a sight so inexplicably astonishing that he wondered if he was still dreaming. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, face pale in the moonlight and curls as dark as peat, stood on his front step, a suitcase braced against her calf.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked when he showed no outward reaction. On the inside, his heart was bellowing away like a concertina.

“Aye,” he shook himself. “Aye, I’m jes startled tae see ye, Sassenach.”

He left her heavy suitcase at the base of the stairs and turned to find her looking around the great room as though she hadn’t visited a dozen times before. His own gaze took in the mess of toys on the floor and the half-finished glass of whisky on the table. The fire had burned low while he’d dozed. Hopefully the dim lighting at least hid the lines of strain on his face.

“Can I offer ye some tea? I’m afraid there isna much tae eat, unless ye favour bologna sandwiches.”

“Tea would be nice. I always forget how cold it gets up here at night.”

Such a statement would normally serve as the perfect opening to suggest they keep each other warm in the laird’s bed. Instead, he fled to the kitchen, tongue thick and dry in his mouth.

It shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was to find his girlfriend at his doorstep: Claire wasn’t a woman who sat back and let change happen to her. In all the scenarios he’d drawn of his near and distant future, however, this particular one hadn’t factored. He wasn’t ready to have this conversation.

The perfect geisha bow of her lips crimped as she blew across the steaming mug of tea. Across the narrow bridge of her nose were tiny nutmeg freckles that only became visible when she was tired. It had only been three weeks. How had he forgotten how completely and utterly besotted he was with her? It made what he had to say that much harder.

“No’ tae sound unwelcoming, but what are ye doin’ here, Claire?” he asked.

***

Claire saw the way Jamie was watching her like an oasis in the desert, as though she might vanish like mist as suddenly as she’d arrived. In trying to tamp down that very evident longing, he’d overcompensated towards surliness. It reminded her of their recent phone calls: Jamie valiantly trying not to sound overwhelmed while she listened to him grow more and more distant. It was obvious he felt obliged to face Ian’s accident and the upheaval it brought to his family alone. She’d given him time to come around, and when she’d grown impatient with that approach, she’d bought a one-way plane ticket to Scotland.

“I’ve come to help out,” she answered his question plainly. “However and wherever I can.”

Jamie bristled, his face an amalgam of relief and shame. Despite the fact he was surrounded by the evidence of his very thin hold on any semblance of control, he wasn’t going to make this easy. Fortunately, she was more than his match when it came to stubbornness.

“What about yer studies?” he countered. “Ye’ve jes the one clinical rotation left, and yer applications for a residency are…”

“I deferred them,” she interjected.

“…due anytime now and then the interviews and… what did ye jes say?” Russet eyebrows raised in dual arcs of shock.

“I said I deferred them. Hell, if Cat McInnis can miss a rotation to get a Brazilian butt lift, I can certainly take time off to support my boyfriend during a family emergency.”

“Nae, Sassenach," he shook his head adamantly. "Ye’ve worked sae hard tae become a doctor, and I willna be the one standin’ in yer way…”

“Well, it’s a good thing it isn’t your decision, then, isn’t it?” she sniped, growing exasperated with his near monastic insistence on self-sacrifice. Jamie was many things, but he wasn’t a monk.

“I may ne’er return to London, Claire,” Jamie confessed with the air of a man playing the last card in a very bad hand. “Even once his rehabilitation is complete, Ian will ne’er be able tae work the farm as he once did. I owe it tae the memory of my parents tae stay here and help Jenny any way that I can.”

“I know all those things, Jamie. It’s why I’m here.”

“I canna ask ye tae give up yer dreams tae become a farmer’s wife!”

The words echoed through the large room, seeming to increase in volume the longer neither of them acknowledged them. Claire waited for Jamie to recant his Freudian slip, to explain away the word’s significance by referencing his obvious exhaustion and agitation. Instead, he sat a foot away from her, his breath soughing in great gusts, eyes shiny with anguish.

“I need to ask,” Claire spoke slowly, “which aspect of that statement you find the more impossible. Is it the part where I don an apron and a wooden spoon? Or the bit where we would be joined in holy matrimony?”

Beside her, Jamie let out a disbelieving huff.

“Surely ye ken I want tae marry ye,” he said, not looking directly at her.

“Given that you’ve not once, in all the time we’ve been together, mentioned that fact? No, no I don’t ken that, Jamie.”

“I was waitin’ fer ye to finish yer schooling,” he explained as though this should have been self-evident. “Which is what we were discussin’ before we got sidetracked…”

“Sidetracked,” Claire scoffed. Admitting the intention to ask for her hand in less than a year’s time was a trunk line issue, as far as she was concerned.

“Aye, sidetracked,” Jamie persisted. “Tae be sae close tae becoming a doctor, only to walk away jes because my plans have gone tae shite...” he petered off, shaking his head where it rested between his palms.

“First of all, your plans are my plans. That’s the way this commitment thing works, as far as I can tell. And more importantly, the last I checked, Scotland was still participating in the British medical system. I can make arrangements to finish my last clinical rotation and complete my residency up here, when the time is right.”

Finally making eye contact, Jamie’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Generally logical above reproach, there had to be a reason that particular solution to their dilemma hadn’t occurred to him.

“What’s this really about?” she whispered, taking his hand in her own. It was the first time they’d touched since she’d arrived, and a current of warmth flowed from his body to hers.

“I dinna want tae be a burden,” he whispered back. “T’would kill me if I ever felt ye resented me.”

Foolish man. Foolish, obstinate, noble and flawed man.

“That’s the brutal joy and utter calamity of love, Jamie. That we want to spare the ones we hold most dear. But what feels like a burden to the asker, the recipient wears like a mantle of honour. You taught me that.”

Crystal blue eyes filled with tears as he regarded her with such tender hope that she felt the back of her own throat grow tight. Seeing the storm before it arrived, she opened her arms and allowed him to collapse into her, his sobs soaking through her cotton shirt. She drew her hands through his hair, stroking him like a fretful child.

“Shhhh, shhhhh, it’s alright. I’m here. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Over and over again until he finally calmed. They lay curled together on the sofa, silent save the occasional sniffle from Jamie and pop of sap from the fire.

“Did you really mean it?” she asked, trusting him to know what she meant.

Instead of answering, Jamie rose and went to the mantle, where a small box sat amongst other family keepsakes. When he returned, he was holding a small object.

“I’ve been holding onto this since that first time ye came here, when ye asked if ye were my Lady Lallybroch.”

A delicate and intricate silver ring, warm from the heat of Jamie’s hand, was pressed into her palm. It was her turn to weep, apparently.

“You knew you wanted to marry me way back then?” she choked out.

“Nay, Sassenach. I kent I wanted ye tae be mine the first time I saw ye, drunk and imperious, in my local pub.”

She handed the ring back to him, her grip shaking and weak. For a second, Jamie looked defeated, thinking she was rejecting his proposal. Then he noticed her extended left hand. With a long exhale he carefully placed the ring on her finger. Something intangible and abiding slid home in her soul as well. Looking into Jamie’s eyes, she could tell he felt the same way. There was the two of them now, autonomous yet intertwined as surely as twin planets.

Healing kisses, breathless laughter, rapturous tears. Sometimes all three at once. Until Jamie interrupted their celebration with an enormous yawn.

“Sassenach, dinna think I’ve forgotten that I owe ye an orgasm,” Jamie began.

“You’ve been gone for three weeks, Fraser. I’d say you owe me quite a few more than that,” she retorted from her spot nestled against his chest which rumbled as he chuckled.

“Fair enough. But that only makes what I’m about tae ask all the more shocking. Would ye mind terribly if we simply went tae sleep? I’m ded on my feet, and I willna make love tae my fiancée fer the first time when I canna serve her properly.”

Claire rose and extended her ring-adorned hand.

“What time do Jamie and Maggie wake up in the morning?” she asked as they ascended the staircase towards the laird’s room.

“Wi’ the lark, the wee heathens. They’re usually bangin’ on my door by six thirty.”

“I’m setting my alarm for five o’clock,” she advised as they slid into the four-poster bed, meeting with a sigh in the middle.

“I admire yer strategic thinkin’, Sassenach. Wi’ preparedness like that, ye’ll make a braw doctor.”

Their bodies banished the air between them, two elements that yearned for each other at some molecular level.

“Sassenach?” Jamie mumbled when she thought he had already dozed off.

“Mmmm?”

“Waz’a Brazilian butt lift?”

A half-hearted kick to his shins was her answer.

“Ne’er mind,” he sighed as both hands drifted down to grasp her arse. “Canna improve on perfection.”

And with that, he fell asleep.

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

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evergardenwall · 4 years ago

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A masterlist of my personal favorite Jasico fanfictions

(if you're not familiar with ao3's rating system, here's a list of the different existent ratings from a posting tutorial.)

@ezhelyanne this is for u

I. Canon divergent fics

(aka, works taking place during the events of Heroes of Olympus but diverging from canon, with non-canon elements about the characters' past)

- north, by aelescribe ( @queerjules )

[39/40 chapters published, 200k words]

Nico falls into Tartarus. Jason follows shortly thereafter. The Heroes of Olympus deal with the consequence.

North is a rewrite of The House of Hades and The Blood of Olympus, although it's actually starting at the end of Mark of Athena-- when Percy and Annabeth are about to fall into Tartarus... except in this version, it's Nico who falls in their stead, and, shortly thereafter, Jason. The thing is, it turns out Jason and Nico have a shared past, and being forced to rely on each other until they reach the Doors of Death, they will find themselves unpacking memories...

This fic has everything I love: slow burn, pining, hurt/comfort, the "Jason and Nico knew each other and were friends before Jason was abducted by Hera" headcanon, and most importantly, it develops all of the characters' relationships in addition of Jason and Nico's. I might be getting a little too passionate, but I fully believe it's a literary masterpiece... like! the LAYERS it contains......and the writing is beautiful. all the parallels and literary devices the author used live in my head rent free.........truly, I cannot recommend it enough

- Things We Tell Ourselves, by Rehearsal_Dweller

[one-shot, 3000 words]

"I have a crush on Jason. That's it, that's the big secret."

The Cupid scene, except the guy Nico has a crush on is Jason instead of Percy.

II. Post-Blood of Olympus fics

(aka, works that ignore Trials of Apollo (because it's a lying bitch who lies) and develop stories from the crumbs of Jasico we got in Heroes of Olympus. written by happy people :))

- Homebound, by Escopeta

[90 chapters, 800k words]

homebound [HOHM·bound] English (adj.) moving or traveling homeward

Reyna told him that they had two homes. But in all honesty? Nico didn’t fully believe her. He's still the creepy Death Boy to most, and people continue to actively avoid him if possible. He doesn’t belong at Camp Half-Blood; everyone knows it. He’s giving it a shot anyway if only to find a place he can truly call home. But if there's anything he learned from those few years of grade school, it's that the word "home" is a noun: a person, place, or thing. And to his surprise, Nico will find that "home" is defined not by darkness, solitude, and cold, but by sunshine, company, and warmth.

It's not a "where" or a "what", but a "who".

Post-canon fix-it. Slow build. Slice of life. Friends to lovers. Mutual pining. Natural character aging. ⚠️ Rated M for an almost-smut scene plus other scenes at the very end, but the rest is T.

So, Homebound... Whew. It took me five whole days to finish this fic and. It was a Lot (in a positive sense)....There are so many things I loved about it and I am definitely going to re-read it entierely someday :') It explores in length the theme of home (recurrent in Jasico fics since it's also linked to their relationship in canon) and I am amazed at how it managed to remain canon-compliant with Heroes of Olympus while developing an actual romance that works and makes me go aaah....poetic cinema. I mean, we all know the basis for their friendship growing into romance was already there, but I will never stop realizing it over and over again when reading fics, how, yes, Jasico could've been a thing in canon and it wouldn't have felt off. Truly lives in my head rent free.

Oh! Just a thing: Homebound features temporary Solangelo, but it's a very different Solangelo than from the iterations you can find in "classic" Solangelo fics. But I really liked how Escopeta wrote Will-- this Will is far from perfect, often harsh, and has caused hurt, but he felt so... fleshed out? in comparison to other depictions I've read of him. I ended up really appreciating his character and the evolution the author made him go through :)

- Home is Enough, by seofim

[One-shot, 3300 words]

When you were a child, you fell for a hero. It’s ultimately someone else who makes you feel like one.

2nd person Nico introspection on the book events and beyond.

Hurt/comfort. Canon compliant.

G O D S this one-shot... it's, well, short, but so powerful........the second person point of view..... aaaaaahh

- cafuné, by aelescribe

[one-shot, 1200 words]

Jason gets tangled up in thoughts of Nico’s hair.

Flirting. Hardcore hand-holding. The TENDERNESS..... and the cutes dialogues......it's everything

- does it almost feel like, by gnx

[one-shot, 2000 words]

They tease. They've teased before.

This work, inspired by aelescribe's writing, explores queer friendships... and how the dynamic can get when the two friends are queer for each other. Contains fluff and, you've guessed, queer themes! it's a fic that can actually be so personal

- Our Dictionary, by @angel-bazethiel

[26 chapters, 5000 words]

I can’t think of one word that can fully mean what we have. It’s far from perfect, but it’s too good to be imperfect. It’s not always happy, but it’s not always sad either. We are together, but not quite as one. We do have each other, but we’re still separate beings just keeping each other company.

I suppose I have to concede that whatever this is, has to be love. Platonic, romantic, ours. The precious resin seeping through our cracks, holding us together, keeping us bound.

A non-chronological series of flash fiction, with fluff, angst and some second-person POV.

Our Dictionary was so, so sweet and a pure joy to read. It’s the kind of fic that I’d love to get a physical copy of — this one would be a little hardback book, filled with little sticky notes bookmarks on my favorite words.

- (i love it when we're) cruisin' together by ohmygodwhy ( @gaycinema )

[2 chapters, 16k words]

“Actually, I was um,” Nico starts, and stops, and starts again, “I was wondering if you wanted to come with me?”

“Come with you?” Jason repeats, blinking in surprise.

“To Italy,” Nico clarifies, just in case Jason didn’t follow. Nice of him, Jason thinks, because his brain hasn’t quite gotten the memo that Nico’s standing in his cabin, asking him to go to Italy with him.

(aka: jason & nico's poorly planned road trip and jason's bi awakening, all in one)

It's the road trip fic, guys!! Jason and Nico get to have some fun -- and yearn a lot. Mutual pining, bed-sharing, first kiss.

III. Post-The Burning Maze fics

(aka, all the fics taking place after the events of ToA, most specifically its third book, The Burning Maze. So; spoilers ahead. May also contain lots of angst and Hadestown references.)

- starcrossed losers, by aelescribe

Jason's never been a fan of predetermination. At least he's not alone.

Jason and Nico get stuck in a time loop. Angst with a happy ending.

- the till we grow old series by @kingburu

[3 episodes, 100k words]

Jason spends his time in the Underworld waiting for Nico to come visit him. Waiting for everyone else to die, so he's not alone. Wondering how he's in Elysium, and why he can't be happy.

It has fluff, pining, angst with a happy ending (mwah), some smut, and demisexual! Jason (I love this headcanon with my whole heart) and it made me yearn. A lot. Me? A hopeless romantic? Perhaps--

The first episode especially made me very emo (in a good way)

- an epic, in thirds, by aelescribe

[707 words, one-shot]

Nico fights with Greek fire and appeals to his father’s softer side, recovering what never should have been lost.

In a freeform work, aelescribe once again heavily references mythology (and hadestown), and.... it might be one of my favorite short jasico fics ugh

- years we lost, by MermaidMarie

[140k words, 14 chapters]

It's been a few years since anything notable happened in their lives. Nico was mostly growing accustomed to the calm of it all, after spending so long trying and failing to fix one of the worst things that had ever happened to him. Until he catches a glimpse of someone in a reflection. He's really trying to not hope for anything.

Years we lost is a fix-it of sorts, taking a loose approach to canon after the events of The Burning Maze. In this fic, years have passed since Jason's death, and as Nico -- who had first gotten lost in grief -- was finally properly mourning his friend and making peace with himself, Jason reappears out of nowhere, with no memories. Angst and pining ensue.

A couple of things I loved especially in this fic are the Valdangelo roommate situation / friendship, and the role played by minor goddesses in the story!! I won't tell more about it, but I can guarantee you that this work is the Good Shit. and written with so much love...

Reading a story about grief also helped me put words on it-- it's not a feeling I am familiar with nor I am great at dealing with, and... I am glad I found it :')

- saccharine, by aelescribe

[1/3 chapters published, 11k words]

The Greek myth about throwing apples; seduction, declaration of love, or marriage proposal? Nico's not super hung up on the details. Just hung up on Jason.

Ten years later. Slow burn with a marriage proposal.

- Before I Go, by bakugouscrocs

[4 chapters published so far, 18k words]

“Nico, you know how this goes.” Jason’s smile was back, mirroring his own tears. “You can’t save everyone.”

“I haven’t saved anyone!” Nico screamed back, frustration and anger growing behind the sorrow that settled in his mind. “It’s you...! I just wish-...”

He took a deep breath, eyelids fluttering close as he tried to calm himself down. He could still see him in the blackness of his closed eyes, the bloody form of yet another person he lost. Another person he would have to learn how to live without.

“I just wish I could’ve saved you.”

Post-canon fix-it, with angst and fluff. Jason gets a second chance.

IV. Fics taking place in alternate / parallel universes, with godswaps or role reversals

- Siamo Nei Guei, by kingburu

[3 chapters, 52k words]

Nico di Angelo wakes up and finds out Bianca di Angelo, Praetor to the Twelfth Legion, is alive. Jason wakes up to an olive-skinned boy with a crew cut, purple shirt, and three tic marks on his arm, claiming to be Nico di Angelo.

Romance. Family feels. Emotional hurt/comfort.

- counterfeit, by aelescribe

[2 chapters, 5400 words]

Up until very recently Nico was a child of Hades who didn’t speak English, much less Latin. He didn’t know Hazel, the only person vouching for him, and vice versa. Oh, and he was dead. Jason is always there, watching, waiting. For him to mess up? Maybe. For his disguise to slip? Probably. But Nico just doesn’t know.

Alternate universe. Role reversal. Sparring. gay

- it was you who held me under, by thelittleone ( @longlivejasongrace )

[4 chapters, 17k words]

"It takes time to really, truly fall for someone. Yet I believe in a moment. A moment when you glimpse the truth within someone, and they glimpse the truth within you. In that moment, you don't belong to yourself any longer. Part of you belongs to him, part of him belongs to you. After that, you can't take it back, no matter how much you want to, no matter how hard you try" — Claudia Gray.

They weren't supposed to meet again, not after everything that had been said, everything they went through. But no one controls the stars, and no one can force second chances.

Ex-boyfriends/Modern AU (Jason and Nico aren't demigods). Past relationship.

It's one of the first Jasico fics I've read ever and I loved it....... its vibes are Immaculate

***

Aaaand that's all for now!! my ao3 bookmarks actually feature much more fics, but I wanted to make a shorter list and share the works I personally loved the most, out of them all. (But also. You should absolutely check the other works of every author mentioned, their profiles are gold mines.)

Jasico not only reawakened my love for the specific medium that fanfiction is, but for reading, writing, storytelling and mythology (yes, all of these) and each of these works has given me life.... So, if you were curious about the ship and looking for fanfic, I hope these recommendations will give you life, too. <3

#entries #fic recs #jasico #i'd die for all these fics!!!! the jasico fandom is a blessing to this world istg

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shatteredatthealtarofwinchester · 4 years ago

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It really stings that Jensen literally had no one to back him up in the writer's room. He knew how harmful the ending they were pitched would be & he tried so hard to fight & he did fight so hard but when your co-lead of 15 years is against you with the writers, he could do literally nothing but take it or leave it. I feel like Dean was always more than a job to jensen but at some point sam became just a paycheck to his actor. & Sam got screwed over just as badly by the finale on so many levels too (I maintain he should've become the next gen of hunter's Bobby and Eileen should've become a lawyer and they should've run the bunker while raising kids).

But what really gets me is that during that same discussion with the writers, jensen still fought for Kaia, like we can imagine her & claire being together, being happy and it be canon compliant because of him. He couldn't save Dean then, but he was the reason Kaia was ultimately saved. (As far as we know, I sadly was not in the room where it happened but my god do I wish I was. Oh to have been a fly on the wall there or to have been there & invisible, able to get away with anything...) him & Robert Berens were the only people who went oh yes we have this indigenous female characters, made a pretty significant threat last season but we didn't address it again so let's address it this season (& bring back her original self who is also canonically wlw & allude to her & claire getting together). Because of him we can at least interpret that two canonically lgbtq characters got a happy ending in life and didn't get buried & forgotten like cas, charlie, max, charlie, apocalypse charlie, stevie, rowena (scene that confirmed she was bi got censored screw you see double ewe), Crowley, off the top of my head.

I really do feel for jensen. Like given past incidents, we should have known misha would be screwed over (it is sooo f-ed up is that misha getting screwed over by writers & the network is basically expected) but we never even imagined that they'd even try to screw jensen over as badly and as hard as they did screw him over. The show never deserved either of them & the show wouldn't have gotten as big as it did without them. No one could ever replicate what they brought.

At least Brianna who seems like good friends with jensen, responded with no comment when asked about her thoughts on the finale (which you wouldn't do if you had nothing but compliments on the ep), so he has at least one person in the cast on his side.

So much talking today, me likey! ��

Yes. I can fully support you in your thought that Jensen felt closer to Dean than Jared felt to Sam and this was totally clear. Jensen said so much stuff about how much he loves Dean, that Dean is his best friend, that he will always carry him with himself, that he will always be very protective about Dean and so on. Also the Spotlight just moved from Dean and Sam to Dean and Cas over the years, people pointed out that Jareds acting was average, later regressive... Maybe he really didn't cared anymore when it came to an end since Walker is his "passion project that has his entire heart."

You are also right that it just hurts fucking much to see that Jared didn't backed him up. Who else would be in the room? Dabb of course, since he wrote 15x20. Singer also. And Dabb openly said that he thinks he made very clear that he dislikes Jensen. Jensen had disagreements with Singer before also. To me it feels like it was SPN vs Walker, and while Jensen chose SPN, Jared chose Walker. Jared even said "You can't make everyone happy" while knowing that this ending will only please W*ncesties and B*bros, and exactly those ran from SPN to Walker.

You're right, actually it's kinda ridiculous that Jared called the ending magical and beautiful fullcircle storytelling while his own character got screwed as well. It shows that he didn't even understood the development of his own character.

Yeah, Bobo spoke openly about how Jensen fought for Kaia. He wanted the story to be continued, he wanted her back.

Yeah, the whole thing about Misha and how he was treated from the network... I'll try not to use abusive language here. Truth is, Misha saved and carried Supernatural. When he entered the stage, he won our hearts and the spotlight moved from Dean and Sam to Dean and Cas. When Cas was killed, ratings dropped. I did an analysis some days ago about the ratings of every single episode that include Misha vs episodes without Misha. Result: Misha made every single season better. He even was in every single seasons finale (except season 15, they didn't needed him anymore then and just threw him away.) Before they couldn't afford to kill him without bringing him back, they couldn't afford not having him in the main story. Weird for a side char, huh? Yeah, the fandom just loves him, you dumb assholes. And actually it made sense when Chuck said that Cas was the only one who grew outside of gods control. The network couldn't control him.

You are right, I never thought that the network would screw Jensen that bad. Never ever. But the show was over, what do they have to loose? They have a new series to promote now, and Jensen isn't in it, so... There you have the decision. Sad to see that they go with the average actor who didn't cared about his own character or the show he's been on for 15 years anymore. He didn't even cared about the fandom. All about money, huh?

#spn #spnfamily #spnfandom #supernatural #jensen ackles #misha collins #castiel #dean winchester #destiel #cockles #deancas #dean #cas

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thatsparrow · 3 years ago

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ao3 meme

guess who has two thumbs and likes reflecting on their own writing? this guyyy

how many works do you have on ao3? 86

what’s your total ao3 word count? 355,210

how many fandoms have you written for and what are they? 32! stealing ponyregrets’ idea of making a pie chart to represent them:

critical role easily wins out at 26, but in terms of which relationships I’ve written the most, it’s a tie between peter/juno and thor/valkyrie at 4 fics each, both of which are very clearly not in critical role, which I find interesting

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

rules of the game (the walking dead)

its sweet and bitter taste (fleabag/priest • fleabag)

we’re two easy targets (juno/peter • the penumbra podcast)

have a heart which skips a beat (kaz/inej • six of crows)

left to survive somehow (claire/owen • jurassic world: fallen kingdom) (technically this one is 6th, but I care about it more than the one that’s 5th)

do you respond to comments, why or why not? uh, sometimes. theoretically, I’d like to respond to all of them, but usually I’ll just do like a dozen in one go and then not get around to any others for a few months.

what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? probably no one left to mourn for me (grace/daniel • ready or not), although rather I’d lose my limbs than let you come to harm (dimension 20: a crown of candy) has an angsty premise. I do have others with pretty angsty endings, but those are canon-compliant angst, and that feels like it counts less than having individually gone “hey wouldn’t it be fucked up if this happened?”

do you write crossovers? If so what’s the craziest one you’ve written? I haven’t written any yet, but I’ve honestly been toying with the idea for an ellie (borderlands) & pam poovey (archer) fic. mostly because I always think of the interview amber nash did when she described pam as a “sturdy bisexual” and had the same thought about ellie while playing bl3 with some friends and she’s flirting indiscriminately with all the vault hunters. maybe a coma season au where the seamus lands on pandora or docks with sanctuary in space? though I’d want pam to be her usual self instead of the rock alien iteration from 1999, so who knows. it’s mostly just a thought

have you ever received hate on a fic? probably, but I don’t specifically remember. mostly I get versions of “hey, this was a bummer” on no one left to mourn for me

do you write smut? If so what kind? not really. the closest I get is, like, alluding to what’s happening without really diving into the specifics. even the mare of easttown fic I wrote that starts with the line “Before they'd fucked, Zabel had wanted to go down on her” has very little sex in it, and more focuses on the build-up and the emotions after. what can I say, writing smut is intimidating

have you ever had a fic stolen? I doubt it, but have never really checked.

have you ever had a fic translated? once, for a zodiac fic of all things

what’s your all time favorite ship? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

what’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? I still toy with the idea of finishing rules of the game. it’s easily the most ridiculous, self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written, but I’ve always liked the emotional core of the story and do still think about wrapping it up. then again, I first started it in 2015 or 2016, which is long enough ago I’d want to edit it pretty heavily before revisiting, but I’ve known what’s going to happen in the next few chapters since it went on hiatus like four years ago (and, in fact, have had the next chapter written probably since 2018 and just never posted it)

what are your writing strengths? imagery and tone, I think

what are your writing weaknesses? plot/pacing, unique voices when writing OW

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? personally I don’t do much more than a word or two

what was the first fandom you wrote for? the 100

what’s your favorite fic that you’ve written? this is kind of an insufferable answer, but most of them? I reread my own fics fairly regularly (usually when I get the morning kudos email and can’t remember a specific title or haven’t revisited it in a while) because like. I mostly write for myself and I am usually a satisfied audience. i recognize that this is fully a cop out, but also I’m indecisive and don’t want to have to choose, fight me

#my fic #long post

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1989dreamer · 3 years ago

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Mountains of Shrapnel for Sterek Big Bang 2021

Written for @twsterekbigbang’s Sterek Big Bang 2021, in collaboration with @mrkgrl (whose art is just delightful and so, so amazing!).

Word Count: 34,083

Summary: When Stiles returns after graduating, he discovers that Derek Hale is back in town. He also learns that Derek has somehow managed to fill an entire house with so much junk it isn't functional anymore and is on the verge of being condemned as unlivable. Stiles uses the excuse of helping Derek clean out his hoarded house to reconnect, aware that what used to be a teeny-tiny crush is not so small anymore. Emotional baggage makes an interesting bedfellow, but so does the revelation that Stiles might not be as alone in his crush as he thought he was.

Tags: Hoarding, Hoarder Derek, Falling in Love, Friends to Lovers, Redeemed Scott McCall, Mentions of Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Mentions of Past Jennifer Blake/Derek Hale, Not Nice Deaton, Human Scott, Canon Compliant to the end of 3B, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Vomit Scene, Derek Hale is in Therapy, Love Potion, Emotional Healing, They get a little sex happy toward the end, Reconnection

Warnings: Kate plays a large part in an element of the story although she does not appear on screen; vomit scene.

Note: The scene that features vomiting starts at "Maybe it was something he put in the pot pie?" and ends after "Stiles shooed him toward the bathroom."

~ * ~

Graduation day came and went rather uneventfully despite the fact that Dad wouldn’t let Stiles wear jeans under his gown and either his head had shrunk since they’d measured him or they’d gotten his head size wrong so his cap refused to stay on his head if he bobbed his leg too hard.

After the long drive home, he and his dad went out to eat at The Burger Joint on the edge of Beacon Hills. Stiles glared at his dad when he ordered the double bacon cheeseburger deluxe.

“What? I’ve been eating well otherwise. I deserve a treat. Besides, it’s not every day your son graduates top of his class.”

“Did it have to be a double bacon burger?” Stiles asked. He was about to continue griping, hoping to at least badger his dad into not eating all of the bacon when the door jingled, catching his attention. Normally, Stiles would have checked who came in and then gone back to his conversation, but the person was an unexpected face. “Is that Derek Hale?”

Dad twisted in his chair until he could see what Stiles saw. Derek fucking Hale stomping his way up to the counter, phone in one hand, money in the other, glowering steadily at the poor clerk as they traded him the money for a bulging bag.

“Yeah,” Dad said. “He moved back to town, oh, about a year ago now. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No,” Stiles said. He jumped up from his chair and hurried to catch Derek before he left the building. Derek looked far less unsettled than Stiles felt at seeing him again.

“Stiles.” He nodded. Stiles swallowed hard.

It wasn’t that he and Derek hadn’t kept in touch, except…that’s exactly what happened.

Derek had left Beacon Hills halfway through Stiles’ junior year of high school, changed his number (and sent Stiles a “Here’s my new number” text about six months after, but he’d forgotten to mention who it was, so Stiles had thought it was one of his classmates and by the time he’d figured out that it was Derek, the number had been changed again), and practically disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Stiles’ mouth didn’t seem to want to cooperate so he just stood there in Derek’s way. What could he say? “I missed you”? Derek obviously hadn’t missed Stiles since he hadn’t contacted him outside of that text.

“Derek,” Stiles finally managed, and then his dad grabbed his arm and dragged him back a few steps.

“Derek, nice to see you again, son. How’s the house treating you? Have you found a job yet? We’d better let you get to your food. See you around. Take care now.”

Dad forcibly steered Stiles back to their table and pushed on his shoulder until he sat down. Derek didn’t move for a long minute. He stared at the Stilinskis with a sullen glare before squaring his shoulders and setting his bag of food down on a table to dig out a notebook. He borrowed a pen off another patron and wrote something down. He returned the pen, picked up his bag, and approached their table.

“This is my address and my number,” he said gruffly, almost stabbing the paper at Stiles’ face. “Congratulations on your graduation. Sir,” he nodded at the Sheriff, “always nice to see you. Have a good meal.”

Stiles grabbed the paper and Derek spun on his heel and marched away.

“He’s gotten better about that,” Dad remarked and then dug into his burger which must have arrived when Stiles was busy gaping at Derek.

He picked up his own burger, a much more modest cheeseburger deluxe. “You said he moved back to town last year?”

Dad paused, thinking. “At least,” he said. “In some ways, it feels like he’s been here forever. He keeps to himself mostly, but I think he’s a good neighbor to have. He’s been nominated for that community thing they created three years ago. You know the thing.”

“The Good Neighbor Program?” Stiles asked, a little cheekily.

“That’s the one. I think he might win it this year.”

“This year? Wait, what about last year?”

“Mrs. Halvershiem won it last year,” Dad said. “Derek was too new to town then. But he’s certainly done a lot in the months he’s been here.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles wouldn’t have thought Derek would do anything other than hide away from the world. He did a lot of that before, which Stiles mostly doesn’t hold against him. He stood up when he needed to. If anyone deserved to shut the world out, it was Derek. Life had dealt him a shitty hand and then kept piling on the bad luck.

The fact that Derek was back in Beacon Hills at all was a miracle. One which Stiles would use to reconnect.

If he was honest with himself, he’d missed the big guy. He’d missed the supernatural. He’d still gotten up to a few mostly un-supernatural shenanigans in college but nothing could ever beat the exhilaration he’d gotten when one of his plans went right and Derek was right there with him, backing him up.

Stiles had been mad at Derek for a long time after he’d left, and he didn’t know if his dad had told him that he was back that he wouldn’t have reacted badly. Some of his anger was directed at Derek because Stiles had realized that he was a little bit in love with Derek, like, a crush or something. Most of his anger, though, was because Derek had left him behind.

Once Stiles had sat Dad down and fully explained how Dad was right, he wasn’t gay, but not because of how he dressed. Stiles was bisexual, not gay. Some days, it still hurt having his dad dismiss him like that, but Dad was trying his best to be supportive and understanding now, and that’s all Stiles wanted, really.

He wondered if Derek knew what his orientation was back in high school. If he did, he hadn’t said. Honestly, Stiles hadn’t ever asked him if that was something he could smell.

But now, with no prompting from either Stiles or Stiles’ dad, Derek had given Stiles his address and his phone number. That was something that would never have happened back in high school.

Stiles felt like he was forgetting something majorly important, but staring at the paper with Derek’s surprisingly neat handwriting, he couldn’t think what it could be. That is until he heard the ice in his dad’s glass of water.

The bacon on his dad’s burger! That’s what he forgot!

Stiles glared at his dad, but nope, it was too late, Dad had already eaten everything.

He didn’t even look a little bit guilty as he finished off his water and stacked everything neatly.

Stiles hurriedly started eating his burger. “Hey, can we visit Derek today?” he asked through a mouthful of meat and bread.

Dad had retired a few months earlier, working part time at the bakery downtown instead of as the Sheriff anymore, so it wasn’t like he’d have the excuse of patrolling anymore.

“Sure. Been meaning to get out that way for a while now. I think Derek works out of his home so it’s rare to see him around town.”

“Is it rare for him to pass out his address too?” Stiles folded the paper, tucking it deep in his breast pocket. He was not going to lose that paper if he could help it.

“That I don’t know. We all kind of just know where he lives now. It was a big thing when he moved back. I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just remember how upset you were when he left the first time, and I didn’t want you to get hurt again if he wasn’t going to stick around.”

“Dad, I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you call him later, set up some time to catch up?”

“That’s actually a really good idea. Thanks.”

Stiles finished his burger while his dad went to pay. He and his dad didn’t have plans for the rest of the day, but Stiles didn’t want to duck out immediately just to possibly reconnect with an old friend. It wasn’t like Derek was going anywhere in the next twenty-four hours. He would call him tomorrow, he decided. Today could be all about his dad. After all, they hadn’t seen each other for almost two months while Stiles was busy finishing up his classes. He wanted to hear about what his dad got up to in his retirement when he wasn’t baking cupcakes.

He patted his pocket one more time, soothed by the crinkle of the paper. And then he gave his attention back to his dad.

~ * ~

Derek answered his phone with a gruff, “Hale.”

Stiles slapped his forehead. Of course Derek wouldn’t recognize his number. Stiles had had to change it a few months back when an incident with a currently incarcerated ex-classmate of his escalated to the point that Stiles had a few new scars and a few new friends in the Berkley Police Department.

“Hey, this is Stiles.”

“Hi.”

Still gruff. Well, some things never changed.

“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to catch up over coffee or something?”

Stiles couldn’t remember Derek ever drinking coffee, so he was hoping that he did or else this would get even more awkward than just trying to talk about things that weren’t supernatural-related.

“Sure. The bakery your dad works at serves coffee. We can meet there.”

Stiles didn’t want his dad to have the inside scoop, but maybe Derek would feel more comfortable there? Maybe he wasn’t comfortable at all and Stiles really shouldn’t be trying to meet up with him. Maybe—

“Are you breathing?” Derek asked, a different gruffness to his tone. Stiles recognized it as his concerned tone. Derek was concerned for him. Aw, wasn’t that sweet? Last he knew, Derek couldn’t stand the sight of him, hence why he skipped town. Or at least, that was what Stiles had told himself for a few years.

“Yes, I’m breathing. The bakery is fine. What time did you want to meet?”

“Are you busy in an hour?”

Stiles checked his wrist for a watch he’d never worn, but he’s just graduated. He has no plans aside from catching up on some sleep. He’ll always make time for Derek anyway. He’d always regretted the way they hadn’t kept in touch, and now faced with the opportunity to rekindle the friendship, he won’t let a little thing like being busy keep him away.

“Nope. Not doing anything. See you then?”

“Sure. Thanks, Stiles. Bye now.”

Stiles stared at his phone long after Derek disconnected the call. That was new. The Derek saying “bye” thing. Usually he would just hang up.

It’s been six years. Maybe Derek really has changed. Stiles was interested to see just how much of an actual adult Derek was.

Back in the day, it had been easy to forget that Derek was only like twenty-one to his sixteen, and even worse when Derek was twenty-two and he was seventeen. Dad had started taking Derek around to crime scenes and everything. Stiles had almost expected Derek to start working for the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department in an Official capacity, and then shit hit the fan.

Kate Argent returned, kidnapped Derek—twice—and nearly murdered them all before she was finally put down.

When it was all said and done, Derek had looked at all of them gathered outside his loft where the final stand had been made, shook his head, and just walked away.

The text came later, after a year, and by then Stiles’ hurt had been so ramped up that he’d refused to even acknowledge that it was maybe Derek’s way of reaching out after taking some time for himself.

Now, though, Stiles would give anything to go back to the day Derek walked away and follow him.

Regrets wouldn’t get them anywhere though, so Stiles set a timer on his phone, sat down at his computer, and dicked around until it was time to go to the bakery.

~ * ~

Dad waved at him when he walked in. Stiles was still unused to seeing his dad in an apron with one of those little paper hats on his head instead of his Sheriff’s uniform, but he had to admit, his dad looked far more relaxed behind the counter of the bakery than behind the wheel of his cruiser.

The interim sheriff wasn’t seeking reelection this year, and Stiles was terrified that his dad would be pressured into running again. Half the town still referred to him as Sheriff.

Stiles hadn’t asked his dad if he planned to run, half-hoping that by not talking about it, he wouldn’t influence him to accept the nomination.

Dad pointed at one of the tables, and Stiles almost sagged in relief. He’d half-thought that Derek might stand him up, but there he was, sitting at the table, a puzzle book in front of him along with a mug of steaming liquid and an untouched puff pastry.

Stiles sat down across from him and without looking up from his puzzle, a crossword, Derek pushed the coffee and pastry toward him.

“Don’t you want anything?” Stiles asked, unsure if he was supposed to accept Derek’s offerings.

“Not hungry,” Derek replied, filling in a word. He set the pencil down, closed the book, and settled back in his chair. He didn’t cross his arms, but his expression was flat and stony enough that he might as well have.

“How are you?” Stiles started. Derek was standoffish, and Stiles could understand why. He didn’t have the same time as everyone else. To Derek, Stiles hadn’t been his friend for years. To Stiles, he could still remember the visceral pain he’d felt when he realized that Derek was leaving them behind after everything they’d been through, but they were still friends.

“I’m fine,” Derek said. “How about you?”

“Great. Just graduated.”

Derek nodded. “I know.”

“How about you? Did you ever go back to college?” Derek had confided once that he’d been enrolled in New York, but had dropped out when Laura was killed.

Derek shook his head. “Never felt like it. I did a bit of trade school though. Picked up welding and furniture restoration. I do both on the side.”

“On the side of what?”

Derek shrugged. “Of life, I guess? I don’t really need to work. I just do.”

Stiles had transferred Derek’s address into his phone in case he forgot the paper somewhere and lost it. “So, if I randomly stop by your house, you won’t always be there?”

“Not on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Derek said. “On Tuesdays, I fill in at Scrappers Galore and Thursdays, I help out at Raquel’s Antiques.”

“So any day but Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Stiles repeated.

Derek squinted at him, suspicious. “Yes,” he said slowly, drawing out the word. “I guess. Why? You planning on stopping by unannounced?”

“Only if you want me to. If you want me to always announce whenever I’m planning on swinging by, that’s great too.”

Derek tapped his book, thinking. Stiles had forgotten how much he missed Derek’s everything. And not just because he was handsome and nice to look at. (Yeah, he’d figured out pretty quickly that he’d like both men and women, and that he’d likely been very attracted to Derek when they’d first met.)

No, Derek was more than a pretty face. He was compassion embodied, caring, kind (once he got out of the survival mode he’d been in when they’d first crossed paths), and more than generous.

It was a little unsettling that Derek seemed to be hedging his words with Stiles, unsure if he wanted to fully trust him. Stiles wanted to remind Derek that he was the one who walked away, not Stiles, but he didn’t want to accidentally push him too far.

They were reconnecting, after all.

“My house isn’t the cleanest,” Derek finally said after a long moment of silence between them. “I don’t need to hear about how I should be doing this or doing that. I’m in therapy, but right now, we’re at a stage in my life where I can’t do certain things.”

Stiles held up his hands. “Hey, no judging here.” The only reason he kept his room clean was because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to think at all. Clutter worsened his ADHD, and no amount of medication was going to make him focus on the things he should if he was constantly distracted by his surroundings.

Dad had helped him clean out his room last summer when Stiles had returned only to find that all the things from his childhood and high school years sat heavily on his mind, making what was supposed to be a relaxing time very stressful.

He half expected Derek to be the same way, but maybe not? Derek didn’t have an ADHD diagnosis, and likely wouldn’t ever get one, so that was probably not it.

Derek picked up his book. “It was nice talking with you, but I need to run an errand. Call me later if you want to come over.”

“Hey, no, yeah, it was really good to see you. I’ll definitely call you later.”

Derek ambled off, and Stiles was probably imagining that he looked more relaxed than when Stiles sat down. Huh. Maybe he and Derek were still friends.

He picked up the pastry, taking a large bite. Well, Derek still knew what Stiles liked to eat. A sip of the drink revealed that it was the coffee order Stiles used to drink in college. It wasn’t bad, but it was more sugary than Stiles liked now.

But it was still very thoughtful of Derek. And besides, there was time now for Stiles to teach him his new coffee order.

He finished the drink and pastry quickly, dropping a tip in the jar for his dad, and waving as he headed outside.

For some reason, he really didn’t want to go home, so he texted his dad that he was picking up some stuff for supper and headed to the grocery store.

He parked next to a Camaro that reminded him strongly of Derek’s. It was even black too. Once inside, he grabbed a cart and started wandering the aisles, adding things he thought could make a delicious, healthy supper.

When he went to pay, he found himself behind a tall, broad back that was oh-so-familiar. He didn’t need to smell the woodsy aftershave or see the slightly scraggly hair in need of a trim to know that he hadn’t just been reminded of Derek’s Camaro: it was actually Derek’s Camaro. Derek’s errand must have been grocery shopping, although from the look of his cart, it wasn’t so much groceries as junk food.

Stiles never imagined Derek to be a junk food eater, certain that the chemicals used to mimic natural ingredients and flavors would have been off-putting for a werewolf and his heightened sense of smell and taste.

Derek must have either smelled him (likely) or sensed him staring at him (also likely) and turned around with a tight smile.

Stiles just waved. He wasn’t in the habit of accosting his acquaintances in the queue to pay.

He made a telephone sign with his hand, and Derek nodded.

The amount of food that Derek had bought meant that he’d likely still be putting it into his car by the time Stiles got out to Roscoe.

He’d talk to him then. Invite him to supper. He’d gotten plenty of ingredients for two people, and definitely more than enough to accommodate a third.

Besides, it’d be nice to see if his dad and Derek still got along. He hoped so; otherwise his renewed friendship with Derek was going to be awkward.

It was unfortunate that Stiles had lost all his other friends, also shortly around the time that Derek had left. In fact, Derek’s leaving had caused such major infighting among them that Stiles and Scott still weren’t speaking to this day.

Lydia and Kira, caught in the middle, had bonded over their refusal to take sides (although, privately, they both admitted that Stiles had more of a point to his argument that Scott had caused Kate’s return, something Scott refused to accept and Stiles refused to revisit now for fear of becoming enraged again). Lydia and Kira had ended up getting married after two years of dating and now were living on the east coast while Lydia studied at MIT and Kira got her teaching license.

Stiles hoped they’d had better luck keeping in touch with the others, but he also didn’t think they’d made an effort with Derek because, to be honest, neither of them were very close to him to begin with.

Still, Stiles wasn’t one to shy away from something just because it was hard. He had gone from ignoring a problem and hoping it went away to confronting it head on because then it wouldn’t just grow bigger behind his back and knock him off his path again.

He paid for his groceries and hurried out to the lot. Derek was indeed still piling bags into the trunk of his car.

“Hey, so I’m making pesto, and I was wondering if you wanted to join my dad and me for supper.”

Derek spun around, even though there was no way he didn’t hear Stiles behind him. “Uh.” His eyebrows went up and then quickly lowered. Confusion at being asked and masking that confusion. Good to know Stiles could still read him. “Is your dad okay with that?”

Stiles waved away his concern. “My dad loves you,” he declared, almost positive that it was true. After all, his dad hadn’t glared at or threatened Derek at the diner today.

Nor had he gotten between them when they caught up at the bakery.

Derek’s eyebrows wriggled again before finally relaxing to their normal position on his face. Stiles stifled a comment on the bushiness of them. He didn’t know if Derek was self conscious of any part of his body, and he didn’t want to accidentally dredge up anything for him.

“I highly doubt he actually loves me,” Derek said. “No one really does.”

“Hey now.”

Derek rolled his shoulders, less of a shrug and more of a so-life-goes motion. High school Stiles would have agreed with him, maybe cracked a self-depreciating joke about himself to lighten the mood. College graduate Stiles was wiser and less infatuated with nihilism.

“Seriously, I’ve never seen him look so happy to see someone who wasn’t me.”

Derek still didn’t look like he believed Stiles, but that was okay. Stiles was back in Beacon Hills for a while. He could work on him, make sure Derek knew just how much he was treasured.

“I heard you’re up for the Good Neighbor award this year.”

Derek ducked his head, blushing hotly. “I don’t know about that,” he mumbled.

“Hey, if they hand you the award, just say thanks and move on. I’m sure you deserve it anyway. You did a lot for us back in the day.”

Derek scoffed. “As if. I did more harm than good and you know it.”

“Well, I for one appreciate what you did for me. And before you deny it, you were helpful, if a bit scary.”

“I got people killed. Can’t forget that.” Derek dropped his gaze down to his feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can make it to supper.”

“Please don’t,” Stiles said softly. Derek’s head snapped up. “I want you there. I want to reconnect with you. I’m not inviting you out of pity or because I think you can’t feed yourself.” He sighed, stepping forward, hand raised so that Derek had plenty of time to decide if he wanted to step out of reach. When Derek didn’t move, Stiles set his hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze before pulling back entirely.

“Okay,” Derek said, a little breathlessly. He swallowed hard. “Okay, I’ll be there.When?”

“Give me about two hours and it should be ready. Pesto doesn’t actually take that long to make, but I think we’d both appreciate some time to put away our groceries.”

“Okay. I’ll be there. I promise.”

Stiles beamed at him, which oddly made Derek blush. Huh, food for thought. “Okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. It’ll be great to catch up some more.”

“Sure.” It was probably just Stiles’ imagination, but he thought Derek’s tone was a little cold, as if Stiles had said something unfavorable. “See you.”

Stiles waved to him and then got into Roscoe and drove back to his dad’s house.

Dad wouldn’t be off work yet, so Stiles took some time to put away the groceries, clean up their nicest set of plates, and set the table before he pulled up a recipe on his phone and got busy.

~ * ~

Derek arrived at the house at the same time as Dad. Stiles could hear them greet each other on the doorstep. He waited a decent two minutes while they exchanged pleasantries and Derek gave Dad a bottle of wine he brought with him.

“Ah, Stiles loves this brand. Thanks.”

Stiles threw open the door. “Come on in,” he said brightly, taking the bottle from his dad. Both his dad and Derek know him well: this was his favorite vintage right now. “The food is ready.”

Derek shifted awkwardly before stepping into the house. He looked uncomfortable and on edge even though Stiles had double checked to make sure the wolfsbane his dad grew now that Chris Argent was off globe-trotting was out back in the shed. Maybe he could still smell it?

“Thanks for inviting me,” Derek said, almost too quiet to hear. He cleared his throat and asked for the bathroom.

“You know where it is,” Dad said, clapping him on the back. “I’m going to get washed up, Stiles. Supper smells great.”

“Thanks. I’m going to put this on ice. Anyone want a glass with supper? Not sure how well it’ll go with pesto, but we can try it!”

“I think I’ll try some,” Dad called over his shoulder. “You got any of that non-alcoholic beer left?”

Derek reappeared before Stiles could answer. He still looked terrified but at least he was still standing in the front hallway.

“Come on.” Stiles held out his hand, waving Derek toward the kitchen. “We can grab everything and set up in the dining room.”

Derek followed, and then stood still while Stiles loaded his arms with plates, silverware wrapped in napkins, and a serving utensil. Dad grabbed the dish with pesto, and Stiles wrapped the wine bottle in a wet paper towel and stuck it in the freezer, setting a fifteen minute timer on his phone.

Once the table was set, a centerpiece collected from the back garden Dad worked on in his spare time, and the wine collected after the timer went off, they all sat down. Neither Stiles nor his dad had cared to say Grace since before Mom died, but the way Derek folded his hands and stared at his plate, spoke volumes. Stiles nodded at his dad, and Dad spoke a quick few words before holding his hand out for Derek’s plate.

“Guests are served first,” he said gently when Derek politely refused.

Derek surrendered his plate, and Dad heaped it full. Derek winced at it when he took it back, and Stiles made a mental note to send him home with some Tupperware if he couldn’t finish it.

Or maybe Derek didn’t like pesto? He had seemed at least a little enthused when Stiles invited him, but maybe Stiles was reading too much into it?

He was overthinking things. He needed to not do that. Dad dished up some pesto for Stiles and then himself, and Stiles wondered if Dad liked the pesto at all since he hadn’t taken near as much as he normally did.

“So, Derek, how are you liking being back in Beacon Hills?”

Stiles turned a horrified eye to his dad. What kind of question was that? The last time Derek was in Beacon Hills, he’d been assaulted by a phantom from his past, all but run from the town, and everyone who cared about him was either dead or disgusted with him, Stiles included.

Although, if Stiles was honest with himself, he wasn’t as disgusted with Derek as he was with himself or Scott. Derek had just been reacting to the stress and repeated assault from Kate.

“It’s been good,” Derek said. He poked at his food before putting a small bite in his mouth. He chewed for almost a minute before he swallowed. “The people have been nice.”

Ashamed, Stiles stabbed at his own food. He hadn’t ever been the friend Derek needed. He didn’t know why it was so important to him that he do this, invite Derek for supper, go out for coffee to catch up, when even two years ago, he couldn’t find the time or patience for him.

“I’m sorry we were such assholes,” he blurted out.

Derek frowned at him. “We?” he repeated. “Are you apologizing for you or for everyone?”

“Everyone.”

“Don’t. I don’t want it. I was an asshole too.”

“Yeah, a surviving asshole.”

Derek smothered a chuckle. “Still an asshole.”

“Can we suspend the assholes at the dinner table?” Dad asked, pointing his fork at Stiles. “You’re sorry. Derek’s sorry. I’m sorry. Can we please just eat?”

“It is good,” Derek said. “The pesto, I mean. You’re a good cook, Stiles.”

Stiles took a moment to bask in the glory of the compliment before he set aside his plate. “So, Derek, is there any chance I’ll get to see where you live now?”

Derek glared at his plate. The change in expression gave Stiles pause. He vaguely remembered Derek telling him he couldn’t judge him for how he lived, not that he couldn’t visit him at all.

“I’m not ready for visitors,” Derek mumbled.

“Okay.” Stiles tried to bury the flash of hurt, but from Derek’s even more miserable expression, he wasn’t successful at all. “I mean,” he tried again, “I can wait until you’re ready? Or I can help you if that’s what you need? I’m not going to judge you.”

Both Dad and Derek turned their heads to stare at him. Stiles sunk in his seat.

“You know what I mean.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his plate.

Derek sighed. “I appreciate it. I really do. I’ll have to think about it. Is that okay?”

“Perfectly okay.” Stiles returned to his food, finishing his wine with a long swallow. He gathered the plates while Dad picked up the rest of the pesto. “I made a cheesecake,” Stiles said, mostly for Derek’s benefit so he wouldn’t take the opportunity of being left alone to duck out early.

“You’re actually going to let me have a slice?” Dad asked, surprised.

Stiles lightly slapped at his arm. “Of course you can have a slice. You’ve been doing much better with your diet. And besides, it’s low fat.”

Dad’s face falls. “Low fat?”

“Yes, low fat. It’s still delicious.” Stiles gave his dad one of his most mischievous looks, one his dad probably thought he retired after leaving his teens behind. “Or did you not want any?”

“No, I’ll take a slice. I probably won’t eat more than that.” His dad grabbed glasses for milk. “I mean, one is probably all I’ll need.”

“You can have two,” Stiles said magnanimously. “I’m sending the rest home with Derek.”

Derek was still sitting in his seat, thank goodness. He hurriedly shoved his cell phone under the table, shooting Stiles a guilty look.

“If you have other plans, you can go to them. You don’t have to stay for my sake.”

Derek shook his head. “No, it’s something for tomorrow.” He got a determined look in his eye before pulling out his phone again. “I could maybe use your help,” he admitted. “That is, if you have time.” He showed Stiles the screen.

It was just messages from a number Derek hadn’t saved as a contact. Okay to drop off mom’s stuff at 10?

Derek’s simple Yes underneath it sparked a shiver of fear in Stiles that he couldn’t explain.

“What is ‘mom’s stuff’?” he asked. Before Derek can stop him, he flicked the screen to another conversation. It was almost exactly the same except it was “Aunt Catherine’s crap” instead of “mom’s stuff.”

“It’s just stuff,” Derek said, evasive. He pulled his phone back, locking the screen. “Sometimes it’s a lot of stuff, and sometimes it’s not a lot of stuff.”

“And Aunt Catherine’s crap?”

“Catherine?” Dad interjected. “Catherine Harper who died two years ago? Her nephew finally decided to clean out her house?”

“Yeah, and apparently decided to just dump her ‘crap’ on Derek.”

Derek flushed. “It’s not like it’s a bad thing,” he mumbles. More clearly he said, “I help them take care of unwanted things. I have a holding period, and if, after that period, they don’t want anything from their loved one’s things, then I dispose of it.”

“Sounds like they’re getting more out of this deal than you,” Stiles remarked, studying Derek to see his reaction. Predictably, he blushed harder.

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh no?” Stiles started dishing up the cheesecake. “It probably is exactly like that. I know you, Mister. You don’t give enough thought to yourself when you try to help everyone.”

Derek accepted the plate. “Maybe I enjoy helping people?”

“To the point where they hurt you?” Stiles shook his head. “Dude, I was one of those people. You can’t say honestly that I didn’t hurt you.”

“I’m not holding a grudge.”

“Maybe you should.”

Dad grabbed Stiles’ wrist. “Let’s leave it alone for now,” he advised. “The wounds are obviously still fresh, but you’ll get nowhere if you keep picking the scab off before it can try to heal.”

He sat down and forked a large mouthful of the cheesecake into his mouth. “You’re right, Stiles, this isn’t so bad.”

Stiles acquiesced with a brief nod, tucking into his own slice. It wasn’t as good as the cheesecake he normally made, but for his dad’s health and inclusion in desserts, something Stiles had banned him from during high school, he’d gladly make it again.

Derek finished first and declined a second helping. Surprisingly Dad did too, so Stiles slapped a lid on the pan and handed it to Derek before he left.

“Can I come over around 10:00 tomorrow? Just to see what is being dropped off?”

Derek shrugged, nonchalant, but Stiles could still see the tension holding him stiff. “I’m not going to stop you.”

“Great,” Stiles said with genuine enthusiasm. “Text me the address?”

“Didn’t I write it down for you already?”

“Oh yeah.” Stiles smacked his forehead. “Sorry about that.” He patted his pockets until he came up with the crumpled paper. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Derek nodded. “Okay. Then, he walked to his Camaro, waved at Stiles after he secured the cheesecake in the front seat, and drove away.

Stiles returned to the kitchen to find his dad loading the dishwasher he’d finally bought after retiring from the Sheriff’s Department.

“That went well, I think,” Stiles told him.

“Son, I know you want to fix things, but some things take time.”

“I know that.” He blew out a breath. “It’s just…You know how we treated him when he came back to find his sister. His murdered sister.”

“The sister he did not murder,” Dad finished. They’d started referring to Derek like this after watching The Emperor’s New Groove one too many times when Stiles was on break his sophomore year.

Stiles blew out another breath. “I just wish we had been nicer to him. I mean, especially after we knew he had nothing to do with the murders.”

“Stiles, regret can only do so much for us. Go see what’s up tomorrow, but then let Derek dictate the pace. After all, it’s his healing that you’re so worried about right now.”

Stiles chewed on that for a minute before deciding that his dad was right. “I won’t push him if he’s not ready,” he finally said.

Dad sighed. “It’ll have to do. Now, do you want to watch a movie with me or did you have plans with your online friends?”

“A movie,” Stiles said automatically.

He’d make plans with Kira and Lydia later. For now, there was nothing better than getting to spend the night picking apart a movie with his dad. They both loved pointing out the inaccuracies in films, which made them unbearable to watch with anyone else. Besides, Stiles justified it as making up missed time. Dad had been busy most of his life. It was only fitting that now they could relax together when his dad had nothing more pressing than an early bedtime, and Stiles wasn’t as involved in the supernatural crises that used to plague the town.

~ * ~

Derek’s text with his address came in just before 8:30 a.m. when Stiles was in the shower, trying to wake up. Dad was already at work, so Stiles sent a text telling him that he was at Derek’s and will be home by supper, and then he packed a few water bottles into his backpack, grabbed some money from a stash he kept under his mattress, and then drove Roscoe to Derek’s address.

It was located in the solidly middle class residential district, the one right before where the Beacon Hills wealthy lived. Derek’s house was huge, by Stiles’ standards. It stood almost three stories tall and was nearly half a block all to itself. Someone had erected a fence around the property, six feet tall, with no spaces between the slats, and painted pale green to match the house. The front gate was wrought iron rendered into roses, the tops spiked.

Derek was sitting on an upturned bucket in the middle of the sidewalk, sorting a few piles of dusty books into three piles.

Stiles parked across the street so he wouldn’t block Derek’s visitor, and strolled up to him.

Derek barely paused in his sorting to grunt an acknowledgement at him.

“Do you need help yet?” Stiles asked. He picked up a book from the pile closest to Derek, gingerly flipping through it. The book was filled with poetry written by some author he didn’t recognize. The poems were stuffy, love in an abstract, don’t tell our families way that made Stiles sneeze. Or that could have been the dust.

He set the book back where he found it.

“Is this part of ‘mom’s stuff’?”

“No, this is part of Samuel’s things. He’s actually coming by today to collect all the books by Tomás Gibraltar.”

“And how long have you had Samuel’s things?” Stiles picked up the book of poems again. The author was not Tomás Gibraltar, so he could assume this pile was not one Samuel wanted. He grabbed a book from the pile Derek was sorting. This one was a Tomás Gibraltar book so he handed it to Derek and watched which pile he set it on, then he dove in.

“I’ve only had them for a few months. I thought I had more time. He was supposed to be back in Beacon Hills in another two months, but I guess his trip got cut short.”

“Good thing I’m early, eh?”

“Huh?” Derek quickly checked his phone. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. I’ll buy you lunch after Andrew drops off his mother’s things.”

“Cool.” Stiles added another Tomás Gibraltar book to the pile. “How many books did this guy write?” The pile already had twenty books.

“Over fifty, I think,” Derek replied, “which is a drop in the bucket compared to the number of books Samuel dropped off.”

Stiles stepped back and quickly counted the books surrounding Derek. He lost count at eighty-seven. “And just how many books was that?” he asked.

“Eighteen boxes worth,” Derek said. He stood up, stretching and rubbing at the small of his back.

“I guess even werewolves get backaches,” Stiles joked, flipping three more books into the Gibraltar pile.

“It’s a non-essential wound,” Derek said as he grabbed another stack of books. “It’ll heal when I’m done.” He looked up, stricken. “You don’t have to help long enough to get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt,” Stiles said. “I didn’t drag eighteen boxes of books out of your house.”

“That was the easy part.” Derek flashed him a brief smile that faded almost immediately when a large white SUV pulled up next to them.

A large man, gray hair, full beard, and mirrored sunglasses sauntered over to them.

“Derek.” His voice was jovial, but from the set of Derek’s shoulders, the man wasn’t a welcome visitor.

“Hey, Samuel. You said you’d be over by 9:30.”

Samuel made a show of looking at his wristwatch. Stiles would bet money that it was either a Rolex or a very good knockoff. “So I’m early. You’ve had two hours. You should have gotten it all done.”

“An hour,” Derek corrected quietly. “You called an hour ago.”

“Seriously?” Stiles set down the books he was holding. “What is your problem, man? You only gave him ninety minutes and thirty of those, you just took away?”

“Who’s this?” Samuel pointed at Stiles, flicking his fingers like Stiles was just an annoying fly.

“My friend,” Derek said. “But he’s right. You didn’t give me enough time, and you’ve shortened it considerably, so you know what? You can deal with your books yourself.” Derek stood up, grabbed his bucket and Stiles, and marched toward his house.

“You can’t walk away from a paying customer,” Samuel shouted after them.

“You didn’t pay me anything,” Derek said. He shoved Stiles through the gate, slapping the bucket into his arms.

“Is this a fight? Should I call the cops?”

Samuel squared off, snarling at Derek. Instead of a fighting stance, Derek instead grabbed a book from the Gibraltar pile. He held up a hand. “One step closer,” he gritted out between clenched fangs. Stiles held his breath. He didn’t know if this man knew what Derek was. He hoped Derek would be able to rein in his control and possibly endangered himself.

Samuel faltered his steps. He studied Derek, expression blank for a long few minutes before he shook his head and adjusted his sunglasses. “Fine. You’ve got til 9:30.”

“No,” Derek said. “You take your books now. All of them. If you don’t, everything is going to the dump. You have fifteen minutes to get this crap off my property before I call the police on you for trespassing.”

“You can’t do that. These books are my property.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you dumped them on him,” Stiles called. He was escalating the situation, but he couldn’t help it.

Derek didn’t deserve to be treated like his time wasn’t important.

Samuel could go kick rocks for all Stiles cared.

Samuel worked his jaw before stalking to the pile of Gibraltar books and gathering as many as he could carry and stacking them into the back of his SUV.

Derek watched him, periodically checking his phone to keep track of the fifteen minutes. Once time was up, Samuel still had over a couple hundred books. Derek left him then, locking the gate behind himself.

Samuel began cursing but Derek didn’t turn around, and after a moment to enjoy the sight of a full grown man in tantrum mode, Stiles followed him. Derek didn’t say anything when Stiles walked with him up his front steps and into his foyer. Stiles stopped still in shock.

There was so much stuff that his brain couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. Derek had already disappeared from view, and Stiles didn’t see how. Was there a path? Where did Derek get all this stuff from?

It was boxes and boxes covered in things like lamps, clothing, papers. There was so much of it that Stiles was afraid to touch it or even try to find Derek’s path because he was positive it was going to fall over and crush him.

Instead, he waited in the foyer, hands shoved deep in his pockets while he rocked back and forth, unsure why, but knowing that he was heading for a panic attack.

Derek returned with the empty pan and lid from the cheesecake, handing it to Stiles.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Stiles shook his head. He clutched the pan, squeezing it like it was a flotation device, feeling like it was one too.

Derek gently gripped his elbow and turned him around. They stepped back out on the porch, and Derek guided him to a chair. Samuel was still cursing, but he was now sitting on the ground sorting his own damn books.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, shaky. He was still on the edge, honestly could go either way, and he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Derek pressed down on the pan so that it was weighted against Stiles’ legs. He latched onto the sensation and used it to pull himself firmly into just-past-panic territory. Then he stared down at the empty pan.

“Did you really eat all the cheesecake yourself?”

Derek flushed. “No.”

“Liar,” Stiles countered.

“I didn’t,” Derek protested. “I gave it away.” His eyes cut away and Stiles couldn’t make eye contact anymore. He frowned at him, thinking back to every Hoarders episode he had ever seen. “Do you have a working fridge?” he asked.

“Yes,” Derek bit out. So, probably a lie.

“Did you not like it?”

“What? It was fine. It tasted almost like regular cheesecake. It was fine, Stiles. I told you, you’re a good cook.”

“So, why did you give it away? It would have kept for a few more days.”

Derek’s mouth twisted, and it was all the warning Stiles had before Derek stood up and stalked into his house. The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked.

Stiles waited a few minutes to see if Derek would reappear, and when he didn’t, he banged on the door.

After about five minutes, Derek finally cracked open the door. “What?” he snapped.

“Why are you mad at me?”

Derek pointed at the pan Stiles had left on the chair. “Why are you interrogating me about your cheesecake?”

Screeching tires and burning rubber interrupted whatever response Stiles was going to say, and they both watched as Samuel peeled around the corner. He’d left all the books that weren’t by his Gibraltar author, and Derek visibly slumped as he stared at the mess remaining on the sidewalk.

“I can help you pick them up,” Stiles offered. He briefly wondered where Derek would put them, or if he could even fit them into his house.

Derek eyed him. “Will you leave your cheesecake out of it?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

Derek opened the door wider. “Thanks.” He passed out a plastic tote, and Stiles took it. Derek stepped out, another tote in his arms. “I could only empty the two. I know there’s more, but I couldn’t find them right now.”

No wonder, Stiles thought meanly. With the mess in Derek’s house, it was a miracle he didn’t lose himself.

It took ten minutes to fill the first tote. Derek hefted it up on his shoulders and carried it back to his house. It took him ten minutes to empty it and come back, and by that time, Stiles had the second tote filled. Derek took it from him and again took ten minutes to come back with it emptied. He also brought the chair from the porch and Stiles’ pan.

“Why don’t you take a quick break while I fill this tote?”

Stiles shrugged. He wouldn’t say no. Besides, he was thirsty. He offered a bottle to Derek as he began packing books into the tote.

Derek accepted after a few seconds of cajoling. They were silent for a sip or two before Derek said, softly, “I know you’re disappointed in me.” He fiddled with the cap from his bottle, running it over his fingers and tucking it into his palm, only to start again immediately.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Stiles said. He concentrated on taking small, even sips of his water. It was a shock to be sure to see the amount of stuff in Derek’s house.

“You had a panic attack because of me,” Derek said.

“Not you,” Stiles said. “Claustrophobia. It was a little tight and I lost sight of you.”

“Sorry about that,” Derek said, in a tone that wasn’t entirely truthful. Stiles wondered when he’d gotten good at reading Derek. It couldn’t have been in just the day and a half since they’ve reconnected. Maybe Derek had gotten easier to read?

“I’m sure a few cleaning sessions and the house will be right as rain.” He was lying through his teeth. Another thing he remembered from Hoarders was that if the front of the house was as jam packed as Derek’s, then the rest of the house was too. With two and a half stories, that had to be a million pounds of trash all stuffed into the poor house.

“A few cleaning sessions,” Derek repeated, numbly. “Yeah. Sure. Are you offering?”

“I mean, yeah, if you want.” Stiles didn’t have a job yet, hadn’t even applied anywhere, so he had time. Plenty of it.

Derek studied him for a long, long moment before re-capping his bottle and handing it to Stiles. “We’ll see,” is all he said before he got back to packing the tote with the books. Stiles estimated at the rate they were going, it would take another forty minutes to pick up the rest of the books.

“Do you think Samuel is coming back for the rest of his books?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I do know he’s not getting them. He dumped them on me and left me this mess to clean up, so he can go fuck himself.”

Stiles tripped over nothing, shocked at the fact that he just heard Derek swear.

Of course, he has heard him call people bitches, Peter’s nurse came to mind, but Derek tended not to swear, and Stiles hadn’t ever heard that word pass his lips.

“I’m sure he can,” he said, amusement evident in his voice. Derek scrunched his nose at him before lifting both totes onto his shoulders and walking toward his house. Stiles sighed. Of course Derek would take it as Stiles laughing at him. Oh well. At least Stiles could carry some of the books closer to the house so that it would at least take nine minutes for Derek to empty the totes instead of ten.

Derek could only carry one tote into the house at a time, so Stiles just stacked a few books around the second tote. He hadn’t made much progress before Derek returned. He frowned down at the books.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, disappearing back into the house with the full tote.

Hey, it’s something. Stiles left the tote on the porch and went to grab more books.

He’d gotten about half of the remaining books moved when Derek came back. He took a tote to the books still scattered on the sidewalk and shoveled them into the tote while Stiles hurriedly packed the books on the porch into that tote.

Okay, so it wouldn’t take quite another ten minutes. Stiles carried the last of the sidewalk books to the porch and then brought the chair there too, sitting down and finishing his bottle of water. As soon as Derek poked his head out, Stiles threw his water at him.

“Enforced break,” he said.

Derek didn’t argue.

“How are you feeling after all that?” Stiles kind of wanted to see where Derek was stashing all those books, but he didn’t relish the idea of another panic attack. Maybe now that he kind of knew what to expect he could go deeper into the house?

One look at Derek’s face, and he nixed that idea. He didn’t need to invade more than he already had. Dad’s words of wisdom from last night coming back to him. He couldn’t fix Derek just by cleaning his house. He needed therapy. Lots of it.

And he needed people like Samuel to stop dumping his crap on Derek. Obviously, Derek wasn’t in the right headspace to discard so much stuff.

And here came “mom’s stuff” to drop off even more crap.

Derek glanced up when a beat-up maroon Camry rolled to a stop in front of his house, parking in the same spot Samuel had been in nearly an hour ago.

“It’s Andrew,” Derek said, and the tiredness in his voice dragged Stiles down too.

“Can you tell him no?” Stiles asked, following Derek as he stood up and made his way down his drive. Stiles gaped in shock as three Uhaul trucks came into view. “Seriously,” he said weakly. “Tell him no. You have enough stuff, Derek. You can’t fit more into your house.”

“If I don’t, where is he going to take it?”

“To a storage unit,” Stiles said. “Or to the dump. Derek, seriously, this is not your problem. Please don’t make it be your problem.”

Derek sighed. “I gave him my word, Stiles. My word is the only thing that matters about me.”

Stiles held up his hands. “Okay, dude. Are you sure you want three Uhauls worth, though?”

Derek snarled under his breath, and Stiles resolved to drop it. Derek probably already felt horrible about having so much stuff. He didn’t need Stiles to rub it in and make it worse.

Andrew greeted Derek jovially, throwing in a quick hello for Stiles too. Stiles recognized him. He was a deputy under his dad. It was either his day off or he wasn’t working for the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department anymore.

Andrew also brought along a crew, as if he knew exactly what he was getting Derek into. Stiles stood on the side and seethed at how people were taking advantage of Derek’s nature.

“I can’t watch this,” he said before they got the first truck empty. “Derek, please reconsider this. You have so much more worth than just your word. Please let me help you.”

Derek waved him away. “I’ll catch up with you later, Stiles. Thanks for the help earlier.”

Dismissed, pissed, and more than a little miffed, Stiles stalked to Roscoe, threw his backpack in the backseat, buckled his cake pan in the front seat, and drove to the bakery.

The first bit of good luck he had had all day came in the form of his dad on break, sitting outside and eating a gluten free scone.

“It’s not actually that bad,” Dad said when Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “It got a little burnt, so the owners said we could have them.” Stiles stole the rest of it and gave it back after one bite. “How’d it go with Derek?”

“Miserable,” Stiles said. “This whole town is taking advantage of him. You know the guy that was bringing his mom’s stuff to Derek’s?”

“Yeah.”

“It was Andrew Potts.”

“The deputy?”

“Yes. And you know what?” Before his dad could say “what,” Stiles continued, “He brought three Uhauls worth of stuff to Derek’s house! And you wanna know the worst thing?”

This time Dad did say, “What?”

“Derek’s house is completely full. Like, there’s nowhere to walk in there. I don’t even know how he’s living. And I’m pretty sure he lied to me about having a working fridge. Which explains why he only bought, like, junk food yesterday.”

“Wait a minute.” Dad held up his hand until Stiles fell silent. “Are you telling me that Derek Hale’s house is so full of things that he can’t actually live in it? And someone brought even more stuff to him?”

“Pretty sure he’s living in there,” Stiles said, “but yeah, that’s the gist of it. Like, I’d maybe understand if at least some of the things were Derek’s that he’d picked out. Instead, it seems like he takes crap from everyone. Do you know who Samuel is, gray hair, big beard, white SUV?”

“Samuel Johnson,” Dad said. “I think his son used to go to school with Derek.”

“Yeah, well, he’s an asshole. He dumped a million books on Derek, like, two years ago, and then called this morning to get one author back. Then, after Derek was nice enough to bring his books out to be sorted—which I think he did mostly because there’s no room in his house to do it—Mr. Bigshot cut his time short, claimed Derek had two hours when he barely gave him one, and then left the rest of the books for Derek to deal with.”

“And I’m guessing Derek just took them back into his house?” Dad wrapped his scone in a napkin and tucked it into his lunch box.

Stiles clicked his tongue and pointed at him.

“Stiles, you know you can’t help Derek unless he wants it.”

Stiles deflated, sinking onto a seat next to his dad. He put his head on Dad’s shoulder. “I know,” he said, miserable. “I just hate seeing him being used like that and getting hurt too. He got mad at me when I asked him about the cheesecake.”

“Why would you ask about that?”

“Because he gave me back the pan. It looks washed, but there was a lot of cheesecake in there. He couldn’t have eaten it all himself, so he could have stored it, but he claims he shared it.”

“And you’re not mad because he shared it,” Dad guessed.

Stiles clicks his tongue again. “I’m mad because it was obvious he was lying about being able to store it.”

“I know this hurts, Stiles. I know it hurts a lot. I’ve had a few friends that started hoarding for one reason or another. For a while after your mom died, I thought we’d both become hoarders.”

“And then you stopped drinking as much.”

“Because I had you to think about. I almost let you get away from me, but I couldn’t stand to lose you too, so I cleaned up my act. I’m sure you realize that Derek doesn’t have anyone to do that for him. His only living relatives are so far away or he’s not on good terms with them.”

Stiles suppressed the shudder that always came with the mention of Peter Hale. That was one person Stiles had no desire ever to run into again.

Peter had left town after Kate’s second defeat, probably because he’d tried to take the alpha power from Scott, claiming that no such thing as a true alpha existed and that the power in Scott was really the Hale power, usurped by a chance of fate and the weakness of Derek.

Stiles had stepped in then, explaining that if the power were truly the Hales’, then they could take it back without force.

Scott had felt betrayed, as he told Stiles many times afterward, and also left town because he did not want to give up the power despite still not wanting to be a werewolf.

Things had gone downhill after that because, before Peter and Scott had left, Derek walked away from Beacon Hills.

Now Derek was back, Stiles hadn’t talked to Scott in almost six years, and as far as Stiles knew, Derek was still a beta.

“I don’t want to push him,” Stiles said, “but I can’t stand by and let people hurt him. Why doesn’t he think he has any worth?”

“Maybe he’s spent most of his life hearing that he doesn’t have anything to offer anyone,” Dad suggested. “Stiles, you need to ask him about his relationships. It’ll be hard, but he revealed something to me when I was Sheriff, that I think you need to talk to him about.”

“Will he actually talk to me or will he just push me away?”

“You won’t know until you try. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.” He reached around to give Stiles as much of a hug as he could. “I’ll see you at home. Love you, son.”

“Love you too.” Stiles ambled back to Roscoe, turning to wave at his dad before he went into the bakery.

Stiles sighed, letting his head drop back. He could go back to Derek’s, but that wouldn’t result in anything except maybe another panic attack and definitely another argument.

With no other choice, Stiles started driving, taking the turn to his dad’s house instead of going straight.

He wanted so badly to help Derek, but his dad was right. Unless Derek was receptive to receiving that help, nothing Stiles did would actually help him. In fact, he might end up hurting him worse than Andrew with his three Uhaul trucks or Samuel and his books.

It was hard not to go back, but he decided to wait until tomorrow, unless Derek texted sooner.

~ * ~

Stiles frowned as he got closer to Derek’s house. He could see a cruiser parked a block down, and closer, a code enforcement officer’s car.

Really?he thought. Andrew came to drop off his mom’s junk and turned around and called in Derek’s house? What a fucking jerk.

Stiles parked in the same spot as yesterday and ambled up the drive. He found the code enforcement officer, a woman by the name of Tamara Reiss, standing on the porch, writing on a clipboard.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Mr. Hale, but this property is unlivable. Until it’s cleaned out, I’m condemning it.”

“The house isn’t in bad shape,” Stiles protested. Derek stood silent, holding what Stiles assumed were tickets from violations. “look, there’s obviously a lot of stuff inside, but that can be cleared out. The house itself—”

“Is a fire code violation,” Tamara said, pure ice. Derek flinched at her tone. “If Mr. Hale were to suffer an injury, no paramedic team would be able to extract him without significant risk to themselves. There isn’t any noticeable structural damage yet. At the rate of accumulation, though, there is great risk of the weight increasing to a point that the house can no longer remain on its foundation. Therefore, I am deeming this property as unlivable until it is either cleaned up or knocked down. Whichever course of action you wish to seek, Mr. Hale, I leave entirely up to you. I will return in two weeks to check on your progress. If there hasn’t been significant change, then I will have no option but to fully condemn your house. Have a great day.”

She signed her clipboard, pulled a red sticker out of her jacket pocket, and slapped a condemned sticker over the front door. Derek didn’t even wait for her to leave his property before he pried it off and slipped inside. Stiles frowned at the door. He was almost positive that it had been able to open completely yesterday. Now it seemed as if something was blocking it, preventing it from opening fully.

He followed more slowly, stopping in the foyer to take a deep breath. There indeed was more stuff. Stiles shuddered, scuttling sideways until he found the extremely narrow path Derek obviously used to navigate around his house. He passed several rooms, living room, dining room, downstairs bathroom, before he found himself in a kitchen. It was hard to recognize it as such because everything was covered in piles of things. Stiles looked around, trying to slow his racing heart. He could barely breathe, everything jumbling together in front of his eyes and closing in on him.

“Hey,” Derek said next to him, and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin, a shout escaping his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “Don’t sneak up on me!”

“I didn’t,” Derek said, put out. “You’re the one that followed me.”

“How the hell can you even find anything in here?” Stiles moved toward where he thought the fridge should be. He was rewarded when he shifted a pile of things and found the handle. He pried at it but could not get it to open. Derek sighed and tried his hand at it too, looking a bit frightened when even his werewolf strength didn’t seem to budge it.

“I guess you were right that it works,” Stiles said, leaning against it and hearing the hum. “But I was right too: you can’t use it.”

“I know I need to clean up.” Derek shrank in on himself, huddling down almost like he was waiting for his things to come and cover him like it had covered the fridge. “Will you help me?”

Stiles looked around at all the things surrounding them. It was overwhelming to say the least. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said. “And anyway, if we just clean it out, who’s to say that it won’t just come back? Three Uhauls, Derek. Is that the most stuff someone has ever dumped on you?”

“No,” Derek admitted without making eye contact. “Someone once dropped off eight Uhauls.”

“Was it Samuel?”

“No.”

Stiles thought for a moment. “Was it Catherine Harper’s nephew?”

Derek didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a leather purse that looked like it had gone ten rounds with a Chihuahua and lost badly.

“Derek,” Stiles said, “I can’t help you if you aren’t willing to help yourself.”

“I know,” Derek said, almost in tears. Stiles scrambled over the junk to stand in front of him, arms raised until Derek nodded once.

Stiles hugged him as tightly as he could. “I might know someone who can talk to you,” he whispered. Derek nodded against his chest.

“Is it okay if I throw out that purse?”

Derek didn’t answer, which Stiles took to mean no. It was all right. They needed baby steps. Agreeing to see a therapist was enough of a baby step today. There was always tomorrow anyway.

“Do you want to come stay with us until we get your house livable?”

“Isn’t your dad going to mind?”

“We’ll ask him. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind at all. We might have some ground rules.”

“No, no one is going to drop things off at your house.” Derek laughed a little. It sounded bitter to Stiles, but that could have just been because Derek’s nose was clogged.

“And we’ll get them trained to stop doing it here too,” he promised, hoping with every fiber of his being that he wasn’t going to be made into a liar.

“Now, what say you go pack a bag of the essentials, like clothes, shaving supplies, anything else you think you might need for at least a week.”

Derek straightened, wiping at his face. “Thanks, Stiles. I’m sorry I’m being such a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” Stiles automatically said. “That’s something we’ll have to work on. You have so much worth, Derek. I just wish you could see it.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” Derek frowned down at their feet, letting the purse drop back down to the floor. “Do you need help getting out?”

Stiles nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s just a little too tight for me in here.”

Derek held out his hand, and Stiles took it. Together, they shimmied through the stacked paths, stepping over things never meant to be stepped on until Derek deposited Stiles by the front door.

“Are you positive your dad won’t mind me staying with you?”

“I’ll call him to double check right now,” Stiles said. “Why don’t you go get that bag? I’m not going anywhere until you’re ready.”

Derek nodded sharply and slipped back into the house while Stiles sat on the porch and dialed his dad’s number.

Since Dad was still at work, it just went to voicemail. Stiles filled him in quickly, told him they’d talk more at supper, and then he hung up.

Derek was ready shortly after that, with a single ratty backpack hanging off one shoulder, and they walked across the road to Roscoe. “Thank you,” Derek said softly as they pulled away from the curb.

“Hey, no worries. That’s what friends are for.”

“Are we friends or acquaintances?”

“I’d like to think that we’re friends,” Stiles said. “And I hope you see us that way too. If not now, then soon.”

“I think I’d like that,” Derek said, very quiet. He didn’t say anything else during the drive to the Stilinski house, but Stiles wasn’t worried. It was a lot to take in for one day, to be told he couldn’t stay in his own home, uprooted because people wouldn’t stop dumping stuff on him, thinking that he was going back on his word when really he was very overwhelmed, to having to move in with someone he wasn’t entirely certain was a friend. Yeah, Derek had to be feeling a little rough right now.

Stiles could give him some space and time before approaching him with his therapist’s information. He could only hope that Derek was still as open to help in a few hours or days as he was now.

Dad had called and left a voicemail by the time they got to the house, and Stiles played it, knowing Derek could hear every word.

Dad confirmed that Derek was welcome to stay with them as long as he needed, and that Dad still had some pull on the force if Derek wanted help cleaning up.

“I don’t know if he has as much pull as he thinks he does,” Stiles said, putting away his phone, “or if the deputies think they’re helping keep him out of trouble by doing what he wants.”

“He’s a likable man,” Derek replied. “They probably just want to keep tabs on him because they enjoyed working for him.”

“Ah, there is that. Anyway.” Stiles pointed at the house. “I’m in my old room, but we have a spare room that Dad converted to an actual guest room when I was in college. I’m not sure if he thought I’d bring some friends home with me or what, but it’s there, and now it’s yours.”

“You didn’t have friends in college?”

Stiles shrugged. “I did, but no one I was close enough with to invite home for break.”

“What about Scott?” Derek snapped his lips shut as soon as he said the name.

Stiles shrugged again. “We aren’t really close anymore,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. “I mean, we had a pretty big fight the last time we talked.”

“I can imagine.”

Stiles didn’t know how much of what happened after Kate was defeated again Derek remembered. He was pretty out of it by the time they got to him.

“Anyway. Let’s get you inside and settled. Do you want anything for lunch or are you…?”

Derek seemed so small sitting in Stiles’ passenger seat, clinging to his backpack. Small wasn’t a qualifier Stiles had ever thought he’d use in conjunction with Derek, but here they were.

“Do you need some more time?” Stiles asked gently. Derek shuddered, shoving the door open and sliding out.

Stiles jumped out, landing lightly while Derek stood still, like he was waiting for the concrete to swallow him.

He trailed after Stiles slowly as he headed up the walk and unlocked the door. Stiles waved him through and then had to step around him when Derek stopped in his tracks.

“I’m getting some water. Want some?” Stiles didn’t wait for an answer. Derek was bowstring-taut, getting ready to fire something, and Stiles thought it might be panic.

The water trick was something Stiles’ third grade teacher used to do when he started having panic attacks in her class. He couldn’t focus on panicking at the same time as drinking.

He returned to the entryway and pressed a cool glass into Derek’s hands, taking his backpack at the same time.

Derek stared at the water like he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there, but Stiles was relieved to see him take a small sip. A few moments later, Derek had finished the water and was looking around the room with more alertness. Stiles put the glass in the sink and then started up the stairs.

He paused halfway, and asked, “Wanna see your room?” Derek nodded, following him up the stairs.

The guest room had been a nursery when Stiles was a baby, then it was his mom’s office, then it was locked up tight while both he and his dad processed their grief, and then, after all of that, Dad had finally unlocked it, aired it out, and painted it light green.

Dad had invested in a queen size bed frame and mattress and bedding that matched the walls. He’d commissioned a desk and chair from a local woodworker, adding a dresser later when he realized that the closet was too small to comfortably fit more than a suitcase and a few hangers.

Overall, the room was nice. And it had been therapeutic for his dad to redo it. Stiles had taken his hint and had repainted his room last summer, changing out some of his Fathead stickers for more sophisticated posters of indie films Stiles had no intention of ever watching, and updating his furniture from the pressboard crap at department stores.

Derek poked his head into the guest room. “It’s nice,” he said. “Like a hotel.”

“Oh!” Stiles ran to the bathroom, digging under the counter until he found the shoebox his dad kept samples in. He came back to the guest room and pressed unopened bottles of shampoo and conditioner into Derek’s hand. He added a tiny bar of soap too.

“I wasn’t sure if you were able to bring any of those things with you,” he said, eyeing the backpack with outright suspicion, “but we have, like, a million of those things, so feel free to use them if you want.”

“Thank you.” Derek closed his fingers around the toiletries. He picked up his backpack and stepped into the room. “Thanks for everything, Stiles.” He shut the door.

Stiles didn’t want to bother Derek anymore, so he headed downstairs and to the kitchen where he pulled out the ingredients to make a pot pie. He’d recently mastered savory crusts, and Dad enjoyed anything with added fat, so supper should go over well.

And if Derek wanted anything else, well, there were a bunch of takeout menus stashed in a drawer by the landline his dad insisted they keep for emergencies.

Stiles was just as insistent that in an emergency, they wouldn’t remember to use the landline. It wasn’t a fight he tried terribly hard to win, mostly because he knew they had the same number they’d always had, and it was one more tie to their past that Dad wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

Derek ambled downstairs after about thirty minutes, freshly showered. He settled at the kitchen table, hunching forward like he wasn’t warm enough. Weird. It was maybe in the upper 70s in here. Stiles himself was over-warm, although he attributed that more to moving around than the fact that his dad didn’t believe in running the AC until the thermometer was about ready to break 90.

“Are you okay?”

Derek began rocking back and forth.

Stiles stared at him, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. It took far too long for him to realize that this was another panic attack. He immediately dusted off his hands, abandoning his crust. It would probably be ruined, but that was okay. It wasn’t nearly as important as Derek.

Stiles pulled a chair around to sit next to him, laying a hand first on the table top and then on Derek’s knee after an almost imperceptible nod.

Fine tremors raced up Derek’s legs, jerking the muscles underneath Stiles’ palm. He began rubbing soothing circles while providing a counterpoint by poking at the soft skin of Derek’s wrist.

Slowly, Derek came to a stop, staring down at where Stiles had begun poking him in rhythm to Foreigner’s Hot Blooded.

“Are you playing music on me?” he asked slowly, voice tight with the effort to not let it shake.

Stiles tapped a little faster. “Yes?”

Derek concentrated, his eyebrows sloping down while his mouth opened enough to show off his front teeth. Stiles suppressed the urge to make a bunny joke while Derek worked through the pattern in his head.

“I give up,” he finally said. “I don’t know what song that is.”

“It’s Hot Blooded,” Stiles told him. “Are you okay now? Do you want to talk about it?”

A quick shake of Derek’s head was all Stiles got, but it was more than he would have gotten six years ago.

“Okay. Do you want to help me make supper? We can order something for lunch after.”

Derek held up his hands, claws sticking out and then retracting quickly. “Yeah. I can help. What do you need me to do?”

Stiles smiled, patting Derek’s leg. “I’m making the crust now. It’ll have to rest for at least an hour before we can roll it out and put it in the dish. In the meantime, how do you feel about dicing up some beef?”

Stiles washed his hands again, pulling out a cutting board and a knife for Derek, who also washed his hands.

“This is one of my favorite recipes to make.” Stiles restarted the dough. “I found the recipe online and switched it around until it wasn’t nearly as unhealthy.”

Derek looked down at the beef he was cutting and then at Stiles’ ball of dough he was currently covering with cling-film. “I didn’t know pot pie could be healthy.”

“I said not as unhealthy,” Stiles protested, “not entirely healthy.”

“What do you want for lunch?” Derek asked. “You said something about ordering?”

“Yeah.” Stiles dusted his hands off and then washed them thoroughly, picking at the cruddy paste caked into his fingernails. “There’s a pizza place that always delivers inside of half an hour. Or we could get some Chinese. Oh! There’s a new Indian place that just opened.” Stiles dried off his hands and grabbed the stack of menus off the table where the cordless handset lived. He came back, flipping through the menus until he found the one for Dehli Rose. “Oh, no delivery,” he said, disappointed.

“That’s okay. What else do you have?”

Stiles fanned the menus so Derek could see them. It took a few minutes, but they settled on Italian. Stiles called in the order while Derek finished cutting up the beef and set it aside in a bowl before cleaning up the counter and washing the knife and cutting board.

“The food will be here in about forty minutes. That gives us plenty of time to make the filling.”

Buoyed by the way things were turning out so well, Stiles settled in at the stove, his smile stretching his mouth wide enough to hurt as Derek stood by his side, watching every move with a concentration he usually reserved for mysteries.

It was every bit as flattering as Stiles had ever imagined it to be. Not that he’d spent time imagining Derek studying him. Not at all.

He shook himself and re-focused on the stove. There would be time enough to examine whatever the fuck that was later.

For now, he wanted to enjoy every second he had with Derek before he inevitably pulled away.

~ * ~

Lunch was fantastic. Stiles couldn’t imagine a more romantic setting he and Derek had ever been in. They’d finished the wine, plated the food on the good dishes, and sat at the table, talking.

Well, Stiles kept talking. Derek just sipped at his wine and studied Stiles with that same intense gaze he’d had while they were cooking.

It wasn’t only the wine bringing a flush to Stiles’ skin, but he kept drinking for an excuse.

He wasn’t certain where the sudden flash of heat came from when he noticed that Derek was staring at him, but it was a welcome change in how Stiles usually felt whenever Derek crossed his mind.

That is to say, usually pissed off and vaguely angry. Derek had a talent for eliciting those feelings in people, Stiles included, even if he wanted to climb him like a tree most days. Hey, Derek had inspired more than a few jerk-off sessions in high school and college.

After the second glass of wine, Stiles realized he was fucked when Derek half-rose out of his seat to reach for the pasta carbonara and his shirt rode up, exposing a line of tanned, furred skin that made Stiles’ dick take interest.

Derek sat down with a thump, mouth hanging open, the serving spoon dangling from lax fingers.

“I’m sorry!” Stiles apologized, fanning his hand in the air, like that was going to do anything to disperse the obvious lust pheromones he’d just accidentally smacked Derek with. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Huh?” Derek slowly shook his head.

Okay, that was weird. He didn’t seem to be reacting in any way Stiles had ever seen before. Suddenly worried, Stiles hurried around the table. He reached Derek just as he slumped sideways. Stiles yelped, shoving himself underneath Derek’s side, trying to hold him up.

Two hundred pounds of werewolf was a bit more than Stiles could handle, and he had to let Derek go. At least it was a controlled fall and Derek didn’t hit his head.

Stiles didn’t know what had caused it. It couldn’t have been him, right? So what else was there?

Maybe it was something he’d put in the pot pie? But if that was the case, why would it take this long to cause Derek to react?

No, more likely it was because of the food they’d just eaten.

“Aw, fuck,” Stiles swore. “Am I going to have to make you puke?”

Derek, of course, didn’t answer, too busy being unconscious. Great.

Stiles wrinkled his nose, prayed his fingers were clean enough, and shoved his index and middle finger down Derek’s throat.

Within seconds, Derek was retching, pasta carbonara mixed with wine and garlic bread spewing out across the floor. Stiles jumped back. He didn’t want to leave Derek unattended if he was just going to pass out again, so he sat at his back, rolled him into the recovery position, and just listened as Derek wheezed and gagged weakly for a few minutes.

Once it seemed like Derek was recovering, he stood up and grabbed some rags to wipe away the sick.

“What just happened?” Derek asked thickly when Stiles handed him a glass of water and a tissue.

Stiles shrugged. “You tell me.”

Derek wiped his nose and then blew it, grimacing at the particles mixed in his snot. “I feel like a truck just ran me over.”

“Have you ever been run over by a truck?”

Derek stared at him, any pretense of bravado ruined by the fact that his eyes and nose were still streaming.

“Of course you have,” Stiles answered himself. He sighed. “Either you were poisoned, or you had an allergic reaction. Or you were poisoned to have an allergic reaction.”

“Was it something in the food?”

“Couldn’t take a chance. So, sorry, but I induced vomiting.”

Derek shook his head, tossing back the water like a shot. “Thanks,” he said as soon as he swallowed. “I’m sorry I ruined lunch.”

“No, I’m sorry you had a reaction. I don’t think it was on purpose.” Stiles knew the owners of the restaurant. They were an older couple who prided themselves on their longevity in a town that did its best to keep up with the hipsters of the big cities. They weren’t supernatural, as far as Stiles knew, but he also knew there were a lot of plants that could harm even humans if they were used incorrectly.

“I’m sure you’re right. I’ve never eaten there before. My mom wouldn’t let us, but she didn’t tell us why.”

“Well, that’s on your mom.” At Derek’s incredulous look, Stiles shrugged. “I’m sorry, but who tells someone ‘Don’t eat there,’ but doesn’t tell them why?”

He sighed again and went to the phone in the entryway. He dug through the menus until he found the one for the Italian place. Shame. Dad really liked their Alfredo sauce.

Stiles neatly tore the menu in half and then deposited it into their indoor recycling bin.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Derek said. His voice was nasally and he kept clearing his throat. He also seemed a little green around the gills, like he wasn’t quite done purging. Stiles shooed him toward the bathroom.

“Of course I did,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. If we really miss their food, we can go there and get it. Until I know for sure what made you react like that, their food will not pass our doors.”

To make his point, he gathered up the dishes, scraping the leftovers into a bag that he immediately tied off and dumped in the outside trash bin. Then he washed the dishes, sticking them into the dishwasher for an extra sanitation cycle. Derek was sitting at the table again when he mopped the soiled floors with boiling water, ignoring Derek’s shocked face as he poured Pine-Sol disinfectant on it and mopped it with a fresh mop head.

By the time he was done, there was not a single trace of the food anywhere. Nor was there anything left of his lust, but for some reason, there was a strong desire to hug Derek and tell him that things would be okay.

“Are we going to talk about it?” he asked as he sat down again. “Is that something we can do now?”

“Talk about what?”

Stiles blew out a breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but this seems like something we should really talk about. I mean, you just had a reaction to something. Shouldn’t we at least try to figure out what it was before it happens again?”

“It won’t happen again.” Derek ran his hands over his head, scratching at his scalp in a way that reminded Stiles strongly of how he felt after eating something he had an allergic reaction to. He also started sniffling, rubbing at his nose.

“I’m sure it won’t,” he said soothingly, “but still, why would the Cabellos make something a werewolf couldn’t eat? They shouldn’t even be aware of werewolves, right?”

“We don’t know that they did it on purpose.”

“You’re right; we don’t.” Stiles snapped his fingers, pulling out his cell phone. “We can ask them, though. I’m sure they’d appreciate the heads up that whatever they’re doing to their food is making their customers have reactions.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It could have been an honest mistake,” he argued. “My mom never let us eat there, so I’m guessing she knew about any ingredients they used.”

“That puts the onus back on your mom,” Stiles pointed out. “You realize that, right? If she knew what they did to their food, she should have told you.”

“I guess.”

“Well, that kind of royally fucked the day, didn’t it?”

“At least we know I can eat your pot pie later.”

Small comfort that was, although Stiles bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say it out loud. Derek didn’t need sarcasm. He might need more medical attention, though. “Yeah. Say, how’re you feeling? Are you healing just fine or should we…?” Stiles let his voice trail off under Derek’s weighty gaze.

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly. “Thanks.”

Stiles cleared his throat, choking on the awkwardness of the situation. “Well,” he coughed, “I think I should go job search some more. Why don’t you rest, and we’ll reconnect in about an hour to fully assemble the pie?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me already?” Derek smiled, so Stiles thought he probably meant it as a joke. Too bad Stiles’ brain couldn’t accept it like that. Some things were very literal for him, and people joking about leaving or being driven away hitting hard in a way almost no other words could.

“I would never try to get rid of you,” he said. “I-I—” no more words came, and Stiles fell silent, watching as Derek studied him, neither of them moving for a full five minutes.

Finally, Derek shook himself. “Stiles, I know you think you’re falling in love with me, but you aren’t.”

Stiles pointed at him. “You can’t tell me what I am or am not doing.”

He knew on some level that he’d always been attracted to Derek. It was half of the reason he’d asked Scott to confirm if werewolves could smell arousal. Scott had never confirmed, but hanging out with Derek had taught Stiles just how much at least Derek relied on his nose, so in the end, he’d gotten his answer.

He’d also worked to bury any feelings he might have for Derek because at the time it was an inconvenience to be in love with him. Stiles wanted to go back in time and slap himself.

How could he have been so stupid? Derek didn’t deserve people thinking that loving him was an inconvenience. He didn’t deserve the hand he’d been dealt. He also didn’t deserve Stiles sweeping his past actions under the rug while he tried to figure out how to woo him.

“Look, I don’t know where you get off telling me that I only think I’m falling in love with you when I’ve had eight years to do that all on my own.”

Derek’s face twisted interestingly, first with confusion, then derision, and then finally settling into the soft, caring face Stiles had rarely seen before Kate Argent returned from the dead to permanently wipe it off his face.

The fact that it was back and it was being directed at Stiles made his heart trip.

“Eight years?” Derek repeated softly. “You can’t have been in love with me for eight years.”

“Falling in love,” Stiles corrects, weakly. “I know it’s unconventional, but—” Something came over Stiles then, like a wash of cold water, and he spluttered for a moment. When he resurfaced, he couldn’t remember what he was about to say or even what had happened during the last twenty-five minutes.

Derek shuddered too, shivering hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“What was that?” Stiles asked. Derek didn’t answer. “Hey, are you hungry? I think the dough is about ready to be rolled, and after the pie is assembled, we can eat the leftovers.”

Derek wrinkled his nose. “Does it smell like Pine-Sol in here?” He sneezed into his elbow.

Stiles inhaled. “Huh, yeah. I guess it does. Does Pine-Sol always make you sneeze?”

“It’s just the chemical composition of cleaners. I’m okay with natural pine. It takes a while to kick in though.” Derek held up a finger before burying his face into his elbow again and releasing several loud sneezes. He sniffled miserably once he finished and Stiles handed him a box of tissues.

“Let’s go outside for a bit, let the room air out, okay?”

The soft, private smile Derek gave him right before he covered his face with a wad of tissues and started sneezing again made Stiles’ heart give a little contented blip. Huh. Apparently his control was slipping. Normally he didn’t think of Derek in that way because he knew a little of Derek’s past and didn’t want to be as bad as his exes—not that Stiles thought of them as Derek’s ex-girlfriends. No, they were something much worse, and he was glad that at least Kate was back in the ground where she belonged.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you agreed to stay with us,” he told Derek as they stepped out onto the front porch.

Quietly, from behind his tissues, Derek murmured his agreement. Louder, he added, “I’m glad you haven’t given up on me quite yet.”

“Oh,” Stiles laughed, “I won’t ever do that. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

“You say that now.”

Stiles bumped their shoulders together. “And I’ll say it ‘til the end of time.” Fervently he grabbed Derek’s face, locking their eyes together, “Derek S. Hale, I will always stand by you. I’ll always be in your corner. If there is anything you need, all you have to do is ask and I will be there. Do you understand?” Derek nodded. “Good.” Stiles let him go. “Now, have I ever shown you my dad’s roses?”

~ * ~

Dad came home at 6:00. The pot pie had been cooling for half an hour.

Derek was upstairs in the guest room, dozing. He’d crashed shortly after the tour of the renovated backyard, and had accepted a Benadryl.

Stiles had prepared the pie and baked it. He’d divided his time between job searching, reading up on werewolf physiology, and trying to figure out what ingredient the Cabellos had used that made Derek react that way.

Dad inhaled appreciatively when he stepped into the kitchen to wash his hands and grab a bottle of water out of the fridge.

He drained it quickly, tossing it into the sink for later. “Supper smells good.” He handed Stiles a large bag of food from the bakery. “I figured it was probably a good idea to stock up on food since we’ve got another mouth to feed.”

“I’m sure Derek will appreciate it.” Stiles separated the items in the bag and put them into Tupperware. “Why don’t you go get him up? He had an allergic reaction to the Pine-Sol I used.”

“Oh, what’d you clean?”

“The dining room. At least, that’s the only place that smelled like it.”

“And werewolves are allergic to Pine-Sol?” Dad looked between the doorway and Stiles, and Stiles swore he could see his mind spinning.

“I guess,” Stiles said. “Derek mentioned that it was because of the chemicals or something. He also said real pine doesn’t bother him.”

“Interesting. So, what needed Pine-Sol in the dining room?”

Stiles frowned at him. He didn’t remember cleaning anything in there, but it was obvious from the smell. “The floor,” he guessed.

“Why?”

Stiles glared at his dad. “Why are you asking me? I don’t know!”

“Why don’t you know?”

“Oh my God, what is with you tonight?” He waved his hands in front of his dad’s face. “You are not the Sheriff anymore! Stop investigating me!”

“I’m not investigating you,” Dad said calmly. “I’m just trying to figure out why you had to clean something that you don’t even remember. If anything, I’m interrogating you.”

“Stop interrogating me!” Stiles fisted his hands on his hips. “Just go get Derek up.” He sighed, suddenly drained. “I think we might have eaten something too, but I can’t remember. We ordered from Cabellos, but I didn’t find any leftovers or anything.”

“So, I can investigate?” Dad’s eyes glinted and he all but danced out into the dining room. Stiles didn’t think it would be too far to find a deerstalker cap and a magnifying glass and let him roleplay Sherlock Holmes. Dad had missed being the Sheriff. Maybe this would satisfy whatever urge he might still have about running for the upcoming reelection in two years.

Stiles set the kitchen table. Last he’d smelled with his human nose, the dining room still stank of Pine-Sol, so it was going to be impossible for Derek to be in that room. Hell, it might be difficult for him to be in the kitchen. They might have to go all the way outside. Thankfully Dad had redone the back patio and stuck a table and some chairs out there. They’d have to steal a chair from the kitchen, but that would be the least of their problems.

Dad came back, leading Derek. “I think we might have to postpone supper,” he said grimly. Derek was still sniffling, and his nose was rubbed raw and his eyes were swollen almost completely shut.

“Derek?” Stiles’ heart skipped a few beats. Derek mumbled under his breath, wheezing as he lifted a tissue to his nose. “Hey. Um, we’re going to get you some help, okay?”

“It’ll be okay,” Dad said. “Let’s go to the hospital. I’ll drive.”

Derek stumbled after him, and Stiles brought up the rear.

As they passed the outside trash bin, Derek retched. Dad got a hard look in his eyes. “Here.” He tossed his keys at Stiles and detoured to the bin. “Found your Cabellos.”

Stiles got Derek into the passenger seat, buckling him in. “Are you going to drive still?” he asked Dad.

“Uh, no. You go. I’m going to look into this food a little bit more.”

“Why? What’s the deal with the food?” Something was missing, something blocked. It made Stiles’ blood pressure rise. Not being able to remember things he had done, not being in control of his own body still caused nightmares.

Derek groaned, rolling his head to the side so he could stare at Stiles with his slitted eyes. He was starting to shift, fur and fangs sprouting. Stiles swallowed his rising fear and punched the gas.

Traffic was light, and there were no deputies patrolling, so Stiles had them at the hospital inside of fifteen minutes when they lived forty minutes away.

Derek propelled himself from the vehicle before Stiles had it in park. He fell flat on his face.

“I’m beginning to think this is more serious than just an allergic reaction,” Stiles said under his breath as he put his dad’s truck in park and turned it off. Derek was already on hands and knees when Stiles got to him. He shoved his shoulder under Derek’s chest and used his body to leverage him all the way up.

“Some kind of wolfsbane,” Derek said, through his very swollen lips.

“So, poisoned,” Stiles said back. Through the door, the front desk nurse gaped at them, staring at the way Derek’s eyes kept flickering between human and electric blue. Stiles didn’t wait for instruction, moving as fast as he could considering he was hauling Derek’s almost dead weight. “He’s having a severe allergic reaction. He took some Benadryl about three hours ago, and that’s it for meds. We think it might be poisoning but he’s reacting as if it’s an allergy.”

He stopped at the entrance to the emergency room, waiting for the nurse to buzz them through.

“Please! He’s dying!”

The door opened and two nurses took Derek from him.

“Wait here,” he was told as the door shut in his face.

Stiles turned to the front desk nurse, and she shrugged as if to say sorry, flashing beta gold eyes at him. Stiles appreciated her gesture because it meant that Derek was safe here.

“You can have a seat over there.” She pointed at a bank of frankly uncomfortable looking chairs. Stiles didn’t care. He couldn’t sit anyway, he was too agitated. Instead, he patted at his pockets until he came up with his phone. He needed to speak to his dad.

Dad was already calling him by the time he fumbled the phone up to his face. He answered it, trying to ignore the way his finger was shaking.

The panic attack would have to wait. He couldn’t afford it. Not now. Please, not now.

“Dad.”

“Stiles, I’m on my way to Cabellos to find out what they put into the food. How’s Derek?”

“Not good, Dad. He’s inside. I’m stuck in the waiting room. What if he dies? What if they don’t let me in? He said it felt like wolfsbane, but, Dad, I’ve seen Derek when he’s been hit by wolfsbane. It doesn’t act like this.”

“It could be a different strain or maybe a different plant entirely. How often has Derek been poisoned by wolfsbane to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is wolfsbane poisoning?”

“I don’t know, but I do know it’s too many times.”

“Stiles, you ate some of the food too, right?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t react.”

“Or maybe you did, and you don’t remember.”

Stiles froze. His breath whistled in once and then stopped, choking him deep in his chest where his heart was trying to beat despite the absolute fear that had just iced him. Through numb lips, he asked something he couldn’t hear. Dad responded, a burst of warmth against his ear, but it did nothing to thaw him.

“Stiles!” Dad shouted. “Stiles! Put me on speaker right now!”

With no motor function, Stiles wanted to tell his dad that was an impossible task.

“Stiles!”

The front desk nurse’s face snapped into view, and Stiles desperately focused on her blue eyelids and dimpled cheeks. She was holding a paper cup of water, and she pressed it into his hand, guiding it up to his face so he could try drinking a little of it.

As soon as the first sip went down, Stiles grabbed the cup with both hands and sucked greedily at it. The nurse took his phone.

“Hi, my name is Emma. You are? Okay, John, he’s coming around. I’m just going to have him sit down, we’ll get him assessed. What was that? I don’t know, but I can ask. Are you sure?”

Her voice faded out, and Stiles lowered the empty cup. She was still talking, but he couldn’t hear her.

She walked away and came back with another cup of water. Stiles drank it too.

“Can you breathe with me?” she asked, setting both cups on the floor. When had Stiles sat down?

“I…can…try…” Every breath was labored, and Stiles rubbed at his aching chest, wishing his heart would stop trying to pound its way out. He hiccupped and leaned forward, inhaling through his nose for as long as he could. Shakily, he let it out through his mouth.

“Good,” the nurse said. “Again.”

Within minutes, Stiles was breathing normally, but he felt drained. It was like his muscles had decided they needed to go on strike right now. Jelly legs wouldn’t support him and he didn’t think he’d be able to make it far before his head decided a migraine was a nice addition to his shit sundae.

“Can you walk?”

He shook his head and then held it, groaning as his brain rattled around.

“Okay. I’ll get you a gurney. Just stay here. And here, your dad is pretty worried right now. I bet he’d like it if you could talk to him just a little.”

Stiles took the phone and automatically pressed it against his ear.

“Stiles?” Dad sounded like he was crying. “Stiles, are you okay? I’m coming to the hospital. I’m almost there. Okay, son? Hang on.”

“I’m here,” Stiles whispered. “I’m going to be okay, I think. It was just a panic attack.”

“A pretty bad one,” Dad said. “Look, I’m about a minute away. Are they taking you back now?”

“I think so.” Stiles looked up to see the nurse leading another nurse and a gurney toward him. “Can I keep talking to my dad?” he asked.

“For now,” the second nurse said. He stopped the gurney, kicking the brakes on, and helped Stiles up and onto it. As soon as he was securely on it, the nurse unlocked the brakes and wheeled him into the ER and into a bay, pulling a curtain around him.

Stiles pressed the phone harder against his ear. “Dad.”

“I’m almost there, I promise. Just hang on, okay?”

Hanging on seemed to be the only thing Stiles could do, so he just held the phone, listening to his dad breathing on the other end of the phone. He didn’t even realize it was still on speaker phone until Dad burst into the bay. Dad took Stiles’ phone, turning it off and tucking it into a pocket, a feat to be sure because as soon as Stiles saw him, he launched himself at him, hugging him tightly.

“I don’t know where Derek is,” Stiles said into Dad’s neck. “I don’t know if he’s okay.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dad murmured, stroking Stiles’ hair and back with a gentle hand. “I sent a text to Deaton and Argent to get information on what you were dosed with. I also sent Parrish to the Cabellos to get their recipe so we can see if there’s any ingredients on there that shouldn’t be.”

“For now,” the nurse who’d wheeled Stiles to the bay broke in, “we need to get you tested. We also, depending on your symptoms, might have to pump your stomach.”

Stiles clung tighter to Dad. “I love you, Dad.”

Dad ruffled his hair. “I love you too, son. You’re going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here, okay?”

Stiles nodded, letting Dad help him lie back. Dad kept a hand wrapped around Stiles’, the warmth of it pulling most of Stiles’ fear from him.

He wouldn’t truly feel okay until he could see Derek for himself, fully healed and telling Stiles that it wasn’t anything to worry about, but for now, he was grateful for his dad sticking around.

Holding onto his father’s hand, Stiles was able to relax enough to halfway drift off, the adrenaline spike leaving him cold and tired in its wake.

~ * ~

Stiles sat up when the doctor stopped in. Dad was texting on his phone, poking at the keys with a single index finger.

“Good news,” the doctor said, handing Stiles a stack of papers. “Your blood screen came back clean. Whatever you ate, you suffered no lasting effects. You’re free to go. I’ll get my nurse to come back with the discharge papers.” He wagged his finger at Stiles. “Now, just because you’ve got a clean bill of health, it doesn’t mean you don’t need some rest. Take it easy for the next couple of days. If you start to feel off again, don’t hesitate to come back.”

“And what about Derek?” Stiles asked.

The doctor frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss another patient with you.”

Stiles wanted to argue, but he didn’t think getting the doctor to violate HIPPA laws was worth his time with his former-Sheriff dad standing next to him.

“That’s fine,” Dad said, before Stiles had a chance to say anything. “Thanks, Doc.” As soon as the man left, Dad held up his phone. “Argent thinks he knows what happened to Derek. The good news is he’ll be fine. Deaton is stopping by with an antidote.” Stiles swiped his dad’s phone. Argent, Chris, in Dad’s phone as Reformed Hunter, thought that one of the ingredients the Cabellos added was part of a love potion. IT’S SOMETHING, Chris added in all caps, THAT WEREWOLVES ARE HIGHLY ALLERGIC TO.

As Stiles went to hand the phone back to his dad, it buzzed. He quickly lifted it again.

IF ANTIDOTE DOESN’T WORK CALL ME I’M ON MY WAY.

Another buzz

Sorry. Don’t know why my phone got stuck. Coming as quick as I can. Let me know if things change.

Dad took his phone back, tapping an answer. “Okay. So, you wanna see if they’ll let us in to see him if he’s been admitted?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, sarcastically. He couldn’t help it: he may have been six years older since he’d first used it, but sarcasm was still his go-to for defense.

“Does that mean no?” Dad raised an eyebrow. Sheepishly, Stiles shook his head. “All right then, let’s go find him.”

~ * ~

In the end, they weren’t able to see Derek. He hadn’t been admitted yet, and no one was willing to tell them when or if he would be. In the interest of not being banned from the hospital—at least, that was the excuse he used—Dad led Stiles out to his vehicle.

“We’ll try later,” Dad said, reassuringly. Stiles didn’t answer. He buckled his seatbelt and stared straight ahead. It was his fault Derek had nearly died. He’d been the one to suggest Cabellos. He’d wanted Derek near him.

Derek wasn’t the only one cursed to have those he cared about injured.

“Do you feel like talking?” Dad asked when he parked in front of the house and shut off the engine.

Stiles opened his door, unbuckling his seatbelt, and stepping out. He looked pointedly at his dad until he unlocked the front door for him and then headed upstairs. Still not a word had passed his lips.

Dad sighed heavily. “I’ll be down here when you’re ready to talk,” he said. “I’ll get you when Argent gets to town.”

“I don’t want to see him,” Stiles muttered to himself, closing his bedroom door. He didn’t lock it, but he did kick off his shoes and climb onto his bed. He didn’t think he’d sleep, but almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, his limbs grew too heavy to move, and he drifted off.

~ * ~

Stiles woke up when his bed depressed suddenly.

He sat up, arms flailing as he panicked, hitting a warm body and recoiling.

“Ouch,” Derek intoned blandly.

Stiles ran a hand over his face. “They let you out already?” he asked.

Derek shrugged. He climbed off the bed and dropped heavily into Stiles’ desk chair. “Once Deaton gave me the antidote, there wasn’t any reason for me to stay at the hospital.”

“So does that mean Chris Argent is in town?”

Derek shrugged again. “I guess. Your dad let me in on his way out. I just assumed he was going to work.”

Stiles studied him. Derek looked haggard, as if the antidote had done only enough to stop him from getting worse. He wasn’t healing, or if he was, it was slow-going.

“Are you okay?”

Derek’s shoulders rolled in a half shrug. He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, worrying at it while he refused to look at Stiles.

“Do you feel up to starting to clear out your house?”

Derek shook his head, jerking on the thread to break it. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and then tossed it into the wastebasket.

Stiles refused to be impressed. He could do that with a bit of practice. Derek used to play basketball, after all. It wasn’t that special.

“I think I just want to sleep,” Derek said, but he made no move to stand up and go to the guest room.

Stiles rolled his eyes and patted the bed next to him. “Plenty of room here,” he said, nonchalantly. Derek bowed his head before wearily climbing to his feet. He shuffled forward and face-planted onto the bed. Stiles stifled a smile as he grabbed Derek’s shoulders and worked him fully onto the bed. Derek must have taken his shoes off when he got in, because he was just in socks. His shirt was horribly wrinkled, his jeans a little worn, and his hair mussed. Stiles knuckled at his heart, trying to stave off the fondness he felt kindling there.

Derek didn’t need to deal with Stiles’ affection right now.

Derek turned his head, opening one eye to peer up at him. “I don’t mind it, you know,” he said softly.

“Mind what?”

Derek wriggled his visible eyebrow. “I like you too,” he said around a yawn.

“Bold,” Stiles said. He tugged at the blanket until he freed enough of it to drape over Derek. Then, he lied down again, one arm crooked under his head, the other between his and Derek’s bodies.

It was comforting just lying here, listening to Derek’s breaths get slower and deeper. It calmed Stiles enough that he started drifting too. Just before he tumbled back into sleep, he felt Derek’s fingers curl around his loosely.

~ * ~

Stiles woke up alone, his bed still bowed as if Derek was lying there, but the blanket was cold. He’d been gone a while then. Sitting up and stretching helped dispel some of the fatigue still clinging to him, and he slipped off the bed, bending slowly at the waist and letting his spine lengthen until the muscle around it ached in a nice, warming pain. He straightened in the same, slow manner, breathing deeply.

Once that was done, he grabbed a change of clothes and took a quick shower.

His hair was still dripping by the time he dressed and wandered downstairs.

There, he found his dad, Chris Argent, and Derek sitting in the living room. Derek looked a little better than he had before their nap, with more color back in his cheeks.

Stiles pushed at him until he moved over enough to allow him to sit next to him on the sofa.

Dad was in his armchair and Chris was next to him on a chair dragged in from the dining room.

“You won’t have to worry about them doing that ever again,” Chris was saying. His face was set in a grimace, distaste and anger evident. “They fully understand what they did was wrong, and they don’t plan to do it again.”

“If they do…?” Dad asked.

Chris shook his head. “They won’t like the consequences. They understand that they got off easy this time. Next time, they won’t be so lucky.”

“You didn’t maim them, did you?” Stiles asked. He’d gathered that they were talking about the Cabellos and their poisoning of him and Derek.

Chris snorted. “Much as I wanted to,” he said, “I did not. But that won’t stop me from coming back and kicking their asses if they ever try to pull that shit again. They were incredibly lucky that most of their meddling was put down to food poisoning and not actual dosing.”

“So, they definitely whammied us with a love potion?”

Derek shuddered, hard, and Stiles clamped a hand onto his knee, which surprisingly, Derek did not remove.

“Essentially, yes,” Chris said. “I’d heard of it being done before, but usually they need an element of magic and nature.”

“Like a druid,” Derek mumbled, low enough that only Stiles seemed able to hear.

“Like a darach,” Chris continued, shooting an apologetic glance at Derek’s bowed head.

Derek shivered again, hands clenched to his sides. Blood ran from his palms, and Stiles noticed that he’d pierced his own skin with his claws.

Like a darach echoed in his head, and suddenly, he shivered too. All these years he’d thought Derek just had bad judgment when it came to his sexual partners. Instead, he realizes, too late, that Derek had been roofied with magic. Love potioned without the potion. Forced into a relationship he likely couldn’t say no to even if he understood what was happening at the time. And Stiles… Stiles had yelled at him, threw it back in his face. Belittled him for sleeping with the enemy.

He swallowed hard, squeezing Derek’s knee again before drawing back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Derek studying him without truly looking at him.

“So what happens now?” Dad asked into the heavy silence.

“Now?” Chris leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, we wait. Sometimes it takes a while for the effects to wear off even after an antidote has been administered.” He fixed Stiles with a knowing look. “Longer too if there was something there before.”

Stiles’ cheeks heat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this is a horrible way to find out.”

“Find out what?” Derek asked tightly.

“That I’m in love with you.”

“I always knew that.” Derek flexed his hands, wiping blood onto his jeans. “What surprised me was how much I liked you too.” He took a deep breath and finally lifted his head. His eyes were human, a kaleidoscope of greens, blues, and browns, and he pinned Stiles with them. “Sometimes I still see you as a kid, someone I need to watch out for because you’re not understanding the danger you’re in, and then other times, I look at you and see what could be.”

“And what would that be?” Stiles hardly dared to breathe.

“I see a future,” Derek said, softly.

A future with him? Stiles cut a quick glance to his dad. Dad had a perfectly blank face but his shining eyes gave him away.

“You’re okay with that?” Stiles asked him.

“Stiles, you’re an adult. You can make your own choices. Besides, I think you’d be good for Derek.”

“You two do make a pretty good pair,” Chris said, and Dad broke into a big grin.

Stiles turned to Derek. “We still have to clean out your house,” he said. Derek nodded. “We have two weeks minus a day.” Derek nodded again. “And you’re okay with me helping you?”

“I don’t think I’m going to get it done any other way,” Derek said, seriously. “You helped me stand up to Mr. Johnson. I think you’ll keep me motivated enough to finish the project.”

“Okay then. I guess I know what I’m doing with my summer.”

And if it felt a little like he was agreeing to spend all his time with Derek, well, he was. He couldn’t be happier.

~ * ~

The next day, Stiles drove Derek and himself to Derek’s house.

There was a sign on the door with the Code Enforcement officer’s notice that the house was considered unlivable but not fully condemned.

“I don’t get how that works,” Stiles remarked, reading it. Derek shrugged, unlocking the door and pushing his way inside. Stiles took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the piles of junk he was now expecting to find, and followed him in.

The house wasn’t any better, and Stiles fought his rising panic with everything in him.

“Do you know where you want to start?” Stiles asked, climbing over a pile that must have fallen after they’d left yesterday and into the kitchen. Derek stood in the middle of the room, looking around with the same panic Stiles could feel in his chest.

“How about the backyard?” Stiles suggested, struggling over to the door. He got the door propped open, leaning out into the bit of breeze that made its way into Derek’s fenced in backyard.

Here, Derek had constructed a few pop-up sheds and there was a tent tucked into a corner. Stiles had no doubt that the sheds and the tent would be full of things, but other than that, the backyard was clear. Stiles stepped out fully, walking toward the tent. He glanced back after a few yards to find Derek standing in the doorway, just watching him. “Are you okay, Derek?”

He shook himself and flashed a wan smile. Then he squared his shoulders and marched toward Stiles. Stiles waited until he drew level with him before he reached out and wrestled the zipper of the tent open.

“Okay,” he said to the stacks of sleeping bags, camping cooking utensils, battery-operated lanterns, and scuttling spiders. “Okay. So, we can work with this.”

“We can’t,” Derek said, zipping the tent closed again. “That’s Marie’s stuff. She’s coming back for it tomorrow.”

“The spiders too?”

Derek didn’t reply, walking to one of the sheds instead. He slid the door up and stared at the assortment of lawn care equipment jumbled inside. He didn’t say anything before dropping the door and turning away from it.

“Marie’s?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head. “Daniel’s.”

“Danny Mahealani?”

“No.” Derek glared at him, but he didn’t look mad. “Daniel. He works at the Sheriff’s Department.”

“Is he coming back for his stuff at all?”

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted. He looked around the yard, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can get rid of any of these things. They’re not mine.”

“So why do you have them?” Stiles demanded. “How many people just dumped their crap on you because you wouldn’t tell them no?”

Derek froze, blinking quickly, like he was trying to dispel tears. Stiles rolled back his words in his head, his stomach dropping when he realized what he had said.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he apologized softly, hand outstretched to brush Derek’s arm.

Derek jerked out of reach, taking several steps back. His eyes were definitely watery. “My ‘no’ means nothing,” he said lowly. “That’s been proven time and again. I don’t need you telling me that too.”

“Your no should mean everything,” Stiles argued gently, aware that he’d unintentionally found a sore spot and did not want to keep pressing on it. “I really am sorry that I said it like that. It’s not your fault that everyone decided to use your good will to just dump their stuff on you.”

Derek nodded tightly, turning away from Stiles to quickly wipe at his eyes. Stiles pretended not to see and just moved back to the door.

“Can we sort anything in the house or do you want to take a break?”

Stiles knew they didn’t have a lot of time to waste like this, but they’d get nowhere fast if he pushed when Derek wasn’t ready. And having already made Derek cry was not part of the plan.

“A break would be good,” Derek said. He still wouldn’t meet Stiles’ eyes, but he at least followed Stiles back through the house until they could step out onto the front porch.

Derek offered Stiles the chair on the porch and settled on the steps by his knee.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered to his hands. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“If you don’t, you’ll lose your home,” Stiles pointed out.

Derek shook his head. “Not a home. Not yet.” He glanced back at the house before facing forward again. “It might never be home.”

“That’s bullshit,” Stiles said. Derek started. “No, I don’t mean you. I mean the fact that your house is so full of other people’s things that you have no room for yourself. It’s your house, not theirs. Why don’t they come back for their things?”

“I never told them to?” Derek guessed.

“You shouldn’t have to tell them because they never should have brought it over in the first place.” Stiles made a note of the names he knew that Derek said had things on his property. Marie. Daniel. He only had two other names: Mr. Johnson and Andrew; but it should be enough to track them down and force them to help Derek clean up his house.

After all, this mess wouldn’t exist without their “help.”

“You’re getting angry,” Derek remarked. “I think the break is over.”

“Okay.” Stiles allowed Derek to haul him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

~ * ~

Three hours later, Stiles climbed into Roscoe, waiting for Derek to buckle his belt before he started the engine.

They hadn’t gotten anything out yet. Instead, Derek just shuffled things from one room to another, sorting by some arbitrary method he didn’t bother to share with Stiles until Stiles was so frustrated that he’d moved them to another room where Derek just started the cycle again.

Overall, it was a very disappointing day, but Stiles was determined not to show Derek just how upset he was.

“Two weeks minus two days,” Derek said quietly. He stared out the window the whole drive back to Stiles’ dad’s house.

With two full bathrooms, they were able to shower at the same time, if a little quicker than normal since the hot water ran out faster.

After, they sat at the kitchen table while Stiles heated up leftover pot pie to eat.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t any good today,” Derek finally said after Stiles plopped a plate in front of him.

“Hey, not your fault. I get it, your brain got overloaded. We’ll just have to take it slower next time.”

“Will there be a next time?” Derek poked at his food. “Do you still want to help me?”

Stiles nodded. “I just didn’t realize how big of a job it actually was,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to pitch in. In fact, I think we should get more people involved. You know, like a cleaning crew.”

“It’s not my stuff,” Derek reminded him.

“I know. I meant contacting the people who left it with you. How long have you had it?”

Derek shrugged.

“Okay, well, I’ll look into the law on abandoned property today. You try to remember who gave you the things. I think we can get them to take it back without too much trouble.”

Derek gave him a hopeful smile, the first smile all day, and Stiles’ stomach twisted in knots.

He wanted Derek to smile more. He deserved so much more happiness. But as long as they had the junky house to take care of, Stiles knew there’d be more tears than smiles. He hoped they’d both survive the ordeal.

~ * ~

Stiles printed the California Code dealing with abandoned property and then read over it carefully, searching up legal terms he was unfamiliar with. By the end of it, his head was swimming with too much information and he badly needed to pee.

Derek knocked lightly on his door and opened it when Stiles called for him to come in. He was carrying a mug of tea that he offered to Stiles before sitting on the bed and staring intently at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles asked over the rim of the mug.

Derek shook his head, dipping his head down not quite fast enough to hide the smile curling his lips. “Just you,” he said, “being you. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Stiles drew out the word before setting down the mug and walking quickly to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he went back to his room, wiping his hands on his pants. He’d dried them in the bathroom after peeing, but he hadn’t wanted Derek to leave his room, so he’d hurried back before they were fully dry.

Derek was still on the bed. He was holding the pages Stiles had printed, running a finger down the text, mouth moving as he silently read the words. Stiles sat down and drank more of the tea. This was more his style than the coffee Derek had bought him yesterday, and he finished it in a few swallows.

“How can they be my possessions when they were given to me to store?” Derek asked suddenly.

Stiles shrugged. “That’s what the law says. They dumped it on you, so it’s yours to do with as you please. Even if that means you throw it away.”

Derek grimaced, handing the pages to him. “That seems wasteful,” he said, softly.

“Dude, you’re living like a hoarder. That’s not healthy. At this point, worrying about wasting things is the least of your worries.”

“You’re right.” Derek stood up. He took Stiles’ empty mug and shut the door behind himself.

Stiles frowned at the pages, thinking over the words he’d used, swearing under his breath when he realized that he was accusatory. Derek didn’t need that. In fact, the way Stiles was pushing him, they would be lucky if Derek even managed to toss any of the actual trash in the house.

Stiles needed more help. Derek had mentioned being in therapy. Maybe Stiles should start there.

He turned to his laptop and opened a new browser.

~ * ~

Derek got an early start the next morning when first, Stiles slept through his alarm, and second, Dad hit him with the classifieds when Stiles tried to inhale some cereal so he could at least start the day with something in his stomach.

So, instead of watching Derek struggle to make progress, Stiles spent a few hours on his computer applying to jobs he was overqualified for. When Dad left for a shift at the bakery, Stiles shut down his laptop, slapped together a few sandwiches, and drove over to Derek’s.

Derek was sitting outside, head between his knees. He didn’t move even when Stiles honked his horn at him, knowing that with Derek’s hearing, he was being obnoxious.

Stiles dropped onto the steps next to him, shoving a sandwich at him.

“How’s it going today?” he asked carefully, biting into his own sandwich. Derek took the food, setting it on his knee and frowning down at the ground.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” he said softly. “I know you keep telling me that it’s my stuff now, and I can get rid of it, but I can still smell the previous owners.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. He hadn’t thought of that. He just knew that Derek’s house smelled stale and musty. A few things were moldy and stunk, to his human nose, like animal urine.

How Derek could stand to be in his house would remain a mystery, because while Stiles may not have had much tact in high school, always asking the wolves if they could smell things that were better left private, he had grown and learned to bite his tongue.

Derek sighed, poking a hole through the bread into the meat below. “Thanks for coming but I don’t think I can do anything today.”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t believe that for a minute,” he said. He crammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, chewing as quickly as he could. Once he had swallowed, he took Derek’s destroyed sandwich and discarded it into an empty trash bag hanging on the front door. “Up you get,” he said. “Pick out something. I don’t care what it is. Just pick it. You’re going to give me a list of pros and cons to keeping it. Whichever list is longer determines what happens with the thing.”

Derek shook his head, but he gamely stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “Anything?” he asked.

“Absolutely anything,” Stiles confirmed.

Derek made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat and grabbed a bent tennis racket out of the junk in the foyer. He held it aloft, studying the chipped paint, frayed strings, peeling tape, and warped rim.

“Can it go?�� Stiles asked after a few minutes. Derek pursed his lips, hefting it in his hand.

“I don’t know. I know I don’t have a use for it and it’s almost beyond repair, but it could still be fixed if someone wanted to invest the time in it.”

“Okay, so if that someone is you, are you going to invest the time in getting it fixed?”

Derek shook his head. “May Ehlberg gave this to me for safe keeping. It used to be her dad’s.”

Stiles didn’t know who May Ehlberg or her father were, but he guessed, from Derek’s faltering expression, that they were important to him.

Derek set the racket aside. “Mr. Ehlberg was a pall bearer at Paige’s funeral. May used to sit behind me in history.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Stiles said, and Derek stared at him.

“What?”

“Your loss,” Stiles repeated. “Of Paige. I know she meant a lot to you, and I’m sorry she died.”

Derek clenched his hands and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “I killed her,” he said tightly. When he opened his eyes, they blazed blue.

“Do you want to take another break?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head and grabbed another item, a wax orange that resembled a melted candle more than the fruit it was imitating.

“Can that go?”

“Mrs. Grecke used to make these. She gave my mom a whole set. This was the only one I found in the ruins of our house.”

Stiles felt his stomach drop. If Derek could find a reason to keep everything in the house, Stiles was certain he would. He blew out a breath. “I didn’t want to do this to you yet,” he said, “but I think you need to be in therapy for hoarding.”

“Hoarding?” Derek looked around the foyer as if he was just now seeing it through Stiles’ eyes. He set the orange down carefully and then picked up a plastic cup with a string tangled on the bottom. “My cousins used to make these things all the time.” He tugged at the string for a moment before giving up when he realized it was irrevocably knotted.

“Did your cousins make that particular string telephone?”

“Not this one, no.”

“And you have your memories, right?”

Derek nodded.

“Then, it can go?”

Derek nodded again. He walked to the bag and opened it, dangling the cup in for a long, long moment. Stiles was almost positive that he was going to yank it out again, but Derek surprised him when he let it fall.

Almost as if his strings were cut, Derek sagged. “I think I need a break now,” he said, stepping out onto the porch. Stiles followed, unhooking the bag and stuffing it into the house before pulling the door closed.

“You did a good thing,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“Maybe.” He walked to his car and got in. Stiles watched as he drove away.

They’d only been cleaning for about three hours, and all Derek had to show for it was a sandwich and a children’s toy. At this rate, it would take decades to clear out the clutter.

Stiles sighed. He hoped Derek talked with his therapist about his hoarding.

“Two weeks minus three days,” Stiles told the house. Then he drove home.

~ * ~

Dad was back from the bakery when Stiles pulled up to his house. The Camaro was parked on the street. Stiles was relieved to see it. He’d been afraid that Derek might have decided to take off again. It was nice to see that he wasn’t running away anymore.

“Derek’s taking a shower,” Dad said. He had his feet up on the railing, a bottle of seltzer water in hand. “He wanted to let you know that he’s not mad. And that he hopes you’re not mad either.”

“I’m not mad at him,” Stiles said, sitting next to his dad and propping his feet on the railing too. “I’m mad at everyone who’s taking advantage of him.”

Dad raised an eyebrow.

Stiles sighed, crossing his arms. “A lot of people decided to just dump their junk on Derek, so his house is all junked up. He’s having trouble realizing that he can let it go.”

Dad hummed, sipping at his bottle. “You can’t push him if he isn’t ready.”

“We don’t really have time for him to get ready,” Stiles said quietly. “I was thinking that we could have the people who dumped stuff on him come and get it. I asked Derek to make a list of everyone who had ever given him things.”

“I could see if I can get some volunteers if Derek wants the help.”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Dad shook his head. “It’s not your place,” he said. “Talk to Derek about it, okay? I know you have a deadline, but if you push too hard now, the source of the problem won’t be resolved, and in a few months, it’ll be just as bad if not worse.”

“You’re right.” Stiles thumped his feet down and stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

~ * ~

The next day, Derek had a meeting with his therapist first thing, so Stiles killed some time by making a chart with a countdown of the days they had left before Code Enforcement arrived to either pass or fail Derek’s house. Derek had hidden in the guest room after his shower and refused to come out before Stiles fell asleep, so he didn’t know what state of mind Derek was in, but he didn’t imagine they would make much progress at the house today.

Still, he could at least find something for Derek to store some items he definitely wanted to save. They could worry about the actual trash later. Dad was right: pushing Derek too hard now would be more detrimental than just giving him a shoulder to lean on when he got overwhelmed. That didn’t mean Stiles wasn’t going to track down every single person who had ever left so much as a dust bunny at Derek’s house and make them take it back.

He dug around the attic until he found an old, empty plastic bin. He washed it out, drying it thoroughly before putting it in his trunk. His dad still had a sports cooler, left over from Stiles’ days as a bench warming lacrosse player, and Stiles filled it with water and stuck it next to the bin. Then, he settled on the porch with the stack of California property laws and a highlighter, marking the sections he thought would be most helpful for Derek to read.

After about an hour of that, Derek returned. He smiled at Stiles but it seemed brittle, like he was stretched a little too thin at the moment.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, capping his highlighter and setting aside the papers.

Derek shrugged. “Mostly, I guess. I talked to Jerri about the house. She wants to see it.”

“Do you want her to see it?”

Derek shrugged again. “She thinks I’m holding onto things because of losing so many people when I was fifteen.”

“That’s probably a pretty good assessment. Come on,” Stiles pointed at Roscoe, “we can at least go look at it and see if there’s anything else you want to save, like that orange.”

“I don’t have anywhere to put things like that,” Derek protested.

Stiles bit his tongue to stop the almost reflexive Could have space if you cleaned your house that wanted to pop out. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I have a bin you can borrow. Just until we find some room for the stuff you want to save.”

“Thank you.”

They drove to Derek’s house in comfortable silence. It was almost domestic, and Stiles caught himself smiling and tapping on the steering wheel while Derek poked at the radio before turning it off when all the stations were too staticky to hear clearly. The only dark spot was when they parked in front of the house and Stiles remembered what was waiting for them. He was tired, and they hadn’t even opened the door yet.

Well, they were here. There was no point in putting it off. The sooner they got in there, the sooner they could leave.

Stiles grabbed the cooler while Derek carried the bin, and they walked up the steps onto the porch.

Derek set the bin down so that he could use two hands to unlock the door.

Stiles happened to glance over as Derek worked his key into the lock and noticed something sitting on the chair by the door. “Hey, Derek,” he said.

“Yeah?” Derek opened the door, picking up the bin and waiting while Stiles slowly picked up the cup with tangled string. He took a moment to steady his voice, furious and not sure why. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to be here. He just wasn’t happy that the tiny bit of progress they had made had been so easily undone.

“Didn’t you throw this away yesterday?”

Derek flushed. “I took it out,” he mumbled.

“When? Why?”

“Last night. My cousins,” Derek said.

Stiles shoved it at him. “Do you want to save it now?”

Derek took it gingerly. He turned it over in his hands, studying it. After a few minutes, he set it into the bin.

Stiles nodded tightly. Hopefully Derek wouldn’t try to save everything. He didn’t want to drag the problem back to his dad’s house. Dad already had thirty years of his and Stiles’ mom’s things and some of Stiles’ things from high school. There wasn’t room for more crap.

In the foyer, Derek found the wax orange and added it to the bin. He picked up the racket and frowned at it for a long moment before carefully replacing it on the stack of dilapidated boxes he was using as a shelf.

“There’s some more sentimental things upstairs,” Derek said. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped through the narrow pathways and Stiles retreated outside before the press of things made him panic again.

Just as he stepped out, his phone buzzed.

It was Dad.

“Hey, Dad. How are you?”

“I’m great. Listen, I just talked to Parrish. He says he thinks he can get a few of the guys together in the next couple of days to get out to Derek’s place and help clean up. Did you ask Derek if he wanted to do that?”

Stiles looked up, scanning the second floor windows. He couldn’t see Derek at all, but he thought Derek could hear him. “I haven’t but I will. I can text you his answer?”

“Sure, that’d be great. Also, I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but Melissa said Scott is back in town for a few days. Apparently he’s taking over Deaton’s practice when Deaton retires in a few years.”

“Oh?” Stiles was not remotely interested in what his former best friend was up to. Nope. Not at all.

“Yeah. Melissa wanted to know if we wanted to have dinner with her and Scott.”

“She does know Scott and I haven’t talked in almost five years, right?”

“I think she’s hoping that you two will reconcile.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Stiles looked up again. Derek was standing in a window now, looking down at him, expression twisted into concern. With a start, Stiles realized that he was able to parse Derek’s different expressions again. He’d missed that element of their communication, but he hadn’t been upset to discover that Derek was more verbal than he had been six years ago.

“I kinda don’t want to drag Derek over there without warning. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

Derek pulled back, and a few minutes later, he was outside too. The bin was half full of things like a singed headband, a pair of gold hoop earrings stuck in a large card, and some books. Derek set it aside and pointed to the steps. They both sat down.

“Hey, Derek, is it okay if some of the deputies swing by and help us clear out things?”

Derek hesitated before nodding.

“He said yes, Dad,” Stiles said into the phone. To Derek, he said, “Melissa wants to have us over for dinner soon. Do you want to come with or…?”

“No, thank you.”

“So does that mean you’ll come too?” Dad asked.

Stiles sucked his lip into his mouth and chewed on it. “No,” he finally said. He wasn’t nearly ready enough to forgive Scott for what had happened. Maybe someday, but someday hadn’t come yet. “I don’t think I can do that. Sorry.”

Dad sighed. “I’m sure they’ll understand. And boys?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. You’re doing a good thing.”

Dad hung up without waiting for a response. He probably realized he wasn’t going to get one. Derek didn’t look like he believed Dad at all, and Stiles didn’t blame him. When was the last time someone told Derek they were proud of him? Probably not since before the fire.

“Do you want to try cleaning anything today?”

Derek shook his head. “I think I’ll call Jerri and see if she can come out here tomorrow,” he said. “For now, I want to show you what I found.”

Stiles tucked his phone back in his pocket and turned his full attention to Derek as he explained about the trinkets. He had rings from his aunts, one of Peter’s ties that hadn’t burned up, the headband from Cora, the earrings from Laura. Books that belonged to his cousins and to the pack. Derek flipped through a heavy tome.

“This is our bestiary,” he said, turning pages until he came across an entry for kanimas. He traced the tail of the illustration. It looked almost nothing like what Jackson had looked like, less lizard-like and more humanoid. “It’s been in our family for centuries. Peter gave it to me when I moved back to Beacon Hills last year.”

“And where did Peter get it from?”

“He has a stash of things somewhere. He didn’t say.” Derek frowned. “He has the box with the nogitsune and my mom’s claws.”

Stiles shuddered. “He won’t give you the claws back?”

“No. I’m afraid that he’s trying to find a ritual that will give him alpha powers again.” He set the book back in the box and stood up, helping Stiles up. “He didn’t seem happy that I came back. I told him he didn’t have to come back too.”

“Why did you come back?” Stiles asked. “Not that I’m not glad you did,” he hurried to add.

Derek shrugged. “Honestly, I came back because I realized Scott had abandoned the land. My family was its protector for centuries. It needs a guardian. Even if that guardian is an omega.”

“Hey, now, you’re not an omega,” Stiles said, patting Derek’s arm. “You’ll always be a part of my pack. Me and my dad.”

Derek smiled. “Thanks. That actually means a lot to me.”

He pulled the door shut, locking it, and picked up the bin. “Can we go back to your house now? I left my phone there and I need to call Jerri.”

“Sure.” Stiles grabbed the cooler, pouring some water on his hands to clean them before digging out a stack of plastic cups he kept in his car for emergencies. He’d never had to use them yet but he liked being prepared.

Derek set the bin in the trunk and sifted through it until he came up with the cup and string. He handed it to Stiles.

“What’s this for?”

“You can throw it away,” Derek said. “I’m ready to let it go.”

Stiles grinned. “Okay, big guy, if you’re sure. Let me just.” He pulled out a bag he kept in his car for trash and placed it inside, taking care not to crush it more than it already was, just in case Derek changed his mind again and wanted it back before it could be disposed of. “There.” He handed Derek a cup of water and drank one himself.

Then he drove them back to his house.

~ * ~

Derek rode with Stiles out to the house the next morning, and Dr. Jerri Fitzgerald pulled up behind them. Derek had called to invite her last night, and she hadn’t even hesitated before agreeing, saying that she would meet them there.

Stiles was excited to meet a therapist who knew about the supernatural, had worked with them, and knew how to help them, but most importantly, he was excited to meet someone Derek seemed to trust.

He knew it took a lot for Derek to be able to trust the people around him. One day, he hoped he could be counted among those people.

Derek grabbed his arm before he could get out to greet Dr. Fitzgerald. “I do trust you,” he said quietly. “I always have since you wouldn’t let me drown. Maybe even before then.”

Stiles stared at him in shock. Had he spoken out loud? Derek tapped his nose, and Stiles signed in relief. It was just the way he smelled to Derek. “Do you trust me enough to know that I won’t intentionally hurt you?” he asked.

Instead of answering him, Derek leaned in closer, fingers flexing where he still held Stiles’ arm. Stiles stared at his face as it got closer, his lips parting, tongue flicking out to wet them. Was Derek going to kiss him? Were they at the kissing stage in their relationship? Did they even have a relationship? They were a mere breadth apart when Derek whispered, “Yes.”

Dr. Fitzgerald knocked on the window, and Derek jumped back. He smiled at her, but Stiles could read the disappointment in his eyes.

Stiles frowned, mind still spinning from the almost-kiss. Derek opened his door, and moved to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Wait,” Stiles said. When Derek turned toward him, he grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss that was too hard, too much teeth, too much Derek’s nose in his eye, and not enough all at once.

As soon as they broke apart, Derek reached up to touch his lips. Stiles’ lips felt bruised but he kept his hand on Derek’s neck, fingers playing with the hair on his nape.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly.

Derek cupped his face, holding his head still as he leaned in and pressed a closed-mouth kiss to his lips. “More than,” he said, pulling back and out of Stiles’ reach. “I trust you,” he said, nodding sharply, like Stiles could hear the way his heartbeat stayed steady.

Stiles smiled. “Let’s go show your therapist your house,” he said, and clambered out of Roscoe.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Dr. Fitzgerald said. She smiled at them both. “It’s so nice to see that level of trust, Derek. You’ve done wonderful.”

“We’re working on my communication,” Derek said. “I seem to recall you complaining a time or two that I didn’t use my words enough.”

Stiles snorted. “No one in this damn town did. It was all secrets, secrets, lies, and more secrets.”

“But things have changed?” Dr. Fitzgerald looked from Derek to Stiles and back.

“I don’t know if the town has changed,” Derek said, “but we have.” He shot Stiles a grateful look. “I want to be who Stiles thinks I am.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.” Stiles bit his lip, adding, hesitantly, “What if I want you to be my boyfriend?”

Derek let out a startled laugh. “Pretty sure that’s what we just did,” he pointed out.

“I don’t mean to be a literal bummer,” Dr. Fitzgerald broke in, “but can we go inside now? I’d like to know how best to help you, Derek, and I can’t do that just by looking at the outside.” She stuck her hand out to Stiles and he took it. “I’m Dr. Jerri Fitzgerald. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Dr. Fitzgerald. I’m Stiles.”

“Please, call me Jerri.”

“Okay.”

Derek unlocked the door and pushed it open. If Jerri was surprised by the amount of stuff just packed in the foyer, she didn’t show it. Instead, she studied it thoughtfully. Her braids clinked together softly as she moved forward, the colorful beads woven throughout her hair jostled.

Derek followed more slowly, grabbing the trash bag that still hadn’t been filled as he worked his way deeper after her.

Stiles brought up the rear, trying to see the junk as Jerri would. He didn’t think he succeeded very well because he still thought it could all go, even the melted orange Derek had saved yesterday.

“Okay, so tell me,” Jerri said when they paused in the kitchen, “what do you see when you look at all these things?”

Derek shrugged. “I guess I see it as kindness.”

“Kindness?” Stiles asked. Jerri shot him a look that had him almost swallowing his tongue.

“Yes,” Derek said, tightly. “Kindness.” To Jerri, he added, “When I moved back to Beacon Hills, I had nothing. Just my sister’s car and the clothes I was wearing. I was able to buy this house but I didn’t have a way to bring anything into the house. I had nothing to bring anyway.”

“And how did people start bringing you things?”

“My neighbor, Ms. Bocelli, stopped by one day, saw the state of the house, and offered me some of her mother’s furniture. When I told her that I didn’t have a way to bring it here, she asked another neighbor, Mr. Johnson, to help, and he also brought over his mother’s things.”

Stiles opened his mouth and shut it again when Jerri looked at him. She turned back to Derek. “And that was kindness, wasn’t it? Them bringing you all those things.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “But it was a lot. Their mothers had a lot of stuff and they brought it all over the next few days. After that, it seemed like someone was stopping by every day and bringing me stuff from their relatives that had either passed away or didn’t want or need their things.”

“And you didn’t feel like you could say no?” Jerri asked, more gently than Stiles could have managed.

“No,” Derek said, quietly, an admission. “I didn’t think I had the right to say no.”

Jerri nodded, as if she hadn’t expected any other answer.

It made Stiles’ skin crawl to think of all the people that could have, did, hurt Derek because he thought his “no” meant nothing.

“I need some air,” he said, and hurried as quickly as he could back outside.

He leaned over, hands on his knees while he puffed breaths in and out through his mouth.

“Hey, Stiles,” he heard someone call, and he looked up to see Jordan Parrish, dressed down in a white t-shirt and khakis, approaching him.

“Heya.” Stiles waved back.

Jordan eyed the house. “Did you still want help clearing it out?”

“Yeah, but it’s not really my call,” Stiles said. “Derek’s in there right now with his therapist. She’s going to see if she can help him be able to let go of everything.”

Jordan hummed. “Okay, well, Sarah, the dispatcher, was able to call for a dumpster. We’re renting it, so Derek won’t have to worry about that. Just let us know when you want it, and we can have it delivered.”

“I think it’ll take more than one dumpster,” Stiles said, thinking of the rooms he had seen and knowing that there were more upstairs he hadn’t been in, all likely just as bad as downstairs.

“You realize that when the dumpster is full, we call them, they take it away, and then they bring it back, right? We’re renting it for at least a week, and if we can move fast enough, we ought to be able to get the whole house cleaned.”

“You say that now.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow before cupping his hands around his mouth and saying, loudly, “Hey, Derek. Can you come outside and talk with us?”

Derek appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, Jerri behind him.

Jordan grinned at Stiles. “Let’s go.”

Derek met them halfway. “Hi, Jordan,” he said, looking between them. “What brings you here?”

“Stiles’ dad asked if any of us deputies wanted to volunteer to help you clean your house,” Jordan replied. “We have a roster worked out. We also have a dumpster on standby whenever you’re ready for it.”

“A dumpster?” Derek shot a panicked glance at Jerri.

“A dumpster might be a good idea, Derek,” she said softly. “But first, let’s try to figure out what’s causing you to hold onto things and how to get you to let go.”

“Oh, hey,” Stiles said, “Derek, did you ever finish that list of people who gave you things?”

Derek pulled out a piece of paper folded into a tiny rectangle. He handed it to Stiles with the resignation of a man betraying his country. Stiles quickly unfolded it, finding nearly thirty names on the paper.

“Some people gave me family antiques to store because they couldn’t afford storage fees. I put a star by their names.”

“Okay.” Stiles refolded the paper, frowning when he couldn’t fold it as small as Derek had. “I’ll contact as many of them as I can and see if they want their things back.” He fixed Derek with a look. “Will you be able to return any items they want?”

“Yes. I don’t want their things if they can take them.”

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t want them even if they can’t take them.”

Jerri stepped in front of Derek. “Let’s get to that point,” she said, glaring at Stiles without too much heat. “For now, I’d like you to go through as many things as you can and pick out the things that are yours.”

Derek shook his head. “It’s all buried right now.”

Jerri pursed her lips, thinking, before turning to Jordan. “Dr. Fitzgerald,” she said, hand out for a quick shake. “Do you think you can coordinate the volunteers to sort things? Nothing is to be thrown away without Derek’s express consent. If he wants to touch things, hold them, keep them, let him. I will work with him to discover the cause of it, but until then, I don’t want you to do anything to make him worse.”

“I will certainly do my best, ma’am ,” Jordan promised. He looked at Derek. “Do you want to start sorting today?”

“I guess,” Derek said. “It’d be nice to actually be able to see the floor again.”

“It would,” Stiles agreed. “So, just so that we’re all on the same page, Derek isn’t throwing away anything today? We’re just pulling things out so they can be sorted?”

“If Derek finds he can throw away some items, he can do that, but only he can do that. If you find something you think is trash, you have to show it to Derek and get his approval before it can be disposed of.” She checked a watch hung around her neck on a lanyard. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment I need to get to.” She took Derek’s hand in hers and patted it gently. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need to. I will clear my schedule as best I can for next week so that I can help you as much as I am able to.”

“Thank you, Jerri.” Derek smiled at her.

They watched her drive off before turning back to the house.

“Okay, so what do we start with?” Stiles asked.

“The foyer,” Derek answered and marched back to the house. Stiles and Jordan exchanged a quick glance and then followed.

~ * ~

Jordan worked quickly and efficiently. By the time a few more deputies showed up, the three of them already had a clear pattern of sorting going. Stiles, human and tired, took a break as Jordan got the newcomers caught up, and called a few names on Derek’s list.

Most of them agreed that Derek could dispose of the things they had given him, and one even offered to bring in a trailer to haul crap away. Stiles thanked him and filed that away in the back of his mind, then went to find Derek and make him drink some water. Stiles updated the list to reflect what people had answered while Derek told him a little bit about some of the things of his family that he had uncovered.

Stiles was thoroughly impressed with how the deputies worked. They didn’t even attempt to toss anything away and they carried all the items as carefully as they could. By the time they were ready to stop for the day, the whole front lawn was covered in distinct piles, all covered in tarps weighed down with rocks found in a box in the kitchen.

The foyer was mostly empty, and although it was the only room they had gotten to, it was also only the first room. They had made significant progress today.

Derek seemed happy, excited and talking more than usual as they drove back to Stiles’ dad’s house.

Dad met them at the door, and Derek immediately stopped talking. He blanched, hands fisted at his sides.

“The Cabellos just want to apologize,” Dad said. “They realize what they did wrong and wish to make amends as best they can.”

“They can stop poisoning people,” Stiles retorted. He had no interest in hearing the Cabellos’ piss-poor excuse of why they decided to almost kill a customer. He was also angry because he still couldn’t remember what had happened after they’d eaten.

Before Dad could tell him to stop being rude, the Cabellos, an older couple with graying hair and twin looks of fear and disappointment, stepped out onto the porch. Derek leaned against Stiles, his arm pressing against his side, and Stiles could feel the tremors racing up and down Derek’s arm.

“We did not realize that you were not human,” Mrs. Cabello said. “We had no idea that we would be putting your life in danger.”

“Are you in the habit of drugging your customers?” Stiles demanded.

Both of them looked stricken. “We are matchmakers,” Mr. Cabello said. “It is our job to encourage relationships.”

“And how many people consented to you mucking about in their business?” Stiles clenched his hands into fists. “One more stupid answer and I will call the cops on your asses for trespassing.”

“Stiles,” Dad said warningly.

“No. Dad, no.” Stiles turned to his dad. “They almost killed Derek and they’re excusing it because they make matches? No, they’re meddlers. That’s what they are.” He glared at the Cabellos. “I hope you fuck up again just so that Chris can kick your asses. Now, get off my dad’s porch and off our property.”

The Cabellos did just that, both of them touching Derek’s shoulder as they passed him, apologizing in an undertone that did nothing to disguise what Stiles felt was insincerity.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asked. He ran his hand down Derek’s shoulder and arm, doing his best to layer his scent over the Cabellos’ so that Derek could at least have a little comfort before he showered the smell away.

Derek grunted. “I’m okay,” he whispered, “but I think I need to take a shower now.”

“Okay, cool. You go do that. I’m going to get Dad all caught up on what we did at the house today.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand, squeezing tightly. “Are you going to tell him about us?” he asked, and then walked away while Dad frowned at them.

“What’s this about ‘us’?”

Stiles sighed. It wasn’t like Dad wouldn’t have figured it out soon anyway. “I think me and Derek are dating now,” he said. “But also, I stink. We’ve been moving things around, and I need to shower. Talk to you later.”

He jogged past his dad and into the house. Derek wasn’t the only one who could walk away from an uncomfortable conversation.

~ * ~

Because there were only so many places in the house that he and Derek could hide, Dad eventually cornered them in the kitchen while they tried sneaking something for supper.

“I’m not mad that you’re dating,” he said. “I’m not even mad about you yelling at the Cabellos.” He sighed. “I just want to talk to you. Tell me, how’s the house coming? Did the deputies come by to help? How clean is the house?”

“It’s coming along fine,” Stiles said, ticking his fingers. “The deputies did indeed come help us. The house is not clean at all. It’s still really cluttered, and until the clutter is organized, we can’t clean the house.”

“Okay. That’s good. Hey, I’ve got some time off tomorrow. I could come help for a bit too?”

“Sure,” Derek said. He set down the plate of leftover lasagna Dad had made for lunch today. “Are you really not mad that Stiles and I are… together?” he sounded a little strangled on the last word, but Stiles decided he wouldn’t hold it against him. Much. “Do you have any concerns about this?” Derek continued.

“Uh, well,” Dad scratched the back of his head, “I’d appreciate a heads up if you need some alone time, and well, there’s condoms in the bathroom, but if you need a different size—”

“Dad!” Stiles yelped.

“What?”

“Condoms?! Really?”

“What! I want you to practice safe sex. Is that such a bad thing?”

“It is when you just casually imply that we’re having sex!”

Dad frowned at him, confused. “You’re not?”

“No! We just decided to get together today. What, you think we did it already?”

“Can we please stop talking about this?” Derek pleaded, voice choked. His whole face was red, and he refused to make eye contact with either Stilinski. “We’re not having sex.”

“Yet,” Dad added, and Derek made a strangled noise.

“Stop talking about sex,” Stiles said, pointing at his dad. “We’re not having sex, not now, not yet, not until we’re both ready. So, just drop it, okay?”

“Okay,” Dad said softly. “I’m sorry, kid, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just, well, you’re both adults. You both know what you like. It’s just a natural progression of your relationship.”

“Okay, we get it,” Stiles said. “You’re okay if we start having sex, but you want a heads up if you’re going to be walking into it. Well, guess what? When we get Derek’s house the way he wants it, that’s where we’ll be having sex.”

Derek slapped a hand over Stiles’ mouth. “Can. We. Please. Stop. Talking about this?” he begged between clenched teeth.

Stiles licked his palm, and Derek furrowed his brow in disgust, but he didn’t move his hand.

“Okay, I promise not to bring up the s-word anymore,” Dad promised. “Melissa has extended an invitation to all of us for supper tomorrow night. Do either of you want to go?”

“Will Scott be there?” Stiles asked. Dad gave him a flat look. “Then, no, I don’t want to go. Derek?”

“I think I won’t be in any shape to be good company,” Derek said. “Even though we’re just sorting things, it’s taking a lot out of me.”

“Understandable. So, I’ll help out tomorrow until I have work, and then tomorrow night, you’re on your own for supper.”

“Great. Thanks, Dad.” Stiles grabbed their plates and shoved them into the microwave, pressing in four minutes and staring at it while it heated.

“Okay. I’m going to check on my roses. I think I’ve got a shot at gardener of the year this year. What do you think, Derek? Think I’ve got a green thumb?”

“Well,” Derek said, hesitantly, “you’ve done really well with your wolfsbane collection.”

Stiles stifled a snort, stopped the microwave on one second, and carried the plates to the table. “Go on, Dad. Go do your gardening. We’ll catch up later.”

Dad looked rejected, but he picked up his dirt-stained gloves, kept on a shelf next to the back door, and a hand rake and stepped outside.

“Do you want to have sex?” Derek asked before Stiles could take a bite.

“Now?” Stiles looked at him.

Derek ducked his head. “No,” he said quietly, poking at his lasagna. “Not right now. Eventually, though, yeah. I like sex. I think sex with you would be good.”

“Oh, baby,” Stiles deadpanned, “I’ll knock your socks off.”

Then he tucked into his food, grimacing when he encountered the cold center. Derek laughed at the face he made and heated it up more for him.

Derek washed the dishes when they were done, and they settled on the couch to watch a movie with Dad when he came in from gardening.

As promised, Dad didn’t mention sex again. Didn’t mean Stiles wasn’t thinking about it.

~ * ~

Jordan and about six deputies all dressed in plain clothes were already at the house, taking the tarps off and folding them into a lidded bin so that they wouldn’t blow away in the breeze.

Stiles had grabbed the bin Derek had started of his keepsakes before he and Derek drove out there, so he grabbed it and set it down by the tarp bin.

“If Derek says save and it’s small enough, put it in here,” he told Jordan, trusting him to pass along the message. “Anything that’s too big to fit, put it with the other pile.”

Dad pulled up in his truck then. He’d brought a case of water that he set on the chair on the porch. Derek unlocked the door, and they began pulling put more things.

Sometime around when four of the deputies were maneuvering the non-working fridge out of the kitchen, the same code enforcement officer who had given them two weeks parked behind Dad’s truck.

“Tamara,” Dad greeted cheerfully, “what brings you out this way?”

“Just checking on the progress,” Tamara said. She frowned at the piles of things, watching as the fridge was walked to the curb next to John’s truck. “What’s going on?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dad waved at the deputies. “We’re helping Derek clean up his house.”

“Can I see inside the house?” She started for the door without waiting for an answer. Stiles hurried to intercept her. Derek was inside, supervising the clear out of the kitchen, but he must have heard Tamara, because he stepped out onto the porch just as she started up the steps.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “Would you like to see the progress being made?” He stepped aside and she walked into the foyer.

“Well, this certainly is an improvement.” She knelt down by a baseboard and tapped on it. “Hmm, still sound.”

“I should hope so,” Derek said, amusement making his eyes light up. “I had the house inspected before I bought it. It wasn’t this full of things until about six months ago.”

“Minimal damage.” Tamara made a mark on her clipboard. “Have you been able to clean any other rooms?”

Derek pointed toward the kitchen. “We’re working on the kitchen and living room today.”

Tamara clicked her pen and stuck it to her clipboard. “Show me.”

Five minutes later, she was outside. “This is good progress,” she told Derek. “Ideally, we’d like to see the whole house and both yards fully clean before the deadline, but with the amount of progress you’ve made, I’m sure we can extend the deadline by another two weeks. You now have thirty days to become compliant.” She marked an “x” on her clipboard and handed it to Derek to sign. Then she signed it and tore off the carbon copy underneath, giving it to Derek. “Good work, Mr. Hale. Keep it up.”

She walked back to her car and drove away.

As soon as she was gone, Derek visibly sagged, and Stiles pushed him until he was sitting on the steps. Jordan called a halt for a break and they all congregated by Dad’s truck with water bottles and a pizza someone had called in for delivery.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asked. “Do you need to talk to Jerri?”

Derek shrugged. “I didn’t realize how much it was. I’d forgotten it was there, I guess, when more stuff just got piled on it.” He looked back at the house and then nodded at the various piles stacked on the lawn. “I don’t know why I let it get so bad.”

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re working through it. Do you have any ideas on things that could go right now, or are you waiting to see if the people I called will actually show up for their things?”

“That one,” Derek said. He sighed. “I just don’t want to throw something away and have someone come looking for it.”

“I know. That’s your caring nature.”

“I’m not caring,” Derek said, giving Stiles a hefty side-eye.

“Yes, you are,” Stiles laughed. “You always have been as long as I’ve known you. I mean, you had a rough way of showing it, but as much as you threatened to kill us when we first knew you, you never had any intention of doing so.”

“I did,” Derek protested. Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Well, I meant to,” Derek mumbled. “Look, I knew you didn’t have all the information, and that would either get you killed or put you in danger, and I couldn’t let you die because of me.”

“And you didn’t,” Stiles said.

“If only everyone could have been as lucky.”

Stiles knew Derek was thinking of Boyd and Erica. He set his hand on Derek’s knee, surprised when Derek turned his hand over and slotted his hand on top, tangling their fingers together.

They sat for fifteen minutes while everyone else ate and joked, laughing and cheering when they managed to get the fridge up into Dad’s truck.

Dad walked over to Derek and Stiles, handing them each a water bottle. “I’m going to take the fridge to the appliance recycling center and then head home to get ready for work. You’ve done a lot these past few days. I’m proud of you both. Now, remember that I’m going to Melissa’s for supper tonight.” He paused before grinning. “The condoms are in the upstairs bathroom.” He jogged away before Stiles recovered enough to start yelling. Derek ducking his head to hide his smile gave him pause, and he turned to fully look at him.

“Do you seriously want to have sex while my dad is at Melissa’s?” he asked incredulously.

“No, not yet,” Derek said. “I just think he said that because he knew it would rile you.”

“That’s the problem with being his son,” Stiles complained. “He knows me so well.”

“He loves you,” Derek said. “That’s not a problem.”

“He likes you too.”

Derek grinned, tipping his head down so he could butt his head gently against Stiles’ shoulder.

“Get up, ya goof,” Stiles said, tugging lightly at Derek’s hair until he obediently raised his head. As soon as his mouth was level with Stiles’, he leaned in and started kissing him.

Derek kissed back.

This kiss was better than their first attempt, with no clicking of teeth, no poked eyes, and plenty of tongue.

Suddenly, Derek’s head shot up, breaking contact.

Derek’s head shot up. “Scott’s here,” he said.

“Scott?” Stiles looked to the street where there was now a bright blue Mazda parked where his dad had been.

Scott was already out of the vehicle, leaning against it, sunglasses obscuring his eyes as he faced them.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Derek asked as he stood up and pulled Stiles up with him.

“I should,” Stiles replied, but his feet didn’t move. He hadn’t seen Scott in years, since high school graduation. He hadn’t forgiven him for bringing Kate back into their lives. He hadn’t forgiven Scott for what Kate had done to Derek before they’d stopped her.

Anger welled in him and he balled his fists. Scott would probably stand still long enough for one hit, but he wouldn’t be able to surprise him. He didn’t get a chance to do anything, though. Derek grabbed his shoulder to keep him in place as Scott strolled up to them. He didn’t remove his sunglasses, even when they were less than five feet apart.

“Hey, Stiles, Derek,” Scott said. His voice was edged, careful.

Stiles shook his head. He couldn’t say anything because if he started talking, he’d start yelling too, and he didn’t want to waste any more time on Scott than he already had. He’d grieved the end of their friendship a long time ago.

“Hi, Scott,” Derek said, cordially. He offered his hand for a shake, and Scott stepped closer and took it gingerly. He held his hand out to Stiles for a few seconds. When Stiles did nothing more than stare at it icily, he stepped back.

The silence between them was awkward, weighed down by the past.

Jordan herded the gawking deputies around the side of the house to start clearing out the backyard, giving them some semblance of privacy.

“So, I need to talk to you about something,” Scott said.

“Okay,” Derek said. “Stiles or me?”

“You.” Scott finally removed his sunglasses, folding the bows together with a little click and gently sliding them into the front pocket of his jacket. He let his eyes glow red, head tipped down to keep any nosy neighbors from seeing them. “I think it’s time to give you this back.”

“What?” Stiles grabbed onto Derek’s arm in shock. “You want to give Derek your alpha powers?”

“They weren’t mine to begin with,” Scott said. He sighed. “Deaton told me it was possible that I became an alpha after Derek used his spark to heal Cora because it needed more power than he had left. The spark left because if it had stayed, it would have killed Derek.”

“And did Deaton tell you to give it back?” Stiles asked. Derek grabbed his hand, threading their fingers together. Stiles squeezed gratefully.

“No,” Scott said. He opened and closed his hands, staring at his fingertips like he expected his claws to pop out. Disappointingly, he remained fully human. “I found a new mentor. He used to be a werewolf, bitten, like me.” He shot a quick glance at Derek. Stiles followed it. Derek’s face was blank, but his hand, where he was still holding Stiles’ was trembling.

“Deaton didn’t like me talking to Micah, said he was only telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“That you could be human again?” Stiles guessed. Scott nodded. “So, what’s the catch?”

“I have to give the power back to the person I got it from.”

“And you think it’s Derek based on what Deaton told you?”

“Not just Deaton,” Scott said. “Peter, before he disappeared after the shit with Kate, said that my alpha powers were Hale in origin.” He shrugged. “Peter could probably tell that it was his family’s.”

“How do you know?” Stiles demanded.

“Micah didn’t know where he got his alpha powers from, so he asked a witch spark to help track down the same, like, frequency of the power.”

“Electro-signals,” Derek murmured. “Each alpha’s power carries a distinct energy signal.”

Stiles turned so that he was facing Derek. “Does that mean Scott’s power is yours?”

Derek nodded. “I didn’t want to be an alpha anymore. Everyone I loved was dying. Sometimes at my hands. I thought I didn’t deserve it, and Peter still had a lot of rage left after he came back. I didn’t trust him with it subconsciously. That must have been why it went to Scott.”

“And now I’m giving it back to you,” Scott said.

Derek shook his head. “I still don’t want it.”

“I don’t think we can trust Peter either,” Stiles said. “So, what do we do with it?”

“We could put it in the same container we used to store the nogitsune’s powers,” Derek said, slowly.

Stiles suppressed a full-body shiver. If Derek felt guilt for the deaths he thought he’d caused, Stiles drowned in it. So many people had died because of his body, and while he hadn’t been aware at the time of most of the deaths, he’d still felt their loss keenly.

“Wait,” Scott said, “wouldn’t opening the box let out the nogitsune again?” He shot a concerned look at Stiles.

Derek squeezed their hands together. “Chris didn’t trust Peter with the box if the nogitsune was in it, so he made a silver box and transferred the nogitsune into that and buried it somewhere only he knows.”

“So, Peter has the box now?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah. He wanted it back about a year ago, just before I moved back to Beacon Hills.”

“So, where is Peter now?”

Derek made a face. “Oregon. About two hours drive.”

“And he’ll let you take the box?” Scott asked, hopeful.

Stiles snorted. “It’s Peter,” he said. “Do you think he’s actually going to let us take anything?”

“We have to try,” Scott said. “Please?”

“Is being a werewolf really so horrible?” Stiles asked.

“You’re one to talk,” Scott said. “You’re still human.”

“But I wouldn’t have tried to resurrect a fucking hunter to learn how to be human again.”

“Oh my God, is that why you wouldn’t talk to me?” Scott shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry that I accidentally brought Kate back to life. That wasn’t my intention.”

“No?” Stiles could still remember the metallic taste of fear when he’d gone to Derek’s loft because they hadn’t heard from him for a few days and found the door open, blood smeared everywhere. It had taken three days to find Derek chained up in the tunnels under the preserve.

Scott had admitted what he’d done when Derek told them that it was Kate, and then Kate tried to blow them up and absconded with Derek again. She had him for a week that time, and when they finally tracked her down and made sure she was dead and buried in as many pieces as they could tear her into, Derek had walked away from Beacon Hills. He’d taken nothing with him. He hadn’t even washed the blood and dirt off before he disappeared.

Peter, the main orchestrator of Kate’s dismemberment, had left shortly after that.

And Stiles hadn’t talked to Scott since.

“No. I was trying to draw the alpha spark out of me, but I guess Deaton gave me the wrong ritual.”

“So, you’re saying we should blame Deaton now?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Stiles, it may have taken me slightly more time to realize it, but Deaton wanted me to be the alpha.” He shot an apologetic look at Derek. “I’m not sure why he had such a problem with Derek or Peter being the alpha, but I guess he was just trying to make sure I’d stay in charge.”

Stiles shook his head. “You were never in charge,” he said coldly. “Maybe you’re right: you don’t deserve to be a werewolf.” He turned to Derek. “Do you want to drive or should I?”

“You can,” Derek said.

“Are you going to get the box from Peter?” Scott asked.

Stiles didn’t bother to answer him. As far as he was concerned, Scott no longer existed. They would help him stop being an alpha and then Scott could fuck off again.

“Let’s go tell Jordan the new plan,” Stiles said. “Do you trust them enough to keep working while we’re gone?”

Derek tilted his head, thinking about it for a long moment before shaking his head. “The code officer said she’d extend our deadline, so it’s not like we’re going to lose too much progress.”

“True. I think I’m going to have Jordan call all the people who have stuff out on your front lawn and have them pick it up. We’re only going to be gone for as long as it takes to drive there and back and convince Peter to give us the box.”

“Should I come too?” Scott asked.

“No,” Stiles and Derek said at the same time. Stiles added, “Peter might not be willing to give us the box if he knows you’re involved.”

Stiles had been pissed at Scott. Peter had left town because, he explained in a text message he sent to Stiles about a week after he’d gone, he wanted to rip Scott limb from limb like he’d done to Kate, and if he gave in to his need for revenge, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to stop, and Derek wasn’t around to stop him.

Stiles hadn’t responded, not sure if there was anything he could say to that because he knew exactly how Peter felt.

And now, six years later, Stiles was beginning to feel that same rage again. Yeah, it was definitely not a good idea for Scott to come with them.

“Go see your mom,” he said. “Tell my dad hi when he has supper with her.”

“Okay,” Scott said easily. He put his sunglasses back on and walked back to his Mazda.

Stiles waited until he pulled away before he marched around the house and found Jordan directing the deputies to cover the piles of stuff they’d pulled from the sheds with tarps.

“We’ll get everything covered up and call it a day,” Jordan said. “We couldn’t exactly not hear what you were talking about since we’ve all got super hearing.” He held out his hand for the list. “I’ll get this taken care of while we finish up covering everything. Jenkins has a trailer we can borrow to help people haul their things away if they want them. Is it okay to make a possible dumpster pile if some people don’t want anything back?”

“As long as you don’t actually put it in a dumpster, that should be fine,” Derek said. “Thanks, Jordan.”

“Hey, no worries. Always glad to help out a friend.”

Derek looked startled at that, and Stiles nudged him. “Remember you told me about him being affronted about the shock wand?” Derek nodded. “Yeah, he’s been your friend since then, I think.”

“Yeah,” Jordan said. “For sure. Anytime you need something, just give me a call. I’ll be around. Now, I think you’d better hit the road if you want to have daylight for the trip home.”

Stiles high fived him and then all but pushed Derek toward Roscoe. “We’ll have to stop for gas a lot unless you want to switch to the Camaro?”

Derek shook his head. “Peter likes you more. If he hears your Jeep, he’ll be more amenable to helping us.”

“Your uncle is creepy.”

Derek laughed. “He’s always been like that.” He sobered, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “It’ll be nice to see him again.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, lying. He didn’t have any fond memories of Peter, but he wasn’t going to hold that against Derek. Besides, if Peter did agree to give them the box because Stiles tagged along, well, all the better.

He flipped his blinker on and took the turn that led out of town, heading north toward Oregon and Peter Hale.

~ * ~

Derek drove for the second half of the trip up while Stiles dozed in the passenger seat. They stopped for gas too many times, so what should have been two hours was quickly turning into three.

Finally, around Ashland, Derek pulled off Interstate 5. “Peter built a cabin close to Ashland,” he explained. “He wanted to be close enough to civilization because despite his creepy tendencies, he’s very social, but he also likes his privacy. Coming back from the dead does that, or so he’s told me.”

“Peter wasn’t very private when you were growing up?”

Derek snorted. “If Peter could show off or brag about anything, he would.” Derek pulled off the paved road and onto an access road. Five miles by the odometer and he parked in front of a structure that couldn’t be considered a cabin in any sense of the word. He turned off the engine and handed the keys to Stiles.

“Peter built this himself?” Stiles asked, staring at the large, mansion-sized lodge.

“No.” Derek frowned at him. “Peter hired people to help him. If he’s started building things himself, then we’re all in trouble.”

“He’s not an architect?”

“Not at all.” Derek looked a little wistful. “I was actually studying to be one when Laura and I were in New York.”

“Do you have plans to finish your degree?”

Derek shrugged. “Let’s finish one project before we worry about another.”

He opened his door and braced. Peter knocked him down, and they rolled in the leaves by the side of the dirt road while Stiles climbed out and stretched out the kinks in his back.

“Derek, what brings you up my way?” Peter asked when he and Derek stopped moving.

“I need something from you,” Derek said. He let Peter tug him up to his feet and ambled toward Stiles. He slung an arm over Stiles’ shoulders and walked him to the porch. It was larger than Derek’s kitchen, and Stiles had the hysterical thought that they should just pack up all that junk and store it here. Certainly Peter didn’t need as much room as he had.

He stamped the thought down. He was trying to help Derek get rid of his hoard, not dump it on someone else. Besides, Peter wasn’t exactly the type to tolerate encroachment of his territory.

“Oh?” Peter smiled knowingly at them. “Does this have something to do with your little crush on Stiles?”

“Not a crush,” Derek said. “And no. This is actually about the box my mother’s claws were in.”

Peter drew back, studying Derek with an air of suspicion. “And why would you want that?” he asked. “You have your mother’s claws. I thought we agreed I could have the box since you wouldn’t let me have the claws.”

“You wanted to use them in a ritual to regain alpha powers,” Derek said. “You know every hunter will come after you if they realize you’re an alpha again, right? You’re too dangerous for them.”

“And what about you? When are you going to become an alpha again?”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want power.”

Peter looked at Stiles, and it felt like he was being stripped of clothes and flesh. “No, you just want a little fuck-buddy.”

“Hey!” Stiles said. “I’m right here!”

“We’re not fuck-buddies,” Derek added. “We’re dating.”

“Hmm. I suppose I should invite you in.” Peter turned on his heel and walked into his house. He left the door open for them, so Stiles followed him in. Derek trailed after, closing the door behind him.

“Want anything? Juice, soda, wine?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Derek said. “We just need the box.”

“And then what do I get?” Peter asked. “Was she not my sister? Why should I have no mementos of her?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Peter, you emptied an entire vault full of memories. I have the claws and not much else. I am asking you, as my mother’s son, for her box.”

Peter turned to Stiles. “And you? Why are you here? Did Derek think that seeing you again would melt my heart? Well, it hasn’t. If anything, I am now more frozen than ever.”

Stiles reached out and stabbed his index finger into Peter’s chest. “Feels pretty warm to me,” he said.

Peter just stared at him. Derek growled under his breath and stalked away. He returned a few minutes later, the box in hand. “Goodbye, Peter.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand and dragged him out of the house. Stiles barely had time to buckle into the passenger seat before Derek had Roscoe turned around and heading back to the paved road, edging up near top speed. He hadn’t even felt him take the keys.

“Easy,” Stiles said as Derek slowed marginally to turn onto the road. “I know Jeeps are good off-roaders, but Roscoe’s old. You’d better treat him better.”

“I thought you’d call your Jeep a she,” Derek muttered, but he did ease off the accelerator.

“Roscoe was my mom’s first. She named him.”

“Oh,” was all Derek said.

It wasn’t until they were back on Interstate 5, near the Oregon-California border that Derek said, “Laura named the Camaro ‘Maura.’”

“Do you still call it that?”

“Her,” Derek said softly. “Yeah. It’s a piece of Laura that I still have.” He patted the dash. “Good, Roscoe. Good job.”

Stiles smiled at him. “You think Peter’s going to try to get the box back?”

“Probably,” Derek said. “Is Chris still in town?”

“Dunno.”

“If he is, I’ll send him to say hello to Peter. I’m sure that’ll keep him away.”

“Not indefinitely,” Stiles pointed out. “Chris is going to leave again, and Peter will probably just come back then.”

“Yeah.” Derek sighed. “I’m just hoping I can decide what to do with the alpha spark if it comes to that.”

“If we can even get the spark out of Scott.”

Derek nodded. “Trade at the next station?”

“Sure,” Stiles said.

~ * ~

They traded drivers again for the last forty-five minutes before they got to Beacon Hills. Dad texted Stiles just as they hit the city limits sign.

Scott wants to meet at Derek’s house.

Stiles sent Okay back. “We’re going to your house. Apparently Scott’s already there.”

Derek turned onto his street and passed Scott’s Mazda as he pulled into his driveway.

Scott was sitting on the chair on the porch, his phone braced against his knee. He lifted a hand to wave at them.

Derek paused before shutting the door. “He’s not alone,” he said in a sotto voice as he and Stiles walked up to Scott.

Indeed, as they stepped onto the porch, a man came around the corner of the house. He was tall, taller than even Boyd had been, darker too.

“Micah,” Scott said, “this is Derek and Stiles. They’re going to be helping with the ritual.”

Micah studied Derek. “This is who your spark came from?”

“His family, yeah,” Scott said.

“Him,” Stiles said. “Derek had to give up the spark almost seven years ago.”

“And you are willing to take it back?”

Derek held up his mom’s box. “I think we can store it in here. It’s made from the wood of the nemeton.”

“So it has power,” Micah said.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “It should be a fine container.” He motioned to Scott. “Shall we begin?”

“Wait,” Stiles said. “What exactly does this ritual entail? What do we have to do? Is there any bloodletting?”

Micah laughed just a touch too hard, Stiles thought. “No,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “It is rather simple. All that has to be done is for the parties to stand in the center of a mountain ash circle and renounce the spark.” He looked to Derek. “Normally, you would then accept the power, but since you wish to store it in the nemeton box, you will have to say that you accept it as it goes into the box instead of your body.”

“What are the exact words we need to say?” Derek asked. “I’d like to not accidentally become an alpha again.”

“Wait,” Stiles said again. “What if the spark doesn’t go into either the box or Derek?”

“That’s what the mountain ash circle is for,” Micah said. “It will stop the spark from finding another host.”

Derek stiffened suddenly. “We need to hurry,” he said. “Peter is coming.”

“I’ll call my dad and see if Chris is still here and if he can come over now.” Stiles stepped back, already dialing.

He watched Micah position Derek and Scott so that they were facing each other in arm’s length apart. He then picked up a pouch from the porch and began pouring mountain ash into a circle around them. If Micah had truly been a werewolf, then he wasn’t one now. Scott was the only wolf Stiles had known to break through mountain ash, but as far as he knew, Scott hadn’t been able to do it again. A one-trick pony.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said when his dad picked up. “Is Chris Argent still in town?”

“I think so,” Dad said. “He was also invited to have dinner with Melissa sometime this week.”

“Can you ask him if he can come to Derek’s house? We need some hunter muscle.”

“Sure. You need a retired sheriff too?”

“Uh, maybe? Peter Hale is in town tonight.”

“Well, fuck,” Dad said. “Okay, we’ll be there. I’ll bring some wolfsbane bullets for Peter.”

“Hurry please.” Stiles hung up and walked closer to see the ritual. Scott was already halfway through his speech of giving up the alpha spark, thanking it for its power and asking that it serve the next host just as well. As he spoke, his body lifted, wind that Stiles couldn’t feel outside the circle ruffling his hair. Scott closed his eyes, leaning back, arms thrown wide.

Derek opened his mom’s box. “Alpha spark,” he said, “please accept this box as your new host and serve it well.” He said a few more things, but Stiles wasn’t paying attention anymore because behind him, he heard growling. When he turned, Peter stood there, close enough that Stiles could touch him if he wanted to. He didn’t.

Peter was half-shifted, eyes blazing icy blue, fur sprouting along his cheeks as his forehead became more prominent.

“You’d waste it like this?” he snarled at Derek.

Derek ignored him, closing the lid on the box as it jerked under his hands, like it suddenly weighed more than before.

Dad’s truck horn blared, and they all turned as Dad parked haphazardly, climbing out of the driver’s side with a raised gun while Chris calmly leveled a loaded crossbow at Peter.

“Hello, Peter,” Chris called. “Long time no see.”

“Yes, well, it is so hard to keep in touch these days,” Peter said, fully human again. “I suppose you’re here to warn me to stay away from my nephew?”

“You know me so well,” Chris returned. “You have five minutes to make yourself scarce before my finger slips.”

Peter glared. “This isn’t over,” he said to Derek. “I will have that power. It is mine by birthright.”

“If that were so,” Derek said quietly, “it would have gone to you and not Laura. You wouldn’t have had to kill her for it.”

Peter looked stricken. “Of course you would think that I did it on purpose. It wouldn’t have mattered if it were someone else. All I saw was an alpha. I didn’t even realize it was Laura until the police were looking for her body.”

“And that is why you shouldn’t have the spark,” Derek said. “I don’t want it, and you can’t have it. Now, please go. Your five minutes are almost up.”

Peter nodded sharply and turned around. “I would say it was nice to see you,” he called to Chris and Stiles’ dad, “but I don’t want to lie.”

He walked away.

“Huh, well that was a lot easier than I thought it’d be,” Stiles said. He stepped up to the mountain ash circle and waved his hand over it to break it. Derek smiled at him before nodding toward Scott.

“It worked. He’s human now.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Scott said. He looked weak, tired. “I’m sorry for what I did before, for bringing Kate back. I should have realized that Deaton didn’t want me to give up the power.”

“I’ll work on forgiving you,” Stiles promised, one hand behind his back, fingers crossed.

Micah helped Scott to his Mazda and set him in the passenger seat before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling away.

Derek looked around the yard at the piles of things still cluttering the yard. He frowned, holding the box out to Stiles.

As soon as Stiles had a good grip on it, Derek walked over to the smallest pile of stuff and pulled the tarp off. He studied the pile before picking up as much of it as he could all at once and walking over to Stiles’ dad��s truck.

“Is this okay?” he asked. Dad nodded. Derek set the stuff in the bed of the truck and went back for another armful.

“Derek?” Stiles called. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just crap,” Derek said. “I don’t want it. Let’s get rid of it. All of it. Please?”

Stiles smiled so wide his mouth hurt and his eyes teared up. “Yes,” he said. “Always.”

And maybe there would be days where Derek would miss the things he threw away, but Stiles would be there to help him and remind him why he didn’t need it.

Stiles carried the box into the house and set it on a shelf above the fireplace in the living room, marveling at the way he could stretch and stretch and not even come close to reaching anything in his way.

Derek joined him, wrapping an arm around his waist as they both studied the room.

“There’s still a lot of work to do,” Stiles said, “but you’ve taken a lot of steps. And we’re all here for you.”

“I know,” Derek said. “But most importantly, you are here.” He moved to stand in front of Stiles, using a gentle finger to tip Stiles’ head up so he could slot his mouth over Stiles’.

“I am,” Stiles said as soon as the kiss ended. “Always.” He pulled Derek down for a dirtier, wetter kiss. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too,” Derek said, and it sounded like a revelation.

Dad cleared his throat. “Not that I want to interrupt this grand display of affection, but I think it’ll be a lot easier to do what you’re about to do on a bed with clean clothes, uh, skin. Come on, let’s go home. You’ll be back here tomorrow anyway.”

“I thought you didn’t want to know when we were having sex,” Stiles said.

“Yes, well, you might not get an STD from Derek, but that floor is another matter.”

Stiles poked Derek’s cheek. “What do you say, should we go back to my place for a little horizontal dancing?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I think I’d prefer to fuck,” he said, and then bodily hauled Stiles up with him.

They made it home in record time. Barely. And took the shortest showers of their lives.

Dad graciously went back to Melissa’s house with Chris, leaving them a row of condoms on Stiles’ bed. They used every last one of them.

~ * ~

~ Epilogue ~

~ Three Weeks Later ~

Stiles surveyed his handiwork before dipping his roller back into the pan of paint and running it over the wall. He was almost done with the second coat for the living room. Derek was painting the kitchen right now. Everything was clean.

The only things that hadn’t initially belonged to Derek still in the house were a few pieces of furniture that Derek planned to reupholster.

In the end, they’d hauled over 50 tons of trash to the various recycling centers and the dump. The house had taken almost as long to clean since Derek and Stiles were doing it themselves. In fact, this was the last coat of paint that they needed.

With a final swipe of his roller, Stiles finished. He set it down, turning to look at the walls. He wiped at his forehead with his sleeve, mopping at the perspiration soaking his hair and running down his face.

They had the windows open, but it barely made a difference when there wasn’t a breeze to speak of.

Stiles picked up his supplies and carried them out to the shed where Derek had decided to keep his touch-up bits and bobs. By the outside spigot, he scraped as much paint as he could off the roller before sticking it in a bucket and opening the spigot to fill the bucket. He added a few drops of detergent and then used his hands to work the rest of the paint out of the roller, hanging it to dry on a hook Derek had installed for this purpose.

He finished by the time Derek was done with the kitchen. Derek washed his roller too, hanging it next to Stiles’.

“So, that’s done,” Stiles said. He and Derek were both paint-splattered and sweat-soaked and in desperate need of a shower.

“Yeah,” Derek said. He smiled fondly at Stiles. The past three weeks had seen them consummate their relationship in truly earth shattering fashion. They’d had so much sex that neither of them could walk straight for about a week, and it had made cleaning the house that much more difficult. Neither of them was willing to stop long enough to fully heal though.

“Wanna join me?” Derek asked, cheekily, jerking his head back toward the house.

“For a shower?” Stiles clarified.

Derek hummed. “Among other things.”

Stiles grinned at him. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

“I think your dad left us a house warming gift earlier. I put it upstairs. It was for the bedroom.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek before running up to the room they’d picked for the bedroom. Sitting on their bed was a red cellophane-wrapped basket. Stiles poked it, turning it around until he could see the contents clearly.

“Really, Dad?” He laughed. Condoms and lube. They were running low, so Stiles couldn’t even be mad at his dad for it. They would definitely get used. In fact… Stiles pulled on the ribbon and peeled off the cellophane. He picked out a box of flavored condoms and headed to the bathroom where Derek had already started the shower.

“Strawberry or cherry?” he asked, stripping quickly and joining Derek under the spray.

“Strawberry?”

“You or me?”

Derek’s gaze dropped to Stiles’ crotch. “You?” he tried.

Stiles grinned and rolled a strawberry flavored condom onto his dick. “Good choice,” he said, as if Derek could have made a bad choice here.

The smile he got in return was brilliant, and Derek gracefully dropped to his knees, leaning forward to envelope Stiles’ dick in the wet heat of his mouth.

It was good, great, perfect, and Stiles wouldn’t change a thing.

~ End ~

#Sterek Big Bang 2021 #Art by mrkgrl #My Story/My Writing #Heed Warnings #Give the artist love!#Check out the event!

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paintedrecs · 4 years ago

Note

Since you've semi-recently gotten into "Gargoyles," do you have some fanfic recommendations for it? (And yes, you can include your own fics if you want. We don't mind.)

Hahaha honestly I don’t have a lot of other recommendations - when I was close to finishing the show, I got impatient and checked the David Xanatos/Owen Burnett tag on AO3, which <em>literally had six fics in it</em>. I was surprised and disappointed, and I spent a few days idly writing a fic in my own head. Since there was nothing out there for me, I had to create my own content.

At one point, I told @mad-madam-m, “I'm talking myself out of writing a Gargoyles fic that 1 person (me) would read.” She replied, “Why would you talk yourself out of that.” I said, “.....huh, fair point I guess.” A few days later, I’d posted an 11k fic.

The funny part is that M, who had not seen the show at that point, has now written 10 Gargoyles fics (going on a 30k+ 11th) to my 4. So really, she played herself.

I’ve poked around in a few other Gargoyles fics - basically scrolled through the whole tag and checked for anything that sounded like it had sufficient Owen in it - but I’m...kinda picky about my pairings, and I’ve gotten weirdly attached to the rarest possible dynamic in this fandom. (Polyamorous Xanatos, married to Fox and dating Owen, but without any romantic/sexual OT3 trio action.)

And I’m also very picky about how people write Owen, because there’s this odd tendency to separate Owen Burnett from Puck, treating them as different people/personalities. Owen IS Puck. Puck is Owen. Just because his face and name changes doesn’t mean he does.

I wrote nearly 37,000 words to try to properly convey my love for this incredibly complicated, fascinating character. (Each subsequent fic was because I felt like I didn’t quite do enough in the last one. I still have a few more in me, if I can ever get around to writing them.)

So...my recommendations...really are just my fics and M’s. Sorry!! It’s sad for me, too. :(

Here they are, though, if anyone’s interested.

My Fics

Then Fate O’errules (30k)

This two-part series has my original Owen POV fic (11k), and an 18k Xanatos POV follow up, since M wanted to know what Xanatos was thinking during all of their relationship drama. (These fics are, incidentally, the first time I ever used the E rating. Gargoyles is an oddly inspiring show.)

I’ve left this as a complete series, since it covers everything I wanted it to, and I consider it a full story.

However...I’ve been dipping back in with timestamp-style fics, so everything I’ve written for this pairing all fits within the same universe: canon-compliant, with the very slight and (I think) fully believable addition of Xanatos being romantically/sexually involved with Owen.

But a Dream (5k)

Technically this has an unhappy ending (unusual for me), but it fits between chapters of my longer series, so it’s just a glimpse of a tougher point in their relationship, when Owen was stubbornly breaking his own heart and Xanatos was massively failing at communication. I honestly really like what I did with the snapshots of their dynamic here, regardless of the angst.

Spirits of Another Sort (2k)

Another quick timestamp between episodes, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Xanatos putting so much effort into trapping a trickster, when he already had a far more powerful one at home. I also have a LOT of emotions about how incredibly desperate Puck is to stay with Xanatos, as Owen. I love exploring their love, as messy and complicated and painful as it is.

[Pending fics: Another short timestamp, from earlier in their relationship, set in the dojo. An outsider perspective on this unusual Xanatos family dynamic from David’s dad, Petros. And, if I ever manage to go back to it, a fairy tale AU that I fully outlined months ago.]

Mikkimouse’s Fics

To my incredibly great fortune, M ended up liking the Xanatos/Owen dynamic as much as I did, so she’s written a few lovely fics for this pairing, now bringing the grand total in the AO3 tag to fourteen.

The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth (2k)

M and I had a conversation some time ago about A Midsummer Night’s Dream, because how can you talk about Puck (and Oberon, the douchebag) without bringing up that play. M then produced this very wonderful snapshot from later on in the Xanatos/Owen relationship, when they go to a play together and run into unexpected emotions. It’s very tender and true to them. I love this one a lot.

Important Questions (592 words)

Xanatos gets drunk. Owen is indulgent.

Explanations (195 words)

A very short, very sweet glimpse of the Xanatos family. I love seeing Owen’s softer side, especially with young Alexander.

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be (5k)

While all my fics are tightly focused on the Xanatos family - primarily Xanatos/Owen, with Xanatos/Fox and Alex in the mix - M has really run with the wider Gargoyles world. She’s particularly great at writing Elisa, who’s one of my favorite characters in the show (which might not be visible from my fics, since uh...Owen doesn’t particularly like her, and I’m largely writing from his perspective).

M has a fantastic grasp on Elisa, though, and has fully sold me on the idea of Elisa and Xanatos eventually becoming really solid friends. This fic has achingly great Xanatos/Owen pining, but it’s mostly about Elisa (sniping at Xanatos but grudgingly getting along with him because he’s frustratingly brilliant and ridiculously charming), and it’s A+.

New Friends and Stranger Companies (3k)

Another stop along the “how the effff do Elisa and Xanatos become best friends??” journey, with Xanatos showing up at Elisa’s apartment after the events of The Gathering. There’s some Owen/Xanatos and Fox/Xanatos, but it’s mostly about Elisa & Xanatos starting to see (to Elisa’s dismay) how much they have in common. There aren’t many people in the world who know what it’s like to be a human hopelessly in love with a very powerful...non-human.

It’s messy and complicated and Elisa begins to really get a sense of the kind of guy Xanatos truly is, beyond his immense wealth and evil plots and fondness for messing with her easy-to-mess-with roar-happy winged boyfriend.

Concerns (200 words)

Some episode timestamps, because this really is the kind of show that inspires you to fill in the gaps. First, a brief exchange between Xanatos and Owen after they’ve discovered Goliath and Elisa (their two biggest harassers and meddlers) are off on some Avalon World Tour, leaving them free to do whatever they want.

That Shrewd and Knavish Sprite (2k)

And an exchange between Hudson and Owen during The Price, when Owen got his stone hand and Hudson turned out to be a lot more perceptive and difficult than the extremely easy to predict Goliath. Also an introduction to another unexpected friendship I’m super on board with: Owen needs friends, and Hudson makes weirdly perfect sense. (They’re definitely not there yet in this fic, but I’m hoping for a sequel.)

Gargoyles Three Sentence Fics (575 words)

Some of M’s early explorations of Elisa and Alex, whom she wrote wonderfully even before watching the show.

Ill Met By Moonlight (5k)

An Elisa & Xanatos friendship? Weird, but it works. An Elisa & Owen friendship? ...Not really going to happen.

One of the things I really like about this show is that it has all these different layers of relationships. Xanatos can be deeply in love with both Fox and Owen, but that doesn’t mean that Fox and Owen are going to feel that way about each other. They get along and definitely grow closer over the years, especially with all three of them being Alex’s parents, but they’re different kinds of people who live different lives and who both happen to have fallen in love with the same man.

Similarly, Elisa and Xanatos becoming best friends doesn’t mean that Owen and Elisa will ever be close. You don’t have to like all your friends’ friends - being an adult means recognizing and knowing how to navigate those complexities.

So here we have Elisa waking up tied to her least favorite person in the world, a sentiment that Owen has no interest in refuting. But they can still work together, and Elisa can still feel and express concern for Owen when she realizes he’s not quite as put together as he always appears.

(Also really great action writing. M is fantastic at that.)

Gentles, Do Not Reprehend (1.2k)

Along with Elisa, M has really made Alex her own. She’s working on a 30k plus Alex-centric story that I am super excited about, and this is an initial window into some of how that will look. I lovelove the unusual and wonderful Xanatos Family structure, and M does such a great job of building it out in funny, emotional, believable ways.

#gargoyles #xanatowen #david xanatos #owen burnett #elisa maza #fox xanatos #alexander xanatos #hudson #goliath #Anonymous #mad-madam-m #i would edit those italics tags but every time I edit posts on here it breaks my read more #so sorry #ugh tumblr

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snarkwrites · 4 years ago

Text

05 | gangsta ; sweet pea

Notes:

A warning ahead of time. I’ve got 3 parts to this already written and I fully intend on posting them today, if possible. Also, things are starting to heat up just a little here pretty soon, so there’s that.

I realize that nobody asked for more of this ( i’m saying that because after chapter 1 I don’t think anybody kept reading lmaooo), however.. I’m having a blast writing it, so whether anyone asked or not, you’re getting it, lmaooo.

Also, new header thing for this because I can.

Warnings:

non canon compliant - this is the biggest warning, so if you’re into things that follow exact canon plot you are... definitely not going to like this. angst & slow burn, heavy sexual tension starting in the next part - this is just so everyone who started reading this thinking the smut would transpire in a hurry knows that apparently, it is not. violence / swearing & fighting, possible underage drinking and other shenanigans - look.. it’s high school. shit happens. also apparently, my ofc Alyssa uses the word fuck like all the time?... eventual sexual content - this one is self explanatory. yes, i plan to write a smutty chapter in this at some point. when? i don’t rightly know. it’s got a while before we get there.

Pairing:

Andrews!Sibling OFC, Alyssa x Sweet Pea

Other Parts:

[ one - two - three - four - soundtrack ]

Other Stuff:

[ faq - tag list doc ]

Tagging:

@brithedemonspawn is the only person on my Riverdale tag list. If you’d like to be tagged for this story by all means.. Please let me know. It’d make me super duper happy!!!

F I V E.

My door was being pounded on. I rolled over, pouting at it. Honestly, the last thing I was prepared to do was go to school and face everything. My dad had told me the night before that I could miss one day.

“I’m sleeping.” I barely called out.

My bedroom door creaked open slowly.

“How long are you going to hide out in here?” Toni asked the question from my doorway, a hand on her hip as she stared me down and tapped her foot.

I sat up, looking at Toni. Shrugging.

“I don’t want to see him. I’m so angry I just want to choke him.”

“So, get up, get dressed and let’s go choke him.”

I eyed her, laughing. Managing a weak smile. Shrugging. “It’s not worth it. I mean… I should’ve known he had some kind of ulterior motive to begin with.”

Toni’s brow raised and she shook her head. “Meaning?” she questioned, an expectant gaze fixed on me.

My dad called up the stairs, “She alive up there?”

Toni answered, “She is.”

Cheryl came jogging up the stairs, flopping onto the other side of the bed.

Holding the one eyed stuffed rabbit that I’d given her in kindergarten because she was upset when her mom and dad couldn’t be bothered to show up for a play we were in.

“I come bringing gifts. Whiskers.” she presented the rabbit to me and I took it, hugging it against me for a few seconds. Holding it back out to her. “He was supposed to protect you, Blossom. You keep him.”

“You’re the one who’s hurting right now.” Cheryl insisted.

“I’m not hurting, I just… I don’t know.”

“You’re upset. And it’s okay, even if I swear to my dying day that Reggie Mantle is not worth it.” Toni coaxed.

I nodded.

“So are you coming with us or are we going to have to drag you out of bed, hm? You know I’ll do it.” Cheryl teased, giving me a soft smile. “You’re tougher than this, okay? I’ve seen your snapchat stories from Chicago.”

“Wait.. What’s that mean, hm? What am I missing?” Toni eyed Cheryl, awaiting explanation.

“For the record, Cheryl, it was only four fights.” I glanced at Cheryl, going quiet and shrugging. I wouldn’t have ever gotten into any of those fights if I hadn’t had a damn good reason. Okay, so maybe one of them I would have because my temper got the best of me.. But the other three? Wouldn’t have happened.

“Four fights that you won, Al.” Cheryl smirked.

“You’ve gotten in a fight? Since when?” Toni eyed me, shocked.

“That’s one of the big reasons I’m living with my dad now. One of many...” I admitted, trailing off and going quiet while shaking my head and laughing. “What? Did you really think I was some actual good girl?” I teased, poking out my tongue at her.

Stifling a yawn as I stretched. Trying to burrow down between the two of them.

“Girl if you don’t get out of this bed, I’m going to open your window and yell for Fangs to come in to crush you.” Toni laughed.

She and Cheryl shared a look and the next thing I knew, they were getting up.. Going to the bottom of my bed. Raising my black bandana stars and moon print comforter. When they started to tickle my feet, I caved pretty quick.

“Okay, alright, fine.”

Toni was already digging through my closet, Cheryl grimacing at the astounding amount of black shirts and band merch. Ripped jeans. Toni turned to look at me. “Girl.”

“Yes?” I was pulling myself out of bed now, stretching. Giving myself a once over in the mirror on my vanity and cringing. “Yikes. I look like death.”

“ So you mean to tell me you have all this stuff and you’ve been wearing all that other stuff?” Toni asked, gazing at me as she held up a cropped Metallica shirt.

I nodded, shrugging. “I.. wanted to try actually not giving my father a thousand heart attacks since that’s apparently Archie’s thing.”

Toni nodded, laughing. “I always felt like you weren’t really you.. The whole cardigans and sundresses thing. I mean, it fits you but it doesn’t. Not like this stuff, at least.”

She tossed a pair of black jeans at me, and one of my shirts. And then Cheryl eyed the box sitting on my window seat. “What’s this?”

“Pretty much anything Reggie gave me or every note he ever wrote. I was going to throw it all out or burn it later… Probably burn it because of the fact that I get to play with fire.” I sighed, grabbing the jeans and the shirt.

“Hey, Toni? Do you see a red and black plaid shirt? It’ll be towards the back. It’s really old looking. Can you hand it to me?” I asked as I grabbed for my favorite pair of boots, slipping my feet into them.

Toni found my dad’s old shirt and eyed it. Held it up to her nose, smelling it. “Why’s this smell like old guy cologne?”

“Probably because it’s my dad’s old shirt?” I gave her a laugh. She laughed and smiled. “You’re such a daddy’s girl, Andrews.”

I shrugged and smiled. “At least he’s dependable.”

“Hey, there’s toast if you three want any.” my dad spoke up from the doorway, glancing at the three of us.

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.”

“Thank you.”

After we’d eaten some toast and scrambled eggs, I grabbed my bookbag and just as I started out the door, my dad stopped me. “I’m glad you’re listening to what we talked about. Being yourself?”

“Me too.” I smiled, stopping to give him a hug. “Hey.. I don’t have practice after school. Is it okay if I come and hang out at the site? Maybe I can even help a little…”

My dad mulled it over. Smiling. “Yeah.”

I pushed out the front door just in time to see Fangs wandering our way. He chuckled, nodding to me. “I see you guys did actually get her out of bed.”

“We did say we were going in there with one goal in mind, Fangs.” Toni snickered. I tensed a little when I noticed Sweet Pea lingering up ahead, leaned against the streetlight, his arms folded over his chest.

For some reason, the fact that he probably knew everything that happened just.. Bothered me. Way more than it should’ve.

I stopped. My gaze torn between the path to school and my father’s house, getting further behind me with each step. Suddenly not too sure I wanted to or I even could face the fact that if Reggie and Chuck made the bet then everyone I once thought of as a friend probably knew already.

And spent the entire time I was bending over backwards just to make myself fit in laughing behind my back.

The anger kicked up in me and I took a deep breath.

“Oh come on! The best way to handle this is to show him you don’t care and it doesn’t bother you, Al.” Cheryl coaxed. Toni nodded in agreement.

I took a few shaky breaths and started to walk to catch up with them again. Letting the anger brew instead of just pushing it back down like I seemed to be getting good at doing to a lot of things lately.

If I was going to face Reggie and all our friends, I was going to need that anger. I was going to need one hell of a shiny spine. Because being passive and letting it go just isn’t who I am. And maybe my dad’s right. Maybe it’s time I started being more me.. Without all the crazy and wild stunts I pulled back in Chicago.

“Are we meeting to have our little goodbye fire after school?” Cheryl asked. I bit my lip, mulling it over. Finally nodding, as much as it hurt. The sooner I get this out of my system, the better I’ll feel, hopefully. “Yeah. I’ll get the box and we can do it in a trash barrel at the construction site.”

I almost had to laugh at the irony. Not even a week ago, I’d been contemplating breaking up with Reggie because I couldn’t take the fighting or the tension anymore. The only thing that stopped me? Not wanting to hurt him. Because I knew what he was going through at home. Because I could see the teeniest sliver of a good and sweet guy buried deep down beneath all the cocky swagger.

And today, we were over and he’d been the one to hurt me. He’d been playing the long con the entire time.

The sound of a car revving on the road next to the sidewalk we were all walking on had me glancing over. Grumbling when my eyes settled on Reggie’s black Charger.

“What the fuck does he want?” Sweet Pea snarled to himself.

“A fight, if we’re fuckin lucky, man.” Fangs chuckled, opening and closing his fists.

Reggie rolled down the passenger window. Called out to me.

I pretended not to hear him, turning my attention to talking to Cheryl and Toni instead.

“I know you hear me, princess.. C’mon. Please? At least give me a chance to explain?”

He kept at this for almost a minute until I finally got annoyed. I finally just couldn’t deal with him lingering. Trying to push me into talking things out. What was there to talk about?

He’d had a bet going about getting into my panties.

“Explain what, exactly?” I eyed him, a hand on my hip.

Reggie bit his lip and his eyes roamed over me. He sighed quietly, nodding to the passenger seat.

I shook my head no. “Which part do you need to explain, Reggie? The part that you made a bet on taking my virginity or the fact that you’re an actual fucking pig? I can’t believe I fell for your shit.”

From beside me, I felt Sweet Pea tense a little. Fangs grumbled and shook his head, muttered under his breath, “ I always knew he was a fucking douche.”

“I deserved that.” Reggie muttered. Pleading with me again to at least let him explain.

“You deserve a kick in the balls.” I retorted, starting to walk a little faster. “Don’t you have a bimbo to fall back on?” I asked when I realized he wasn’t pulling away and driving off. “Stop trying. It’s not like you tried that hard before I found out what you were really about.”

He eyed me, his mouth opening and closing.

“What’s that mean, huh?”

“ If you can’t figure it out, it’s not on me to explain it.” I rolled my eyes. Tapping my boot against the sidewalk impatiently.

“I’m gonna prove you wrong, princess.” Reggie bit his lip, gazing at me. “I’m gonna prove just how wrong you are and how much I care.”

“You can start by leaving, meatball.” I rolled my eyes, waving a hand dismissively as I hurried to catch up with the rest of my friends. Reggie drove off and I watched his tail lights fading. Taking a few shaky breaths because it felt like I’d just ripped a bandaid off an open wound.

“That went well.” Toni muttered, eyeing me. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I muttered.

We were standing at the edge of the parking lot in front of Riverdale High by now. I gazed at the building. For a few seconds, I thought about bolting. Instead, I took a few long and deep breaths. Walking into the halls with Toni and Cheryl. Holding my head up. Ignoring the stares and the few whispers.

Cheryl leaned in to mutter against my ear, “Ignore them.”

I nodded, even though every single part of me was now wishing I hadn’t chosen to come today.

When I got to my locker, I found a single red rose taped to it. I tore it off. Grumbling to myself as I found a trash bin and threw the flower inside, giving Reggie a pointed glare as I walked right past him.

Chuck elbowed him and said it loudly enough that I could hear, “You can do better, Mantle. Find yourself a girl who cares enough to put out.”

I rolled my eyes. Spinning around before Toni or Cheryl even realized that I wasn’t walking with them anymore. Backtracking down the hall and stopping in front of Chuck.

Gazing up at him as I retorted, “Oh?”

Chuck eyed me, snickering. “Somebody’s feisty this morning.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong here, but didn’t you like… lie about half the girls you claim slept with you? I mean hey.. I can’t help it, some of us have actual standards, dude. Wasn’t there a whole ass scene between you and pretty much every single girl in Riverdale High? In this same hallway? Might want to keep your mouth shut, Chucky.”

His fists clenched.

I snickered quietly. “Anyway, that’s not what I came over for. It just occurred to me, Chuck.. I never bothered to ask how much my virginity is worth to an ignorant swine like you. How much was the bet, hm?”

Chuck raised a brow. Reggie tensed. Trying to butt in, trying to tell me to let it go and plead with me to just talk to him later when I’d cooled down.

But I was past it.

Chuck smirked. “You, princess? Twenty bucks. Now.. if you were actually hot like say… Betty Cooper or Veronica Lodge, even Cheryl over there or her pretty little friend.. It’d have been a hundred bucks easy.” he folded his arms over his chest. Waiting on his words to hit some kind of mark.

Thinking that I gave a shit. Or that I wasn’t already well aware that I wasn’t supermodel hot like most of the other girls and totally fine with it.

“If you’re waiting on me to be hurt, it’s not gonna happen. But here. Here’s your fucking money, you prick.” I dug around in the pocket of my jeans, finding a twenty dollar bill. Tossing it at him. Nodding at where it settled on the floor.

“Pick it up.” I repeated firmly.

“How about you do it for me, princess?” Chuck smirked, gazing at me intently. Nodding towards the fallen twenty.

I shook my head. Stepped closer. “Go on.. Pick it up. Unless you’re afraid...”

Reggie cleared his throat. “Princess.. You don’t have to do this. None of this matters...” he tried to reason with me. Tried to get me to calm down.I whirled around to face him. “ My name is Alyssa. You don’t get to call me princess or baby girl or anything like that anymore. Are we clear, meatball?”

Chuck cackled at that. I turned to face him, nodding to the money. Bending to pick it up. “Guess you don’t want to get paid.” I shrugged. He reached for the twenty and I drew it back out of his grasp, clucking my tongue.

I held it up, as best as I could to keep it out of his reach. When he went for it, I threw it on the floor again and spat in his direction. “Next time you decide to bet on somebody’s virginity, asshole, just remember how many girls shot you down. Remember that you’re actually not hot shit.”

I shoved through the crowd, walking back over to my locker. Throwing it open. Ignoring the shocked looks on my friends faces as I calmly switched out my books for the morning classes.

XXX

He couldn’t stop replaying the whole thing in his head. Smirking about it a little in pride because he honestly hadn’t ever thought she had all that in her. He found himself stealing glances at her while she had her nose buried in the textbook, reading and not paying anything going on around her any sort of attention.

From behind them, Reggie was hissing her name. Sweet Pea rolled his eyes, annoyed because the guy had basically gone this entire time without a backwards glance at her while paired with Mandy, and now, suddenly, he couldn’t leave her alone.

The jealousy that surged had Sweet Pea clenching his fist. Shoving it in his jacket.

When Reggie tried to pass a note to her and it settled on his desk instead, he turned and smirked. Speaking up so the teacher caught onto what was going on.

“I”m flattered, Mantle. Really I am. But you’re kind of not my type, man.” Sweet Pea smirked as Reggie practically growled at him and shook his head. The teacher hadn’t caught on yet. Reggie kept nodding to Alyssa and Sweet Pea chuckled to himself again. The urge to embarrass the guy was just too strong to pass up.

“Oh? You want me to pass this note to Alyssa?” Sweet Pea barely hid the smirk when he said it loudly enough that he knew their teacher had to hear him, plain as day.

The teacher glanced their direction, stalking across the room to snatch the paper out of Sweet Pea’s hands. Unfolding it as he started to read it to the entire class.

Alyssa grumbled under her breath, whirling around in her seat.

“Pig.” she called out before turning to face the front again. Sinking down in her seat just slightly. Shaking her head as she muttered to herself quietly, “Where was this energy when we were actually dating, I ask?”

They reached for the textbook open between them at the same time and Alyssa glanced over at him, biting her lip. No matter how much he tried, Sweet Pea couldn’t drop his gaze. His eyes were locked on hers. He repositioned the book so that they could both see it clearly. And maybe just so she’d have to lean in slightly in the process.

“What’d you say to Chuck in the hall?” He whispered after a few seconds.

“I threw his fucking money at him. And reminded him that most of the girls he supposedly got with actually didn’t and wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. I was hoping he’d bend down and get his money though because I was totally about to knee him in the face.”

“Nah. I don’t see you doing that.” Sweet Pea chuckled, shaking his head at her and locking eyes all over again.

Alyssa eyed him, an amused look on her face as she shrugged. “Whatever you say, Sweet Pea.” before going back to reading their assigned part of the text.

Sweet Pea found himself staring at her. Probably much more than he should have if he were being honest about it.

She leaned in to turn the page and he coughed abruptly. The cotton candy scent of her favorite body spray wafting up. Making him bite his lip over the knee jerk reaction he was having to the way she was slightly leaned against him. She must have caught on to him staring at her because she glanced up, licking at her lips. Muttering an apology in haste and moving away a little.

He leaned into her and muttered into her ear, “It’s not that big a deal, cherry.”

She nodded, but she didn’t look up at him or anything.

When it happened at least two more times during the class, he wound up having to shift around in his seat a little. Trying to appear neutral when every little accidental brush of her side against his was overloading him a little more each time.

XXX

“Okay, I got matches.” Toni or Cheryl called up the stairs from the living room.

“I have the lighter and the box.” I answered, jogging down the stairs to meet them. We stepped out of the house and I locked the door behind me. Stopping by the fern to make sure the spare key was still hidden inside the pot just in case Archie didn’t have his key.

We set out for the construction site but Toni remembered that she had to stop by her grandfather’s place to grab something.

The crowd gathered outside was angry. Panicked. Toni shoved her way through the crowd her neighbors made, up and onto her porch. Coming back with a bright orange piece of paper that had been stuck to her front door.

I happened to spot Sweet Pea as he stood on the porch three trailers away. His jaw set firm.

Cheryl snatched the note from Toni and as soon as she realized it was an eviction notice, she was hugging Toni.

“I can’t fucking believe this. They can’t just throw out everyone.”

I swallowed hard. Locking eyes with Sweet Pea from across the lot. Every part of me wanted to walk over to him. But I didn’t dare.

He tolerated me at best.

I could just see this only driving his defenses up even more. Fangs wandered over, a similar note in his own hands. Swearing and angry.

“There’s absolutely no way, this is bullshit.”

“They can and they did, Cherry.” Fangs grumbled. Cheryl and I shared a look because neither one of us really knew what to do or say in this case.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m gonna skype my mom tonight and ask if this is legal at all.” I took Fang’s notice and took a screenshot of it. He shook his head. Muttered calmly and quietly, “No use in bothering with it, Cherry. We all know how this is gonna play out.”

“It doesn’t have to, though.” I answered, shaking my head. Cheryl did the same. Hugging Toni as she tried to console her. Offering to let her stay at her place.

Sweet Pea punched at the post on his porch and jumped over the rail, wandering over to where Toni and Fangs stood with Cheryl and I.

“You see this shit?”

“Yeah.” Toni answered in a flat tone.

Fangs just nodded. Pacing. Angry.

“This can’t be legal.” I muttered.

Sweet Pea gazed down at me. A sneer forming. “I hate to break it to you, Cherry. This is real life. And there’s nothing any of us can do about it, either.”

I tensed at his tone. I get where his anger was coming from, but the fact that it was directed at me right now was both hurtful and kind of irritating.

“What? You think I live in a fucking ivory tower?” I snapped before I could stop myself, storming off.

Cheryl caught up to me halfway down the block.

“There has to be something we can do. Anything.” Cheryl spoke up as we shared a look.

“I’m calling my mother. If anyone can stop this bullshit, it’s her.”

“I can try to buy it back.” Cheryl mused.

“That fucking snake Lodge wouldn’t ever allow it and your mother would end herself before she let you do that. Not to mention what she might do to get even with you for even thinking it.” I sighed as I gazed at Cheryl. The wheels in my mind turning. Same as hers, I could tell.

“We just have to think. I mean, we know who’s behind all this. I wish there was some way I could fucking pin him and make it stick.” I grumbled, shaking my head again.

“Something tells me there’s more to your dislike for Veronica’s father than merely the way he’s making our friends homeless.” Cheryl studied me. I nodded, answering quietly, “The man got out of prison, discovered my brother was dating his daughter and decided to take a wrecking ball to my brother and my father’s relationship. You know how close they were, Cheryl. And you know how much I hate change or tension. And it’s been so tense between them since I moved back I… I just feel like the walls are closing in sometimes. But my mom told me to let them figure it out. To focus on figuring myself out. But I can’t because I love them both and it’s frustrating the hell out of me, ugh!”

Cheryl nodded. The rest of the walk to my father’s construction site was quiet. Both of us thinking. Trying to come up with any form of a solution.

Toni caught up to us, putting her arms around. “I’ll take you up on staying at your place.” she muttered, brushing a kiss to Cheryl’s cheek as a thank you. I smiled at the two of them and then spoke up.

“I’m seriously going to call my mother tonight and ask if Mayor McCoy can do this. Every part of me wants to go fill her gas tank with sugar but then I remember, Josie’s actually pretty okay and I don’t want to get on her bad side. Besides.. Pretty sure her mother didn’t come up with the idea to do this on her own. Pretty sure she had a little monetary persuasion.”

Toni eyed me as I kicked over a garbage can nearby.

“It’ll be fine. F.P’s already offered sanctuary at the Wyrm for everyone.” Toni spoke up. I nodded. Feeling a little bit of relief, because I’d been so fucking worried.

I knew Fangs probably had places he could go. Other family.

Sweet Pea, I wasn’t entirely sure he had that. And I knew he’d literally rather die than ask anyone for anything.

Even though if I thought for a second he didn’t have a place to crash, I’d been fully prepared to do something. Anything.

I shoved the thought out of my head.

“What’d you mean by monetary persuasion?” Toni asked.

Cheryl filled her in on my five minute rant that she’d missed. And Toni studied me intently. “And now the way you keep your distance and go quiet around Veronica and your brother totally makes sense.”

“I want to like her, I really do, but.. Her father and this fuckery. Because we all know none of this started until that man came to town.” I rubbed at my forehead. God, I was so done with this day.

My father’s construction site came into view and my dad caught sight of me, making his way over after he finished talking to one of the contractors.

“Everything okay, tiny?” My father asked, giving me a gentle look of concern.

“Fuck no.” I grumbled, shaking my head. Trying to put my thoughts together and be calm about it.

“Hey! Language.” My father scolded in a gentle tone. He eyed me and waited. I took the eviction notice from Toni’s hand and showed him, shaking my head. “I swear to God, that jerk Lodge should’ve stayed in prison.”

“Agreed.” my father muttered. He handed Toni back the eviction notice and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. I could tell it bothered him too. His jaw set firm, just like it always does when something’s upsetting him or making him angry. I get the trait honestly.

“I’m going to call Mom tonight and ask if it’s legal for Mayor McCoy to do that. I mean she can’t. Unless the place is condemned.. I wouldn’t think.” I explained.

“I dunno, kid. The world’s not always as black and white as we see it. Kind of where your mom and I butted heads a lot.” my father answered, hugging me. Glancing at Toni. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Cheryl smiled and nodded, speaking up.

“She’s going to be staying at the Manor with me, sir.” she beamed as she held onto Toni’s hand, giving it a squeeze. My dad chuckled and raked his hand over his head.

“If Cheryl’s mom starts anything, you’re welcome to stay with Alyssa.” my father told her. Toni gave a soft laugh, nodding. Thanking him quietly.

My dad caught sight of the box in my arms, nodding to it. “What’s all that?”

“All the crap Reggie gave me. And the notes and pictures.” I answered, shuffling my feet.

“You’re not gonna keep that?” my dad questioned. “I know it hurts, but memories.”

“Nope. I have zero interest in anything to remind me I was ever stupid enough to date Reggie Mantle.” I shook my head, vetoing the suggestion.

“Yikes. How bad was this fight you two had, exactly?” my dad asked again. He’d been trying to get me to tell him but I just couldn’t. Not knowing my dad would definitely try to murder the guy.

Cheryl started to speak up, she started to tell my father what actually happened, but I gave her a gentle elbow in the side. My father eyed me and I sighed.

“It wasn’t exactly an argument. We just broke up. Well, to be honest, I dumped him.”

“If you want to talk about it..” my dad offered.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you’d try to murder him and I love you too much to let you go to prison.” I answered quietly. “Trust me, daddy.. You don’t want to know. Let’s just leave it at me dumping him, please sir?”

He eyed me, but he let it drop for now.

As soon as we found a barrel we could use to burn the contents of the box in, we made our way over and I turned the box upside down, letting the pictures, letters and the stuffed animal inside settle in the bottom of the barrel.

After striking the match, Cheryl passed it to me. I tossed it in and we stood there, watching the fire quietly. All of us lost in thought.

At one point, Toni spoke up.

“Sweet Pea shouldn’t have gone off like that.”

“I don’t blame him. I get it. It’s fine.” I shrugged. “He’s right. I am kind of sheltered. I mean I know what the real world is like, I just.. I got lucky enough that I don’t have to face a lot of it’s challenges.” I mused, shaking my head. It still hurt, the way he’d snapped at me so harshly. ,, ah well, I thought to myself, another good reason why he’d never want to be with someone like me and a very good reason why we wouldn’t work out and I just need to forget whatever.. this.. is that I am feeling towards him lately.”

“Is there any reason you haven’t told your father the real reason you broke up with Reggie?” Cheryl asked the question after we’d all fallen silent again. I leaned back in the chair I’d dragged over and gazed up at the sky. “Because I know my dad will try to kill him. And no matter how much Reggie deserves it, I don’t want it to happen.”

“Oh, I’m petty enough I’d tell him.” Toni answered. The three of us shared a laugh and I went quiet. “Was Sweet Pea okay when you left? I know the eviction notice pissed him off.” I asked, grabbing a stick to poke at the fire. Pouting because it was starting to die down. The flame licked at the corner of the first note Reggie ever wrote me and I stared at it a few seconds, lost in thought.

Sweet Pea’s throat cleared. I looked at him.

“You can ask me yourself.” he answered quietly. Fangs nodded to the dwindling fire. “Damn. I missed the closest I’ll ever come to lighting Mantle’s ass on fire.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. Then I stood to go lug a hose over to put out the fire. It was dying anyway, there wasn’t any sense in just letting it keep burning.

“We could move this to Pops. I gotta pick up dinner for me and Dad tonight anyway, because Archie is apparently going to welsh on his turn to cook. Because he’s with Veronica, of course. Doing god knows what.”

“The sex.” Fangs teased, wiggling his brows suggestively.

Making me grimace and pretend to gag while plugging my ears as he did so. “Ew, gross, why the fuck would you put any of that… imagery in my head? She’s kind of a friend and he’s my brother and now I’m going to fucking hurl, sir.”

“Fuck it, why not. Pop’s it is.” Sweet Pea grumbled, pulling himself off the ground. As we walked towards the diner, I found myself fenced in beside Sweet Pea when Fangs chose to walk on the outside of the sidewalk. My side brushed against him every few steps and I couldn’t help but be painfully aware of it. Of him. I shoved it out of my mind immediately. I was barely managing to get the guy to warm up to me as a friend. And right now, I needed to breathe. To get my own head on straight. Enjoy being alone and free to do whatever. Without any obligation to anybody or expectations.

,, besides, look at him… do you really think he’d ever go for you? Not a freaking chance. Literally the only reason Reggie Mantle did was just to see if you’d give it up so he could win some fucking bet... You’re always second choice, the sooner you accept it and stop fighting to be chosen first, the better...” the thought surfaced, taunting me.

When I saw Reggie’s car rounding the corner, I swore to myself and tensed up slightly. And next to me, I felt Sweet Pea tense just a bit himself. He glanced down at me when our hands brushed on accident. Biting his lip. Our gaze lingering on each other, distracting me from Reggie’s car slowing to an idle on the street as he tried to get my attention from inside of it.

I don’t know why I did it, but I curled my pinkie around Sweet Pea’s. Giving a careful squeeze because it kind of calmed me down.

“Pound sand, Dog.” Toni called out as soon as Reggie had the window rolled down. I laughed and called out to him calmly, “What my best friends just said, meatball. Pound sand.”

“Give me a chance.” Reggie pleaded again.

“What I’d like to give you is a swift kick in the nuts.” I retorted.

Reggie sighed. Called out calmly, “I’ll give you a little more time to calm down. Then you have to talk to me. Please? I.. I love you, okay? The last thing I wanted was everything to come out.”

I swallowed hard, gazing at him. Really weighing the fact that it took him getting caught like he had to make him actually say the words and actually appear to mean them. I dragged my fingers through my hair. Trying to think about it all.

Deep down, I knew that it was already over before I even overheard the conversation about the bet he’d made with Chuck. I’d already been thinking about it.

He’d just done me a favor and sped up my decision making process.

“Go away, meatball.” I called out. Reggie rolled up his window and drove away and I shook my head, going quiet. Thinking about everything.

We filed into Pop’s, filling up a booth. I guess I was too quiet, because Cheryl cleared her throat.

I glanced over at her and she smiled. Gently but firmly reminding me that Spirit Week was upon us and I needed to be in my best form. I nodded. “I’m trying.”

“Don’t try. Do. I can’t have my tumbler moping all over the place. And if you’re going to pull off that stunt you’ve been practicing, you have to have your head in it. One wrong move and it won’t be pretty.” Cheryl reminded me.

I took a sip of my milkshake and nodded again. “Oh trust me, I know.”

“What stunt?” Toni asked, looking from me to Cheryl.

Cheryl explained it. The gist of it was that I was going to do my usual bit on the pyramid, a back tuck basket, hopefully come out of that into a back handspring.

“Are all gymnasts super flexible?” Fangs asked, making all of us laugh and groan as he shrugged, “It was just a question. I mean they’re always doing all those flips and all that other shit.”

Cheryl giggled at the question, nodding to me. “She used to put her legs behind her shoulders when we were in grade school.”

“Until you triple dared me once and I fucking got stuck like an actual human pretzel.” I pretended to pout at her from across the booth. Cheryl laughed. Toni laughed and I pouted at them both. “Glad you find my embarrassment entertaining.”

“Oh come on! I’m just wondering if it’s like that afternoon we were messing around by the quarry and you tried to cram yourself into that pipe.”

“Again, fuck you both.” I quipped, taking a long and noisy sip of my milkshake.

“Yeah, what is it with you and spaces you don’t need to be in?” Fangs questioned, chuckling as I stuck my tongue out at him and shrugged.

“I climbed into a dryer once on a dare. I think honestly, it’s just the simple fact that I hate being told I can’t or shouldn’t do something, because that’s how the dryer dare all started...” I trailed off, drumming my fingers against the tabletop.

“Wasn’t that one on your Snapchat stories?” Cheryl asked. Digging for her phone and going to the app. Going through my stories until she found it.

I laughed as I heard one of my old friends in the background going “And it was in this moment that Allie knew she’d truly fucked up.” just as I started to realize I might or might not be stuck and started to panic a little. Yelping about “Errors were made. Oh no. This is.. How am I explaining this to my mother, Lexy? Oh god, she’s going to have a cow…” as I laughed hysterically and tried to wiggle myself free. “Suddenly, this doesn’t seem like a good idea. Stop filming me Raya and help, shit!”

“Dramatic?” Sweet Pea chuckled, catching my gaze.

“Eh, maybe a little.” I shrugged, sipping my milkshake. Trying to drop my own gaze first, but unable to do so for whatever reason.

“What’s the thought process behind cramming yourself into a dryer though?” he questioned.

“I was told I shouldn’t or that I wouldn’t. Then dared to do it. So I did it...” I answered. Gazing over at him. A puzzled look on my face because he was kind of staring at me. Intently. Lost in thought for a few seconds.

“A dare, huh?” he eyed me as he asked.

I held his gaze because try as I might, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from doing it.“Mhm.” I muttered, finally managing to break our little stare down. Glancing down at my french fries and shoveling a few in my mouth.

After we left Pop’s, I made my way back home, flopping myself across my bed. Cheryl was sitting at my vanity with her legs propped against it and Toni was sprawled out on a giant beanbag chair that sits in the corner of my room, flipping through a magazine.

“So.. Is there some reason you and Sweet Pea keep staring at one another?” Toni’s question drew me out of my own thoughts. I glanced over at her, shrugging. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You noticed too?” Cheryl asked Toni. Toni held my gaze, smirking at me as she nodded yes to Cheryl. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Cherry. And for the record, you definitely didn’t look at Mantle that way.”

“I don’t look at Sweet Pea in any certain way either? I mean.. I don’t think I do?” I questioned, confused. Wondering why I kept getting asked the question or accused of doing this.

“You do.”

“It’s like you’re starving.”

“Or thirsty.” Toni teased, the three of us bursting into laughter. I actually had to stop and think about it.

And found myself confronted with the fact that maybe… possibly… I did think Sweet Pea was hot. I had since my first run in with the guy, right after I moved back to Riverdale. I just.. Didn’t make it a point to actually stop and think about it or dwell on it.

But I found myself wondering.. If my best friends noticed any looks I may or may not be giving him… Did that mean he had?

Somehow, I doubted it. And that relieved me.

“All I’m going to say is he’s hot. But that’s it. And neither of you better say a word! That’s all the guy needs, his ego getting so big he can’t fit a room. Besides… even if I did… feel an attraction… there’s the small fact that guy absolutely cannot stand me. He only tolerates me because we’re friends.” I admitted. Going quiet. Letting the thought sink in. Trying my best to process it.

Or forget it. Because that was pretty much my only option here. Shove these pesky thoughts and any attraction that I’d been feeling as deep down as they’d go.

Otherwise, this was going to get awkward. Fast.

#sweetpea fanfiction #sweetpea imagine #sweetpea fanfic #sweetpea imagines #sweetpea fic #riverdale fanfiction #riverdale fanfic #riverdale fic #my writing ; sweetpea #my fics ; sweetpea #my fanfiction ; sweetpea #// so far this has been kind of a flop. but it's the most fun i've had writing a flop in ages #// so i'm honored to write a flop i guess lmaooo

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