Chapter Text
Derek follows Stiles' car to an old farmhouse in the middle of a huge set of fields. There are animals, cows and chickens and something that looks like a massive pig that is very definitely Not a Pig.
The farmhouse is huge, and it looks just dilapidated enough for people not to notice the high security doors and windows, the runes etched into every door post and banister. It's a fortress.
Stiles parks, and Derek parks behind him. He follows Stiles up the front steps, but he can't cross onto the porch.
Mountain ash.
Stiles waves a hand at the line, parting the barrier to allow Derek through. It seems habitual, opening and closing the line. Derek watches the line snap back into place, sealing him inside.
(When did magic become second nature?)
Guess he really can't run, this time.
Derek waits for the claustrophobia to claw at him, the urge to run that races through his veins when he stays somewhere too long or gets stuck somewhere he can't escape. It doesn't come.
"So, what are you doing these days?" Stiles asks as he unlocks the front door, three or four bolts and a complicated rune and some sort of spell.
"I'm a ghostwriter. I can work wherever I have internet access, so my nomadic lifestyle doesn't affect my job."
"Which is how you ended up here." It isn't a question.
Stiles finally opens the door, and Derek slowly follows him inside. The pure wave of /Stiles/ hits him like a wall, scent thick from years living in this house.
The dilapidated exterior is as much a defense as the wards are. Inside, the house is neat and clean and cozy.
Stiles locks the door behind Derek, second nature, habit, hypervigilance as praxis.
When did Stiles go from reasonably skeptical to paranoid beyond measure? What happened?
"It's not much, but it's home." Stiles gestures to the hallway off of the living room. "Kitchen and laundry are that way. Bedrooms are upstairs. Office is in the basement. Don't go down there."
"I won't."
"Good." Stiles leads him upstairs. "There should be whatever you need in the guest room. I don't have Wi-Fi, and cell service sucks, so I have a landline if you need to call anyone."
"Right. Got it." Derek follows dutifully. "There's peace in being a luddite, I guess."
"Something like that."
The guest room is larger than Derek expected. Not huge, by any means, but the white furniture and green and white curtains make it feel airy. Derek sets his backpack on a bench under the window and turns back to Stiles in the doorway.
"Thank you, Stiles. This is more than I could dream of asking for."
Stiles' stance is tense.
"Couldn't let you just drive through the night, or sleep in your truck, not around here. Once you were out of Margo's territory, you'd be in danger." Stiles shakes his head. "Never mind. It's whatever. I have to go do closing chores. Get some rest."
His words rattle around Derek's mind. He would Google some things, but there's no signal. His questions will have to wait for morning.
...
Stiles walks out the back door to the paddock where Cal is snuffling around her trough and looking back at him disgruntledly.
"I know, I know. I should have fed you before I left. My bad. Thank you for not trying to eat the sheep again." Stiles deposits her carefully crafted meal into her trough and dares to scratch the back of her head. "Did you get a good look at him?"
Cal grunts, dismissive.
"I know, you don't like strangers. I need you to try and not kill this one."
Her energy is not reassuring, but neither is it openly hostile. He'll take it.
Stiles takes a deep breath, scrubs a hand over his face.
"I shouldn't have invited him."
The sow huffs in agreement. She never did like strangers.
"If you ignore him while he's here, I'll find you some nice criminal to dispatch, deal?"
She perks up at the promise of human flesh. Goddamn vengeful folkloric beasts.
Stiles perches on the fence, looking out at his little farm. He's being ridiculous.
"I'm being ridiculous," Stiles says aloud.
He has a life here. Friends. A job. A little family he cobbled together. A farm. A home.
And one look at Derek Hale sent him spinning.
"I hate him."
Cal snorts.
"I know, I don't believe me either."
Stiles does the rest of his evening chores on autopilot. The usual call of the local nemeton is getting louder. He has to make it another day before he goes down there.
He locks up the house on his way back in, closing the outer wards and checking the rest of his protective charms.
Addie calls.
"Hey, just checking in," she says quietly. "You okay?"
"I'm... not really, but it'll be fine." Stiles sighs, sinking into his armchair. "He's staying the night. I couldn't let him leave this late."
"This is going to hurt," Addie says.
"It already does." Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. "It was an accident. He was just driving through. He still wasn't seeking me out."
"I'm here for you," Addie says. "We'll get through this. We've gotten through worse."
It's a hell of an understatement.
"This is going to suck. I'll see you at work, I love you."
"I love you too. Get some rest."
Stiles sleeps fitfully, keenly aware of Derek's presence in his space. Inviting him in was a mistake.
...
Saturday
Derek wakes with the dawn, unused to farm life instead of hotel life. He gets fully dressed and packs his few things back into his bag, fully intending to leave as soon as he can.
Stiles has a life here. He can't ruin that.
"You can't leave," Stiles says from the kitchen as Derek walks downstairs. "Literally. The barrier is closed.”
"I wasn't going to leave without saying something." The 'again' is heavily implied. "I figured you'd want me out of your hair."
"Bullshit. You're a fucking coward." Stiles smells bitter, angry. He shoves his arms into a ratty work coat and heads for the door. "Lou's diner for lunch. After that, it's up to you."
Derek sets up shop at Lou's Diner, one of the only Wi-Fi hubs in town. It's across the street from Folklore, a book/music/jack of all trades store that oozes Stiles and the freesia scent Derek is starting to recognize as Addie.
(It's a pun, because of course it is.)
Stiles joins him around one o'clock, and the curmudgeonly teenage waiter brings him a burger and curly fries without asking.
"Thanks, Nate. I appreciate it."
The kid glares at Derek for a moment, flicks his gaze back to Stiles, and disappears into the crowded restaurant. Stiles eats a few bites and stares at Derek.
"So…” Derek says awkwardly. He feels very observed.
“Why?" Stiles asks, blunt.
Derek doesn't ask him what he's talking about. There’s only so many topics of conversation on the table.
"I was scared," Derek finally says, poking at the ice in his glass so he doesn't have to make eye contact. "I was scared of what would happen if I stayed."
"Well, what happened when you left wasn't exactly a walk in the fucking park," Stiles says, a hint of drawl adding to the sarcasm. "What were you so afraid of?"
Derek takes a deep breath, then another.
"You were seventeen."
Dead silence. Derek can't read Stiles the way he used to, can't tell what he's thinking.
The man has long since learned how to hide his heartbeats.
"You were seventeen, and I didn't want to... couldn't... I'm not Kate."
"You could never be Kate," Stiles says immediately. He reaches for Derek's hand across the table but stops before he makes contact.
"You... you were becoming an anchor, and you were so vulnerable, I didn't want to risk hurting you." Even the barest hint of inclination that something could happen, and Derek was out of town by dawn. "Maybe that's selfish somehow, but I wasn't going to be the predator. Not like that."
"You are a good man and an idiot and the worst person I know and a fucking asshole," Stiles says all in one breath. "You left for fifteen goddamn years, Derek."
"Once I was gone... Beacon Hills called, but I couldn't risk putting down roots again. Not after all the loss."
"I hate you," Stiles says flatly.
"I deserve it," Derek says again, like it will heal the wounds in Stiles' soul. "I'm sorry."
Stiles stares at him for a long, long time. He waves the waiter over.
"Can I get a box? I'll eat at the store." Stiles looks at Derek again. "If you want to start fixing the fucking mess you made, I get home at seven. Your call."
It's a challenge and an olive branch and a wounding blow all in one.
"Okay."