Work Text:
When the fever’s gone, and the road’s to dust;
I touch down Sunday to tie the loose ends up
•••
Derek parks the car outside the small house. He takes a deep breath, leaning back in the seat just for a moment, a blissful moment, while he tries to calm his heartbeat and collect his thoughts. His wounds are still knitting themselves together, but the pain is finally subsiding. That witch and her monster seriously did a number on him.
He steps out of the car on heavy feet, still not entirely steady as he pats his pockets for the keys.
Miss Frognal, his neighbour and landlady, is currently sweeping the floor of her screened porch. She lifts a hand in greeting and Derek tries to smile at her, hoping it doesn't come out as a grimace. She's a little old lady who lives with a bunch of cats, and who took a liking to Derek right from the start. She often presents him with baked goods or leftovers from family dinners and, although her Scottish accent is borderline incomprehensible and her scones sometimes are a bit too sweet, Derek is exceptionally grateful.
Derek closes the door behind him and takes another deep breath. The house still doesn’t smell right after a month, but it’s better than staying in a hotel.
When he first arrived, Claire – the Alpha of the local pack who had gotten in touch with him – suggested he stay in a hotel. That way he’d have time to assess the situation before making the decision of whether to help them or not. They would have given him a house if he had decided to stay. Apparently many before Derek had come, giving her the hope that they could help, but ultimately left once faced with the seriousness of the issue at hand. Derek had to admit that a ferocious lake monster with a taste for tourists’ blood wasn’t really easy to deal with. Not to mention that it had been conjured by an evil witch for unfathomable reasons and, together, they were wreaking havoc all through the region.
Derek had merely looked on, kind of unimpressed at the devastation left in their wake, before shaking his head and wondering out loud how come evil witches were so unimaginative. Because, seriously, that was basically a witch with a dragon. Hello, Middle Ages?
He had paused for a moment to figure out why the voice in his head sounded so much like Stiles, but dismissed the thought as his brain couldn't seem to come up with an acceptable answer.
He had shaken Alpha Claire’s hand then, telling her that yes, he was going to help them, no matter how long it was going to take, really. But, please, find him a house because after three days of cleaning ladies coming into his room every morning and leaving the smell of stranger through his sheets, Derek had seriously had enough.
And now, after a month of research and close calls, the job was finally done. Sure, Derek could have done without taking a monster bite to his side, but the creature was finally back in the depths where it belonged, and the witch was currently facing supernatural trial at the hands of Alpha Claire and her pack. Derek really didn’t want to be in her place.
•••
His phone pings with a string of WhatsApp notifications once he steps out of the shower. He frowns at the screen when he notices they're from Alpha Claire. Apparently, the witch managed to cast a spell on one of her betas before being trapped. It turned him aggressive and unstable, and this prompted him to attack one of his pack mates before leaving without a trace.
“Don’t worry, though. We’re on it.” The second text says.
“Maybe keep your eyes open.” Comes the last text. Right, because that’s reassuring.
He sighs, walking to the window and looking outside. He smells the air and relaxes when it’s clear that there aren’t any immediate threats. He studies the surroundings and sees Miss Frognal entering her nephew’s car. She must be going to their house for dinner, just like every Sunday.
Derek’s been doing this job for almost three years. Helping out packs and supernatural creatures from all around the world, going wherever work took him. He’s been pretty much everywhere; he’s seen some rather incredible places and others he would really like to forget. Some jobs are simple and take him just a couple days, others take longer and leave a heaviness within him that is hard to shake. Anyways, he’s pretty sure that he likes this kind of life.
He enjoys having the freedom to go wherever he wants and choosing who to work with. He was even surprised to find out that he loves meeting new people from everywhere he goes. It’s just that, sometimes, he wonders what it’d be like. He wonders if he’d be able to settle down permanently somewhere. He wonders how it’d feel to have a routine and have weekly appointments with loved ones. He wonders if he’s even worthy enough to have a pack, a family, again.
His phone pings again in his hands, distracting him from his bitter thoughts. This time the incoming text is from Scott.
Derek had promised to keep in touch with everyone back in Beacon Hills. He left for Cuba immediately after they defeated the Anuk Ite to help a banshee whose powers had seemingly gone haywire (it turned out they hadn’t, there was a human traffic ring which they managed to sabotage) and that had been the start of this weird kind of career.
Derek is oddly proud to say that he’s kept his promise. He exchanges constant updates with Chris Argent and Sheriff Stilinski about the supernatural world and potential new threats, and gets weekly emails from Scott recounting in great detail how everyone is doing – along with lovesick-puppy-level descriptions of Lydia's "immense beauty and incredible wit". Which, really, thank you Scott, but he’d rather not know anything about any of it. Seriously, Derek sometimes wonders how Stiles deals with Scott’s oversharing habit.
“Have you heard from Stiles? He hasn’t answered the whole day.” Scott’s text says. Speak of the Devil...
Derek doesn’t know when he’s become some kind of “Stilesfinder”. But he’d be lying if he said that it doesn’t give him some sense of pride. Their friendship had been tentative at the beginning, but it slowly grew to the point that, if Derek had to make a list of people he cared about, Stiles would probably be at the top of the page right next to Cora. He’d never admit it out loud, but the fact that he’s pretty sure it’d be the same for Stiles gives him a rush of excitement every time he thinks about it. Not that he thinks about it. Much.
Derek can’t suppress a small smile at the thought of Stiles. He’s currently road-tripping in Europe, and the fact that they’re pretty much in the same time-zone helps significantly to keep their ongoing conversation flowing. Through the past months, they’ve been exchanging texts and Snapchats, along with some hours-long phone calls when Stiles gets good reception and Derek isn’t busy battling lake monsters.
Somehow, they've managed to talk about everything but their locations. Sure, they both have a vague idea of where in the world the other is staying, but none of them has knowledge of the exact city the other is visiting. Derek keeps telling himself that it’s because Stiles’s curiosity and lack of self-preservation would inevitably push him to come take a look at whichever danger Derek was facing. But, deep down, Derek knows that he’d be too tempted to find Stiles if he knew where he was, and Derek is absolutely not ready to face the consequences of admitting to it.
Apart from this silent agreement, Derek could say that through the years, he’s become a bit of an expert on Stiles’s smartphone habits. Especially now, he often spends the night texting or talking to his dad before falling asleep, therefore forgetting to charge his phone and subsequently cutting himself from the world until he stops wandering and finds a power outlet. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother plugging in his phone, choosing to just faceplant in his bunk instead, too tired after a long day out exploring. Other times he just doesn’t have a charger with him. Derek tries not to think of those times because it usually means that Stiles is staying over at some stranger's place.
“I’m sure he’s just out exploring. He’ll reply. Gonna text him and let you know anyway.” Derek types back, before tapping on Stiles’s icon.
Their last exchange dates back to that morning and mainly consists of selfies. Stiles is grinning at the camera, his hair is long, and he has a bit of stubble, which kind of makes Derek want to nip at his jaw and trail down to his neck, and– Okay, that’s not a train of thought Derek wants to follow at the moment. He concentrates on the background of the picture instead. It looks like Stiles is in some kind of vehicle, probably a bus from the look of it. “Going to visit a castle!” the caption says. Derek replied with a selfie of his own, sunglasses on to prevent the humongous lens flare, and captioned it with “Going to kill a lake monster!” As expected, Stiles still hasn’t replied to him either.
“Scott texted. Reply to him before he books a plane to wherever you are.” Derek sends, just for the sake of it. He’s sure that Stiles is perfectly fine.
•••
“Fuck.”
Stiles can’t suppress a curse when he sees bus 917 disappear through the trees, officially leaving him at Urquhart Castle alone. Well, alone, except for a man – Stiles is pretty sure he’s the groundskeeper – who’s eyeing him suspiciously.
“What’re you doing still here?” Maybe-the-groundskeeper asks. Or, well, Stiles thinks that’s what he said. The strong accent and the fact that Stiles is still a bit dumbfounded by his afternoon nap really don’t help.
“I guess I missed the bus,” Stiles says with a shrug.
“Follow that road for about two miles, and you’ll find the village. Name's Drumnadrochit,” the man says, pointing to the road in front of them as Stiles stares at him unimpressed. For a moment, he thought that the man would have offered him a ride or, at least, a place to sleep; the fact that he merely pointed him to the right direction and sent him on his way kind of hit him like a cold shower.
It was nine in the evening, the sun was going to go down soon and Stiles really, really, didn’t want to be out in the dark. And, like, weren’t Scottish people known for friendliness, warmth and generosity, anyway? He shouldn’t have trusted that website.
Also, he should have checked the time before missing the bus, but when has Stiles ever done anything he should?
Urquhart Castle had been high on his list of places to visit, the legends surrounding it and the nearby Loch Ness – with its incredible monster and the supposedly healing properties of its waters – were interesting enough to pique Stiles’s curiosity. He’s heard stories that said that there were two hidden treasure chests sealed in the rocks under the Castle. The catch? One was filled with gold, silver and precious stones; the other was filled with death and pestilence. Basically Pandora’s box. And, not to be a smartass, but Stiles is pretty sure that “death and pestilence” is essentially a metaphor for some kind of demon imprisoned centuries ago. And if Stiles has reached that conclusion all on his own, he’s sure that many others with way darker purposes can figure that out as well.
The official reason for visiting, of course, is way more mundane, but not necessarily untrue. The castle ruins are perfectly preserved and well maintained – probably got to thank the unfriendly groundskeeper for that – so they also have an enormous historical value. And, yes, Stiles has a bit of a not-so-secret passion for history. So what if old ruins make him buzz with interest and curiosity for what was once there? He’s totally not gonna be ashamed of being a huge nerd.
During his visit to the castle, he managed to check for signs of demonic activity and was relieved to not find any. He then trailed down to the shore and took a sample of the water from the lake, although with current pollution levels he’s pretty sure that any healing property will have gone down the drain. He kind of lost himself through the beauty of the ruins then, wandering around, admiring the castle and taking in the breathtaking view of the lake and its surroundings.
Eventually, the early wake-up call and the extremely buttery brownie he'd had after lunch caught up on him and he somehow ended up asleep in the shade of a tree, hidden in the tall grass just metres outside the rope marking the public area of the grounds. Yes, he knows that’s not allowed, he might have a tiny problem with authority. Hey, at least he refrained from touching the big wooden trebuchet on the way there. And, believe him, that had been a total hardship.
So that’s how ends up walking along A82, in the middle of nowhere, headed to a tiny village with an unpronounceable name in the impressive Scottish Highlands. The sun, almost blinding, is setting behind the hills in front of him, and he has to admit that the view is kind of amazing.
He breathes deeply and takes a look at the natural beauty around him. He might be kind of stranded, and he has no idea whether he’ll be able to find a place to sleep in whichever village he’s headed to. But, God, if he’s not in one of the coolest places he’s ever seen. He’s had the chance to get a glimpse of the lands surrounding Loch Ness that morning on the bus ride from Inverness. But now, with the summer sun setting and casting its orange glow all around and the calm water of the lake at his side, he can say that the place is honestly mesmerising in a way that makes him almost giddy with excitement. And, yes, he’s had the same exact reaction when he was on the top of the Mont Blanc in Italy; and even the other day when he met a way more mundane group of sheep during a walk through the Scottish countryside, okay. But Europe is proving to be pretty amazing so excuse him if he’s excited about it.
He’d waited until graduation to introduce his master-plan to his dad. He wanted to take a gap year and travel around Europe, with whatever fit in his backpack and a pair of comfortable shoes, to see all those places he’s been reading about in books and online. He had included a week-long stay in Poland to learn as much as possible about his ancestry. That, along with the fact that he was leaving the supernatural behind for a while, was what had ultimately sold his dad on the idea. Of course, that was partly a lie as Stiles had seemingly some kind of magnet for supernatural trouble and appeared to be able to find it wherever he went, but, obviously, his dad didn’t necessarily need to know about any of it. He did spend a week and a half in Poland, though, so there's that.
The only condition that the Sheriff had imposed when Stiles left was that he call or text him daily. Stiles has never missed a day so far, and his dad sounds relaxed and genuinely interested in all the adventures Stiles is living; he asks questions and, surprisingly, expresses his approval of Stiles's choices whenever they talk. Understandably, Stiles has no intention of having the Sheriff think any different, so he takes out his phone to call his dad. It's just then that he realises he hasn’t checked it all day; also, that he must have forgotten to charge it last night. Great. The battery is currently down to 15%, and three missed calls from Scott along with a text Derek sent him that morning are glaring at him from the lock screen. Oops.
He types up a text to his dad, trying to preserve the battery in case the village turns out to be further than expected, and decides he can call Scott later when he finds somewhere to crash for the night. He's sure Scott won't mind; besides, he probably just wants to talk about how in love with Lydia he is. So, really, Stiles doesn't feel guilty at all.
He's lost in thought for a moment when suddenly his phone pings with another text from Derek.
“Scott texted. Reply to him before he books a plane to wherever you are.” The preview says.
Stiles frowns and swipes left to open the text.
He notices the picture Derek sent that morning, and his breath catches for a moment. Derek is absolutely gorgeous. He's smirking at the camera, his eyes are hidden by a pair of Wayfarers, but Stiles has a crystal clear image of their exact shade and the way they crinkle when Derek smiles. He has had months of practice, carefully studying every single picture they shared. Train trips can be very long and boring sometimes, okay?
Derek's beard is an honest-to-God work of art, though. Stiles has grown a bit of stubble during his travels, too busy exploring to bother with shaving. But nothing compares to Derek's magnificent beard. It's thick and dark and even, and it looks perfectly groomed, and Stiles is willing to bet loads of money on the fact that it's absolutely soft to the touch. Not that Stiles thinks about touching it, or getting some kind of beard burn in weird places. He doesn't, really. (He totally does).
Stiles knows that Derek has always looked good, but lately it looks like he's practically glowing. Like he's somehow finally at peace with the world. And Stiles would love to be there with him now and see this version of Derek in person. But Derek looks like staying away from Beacon Hills and its particular brand of supernatural drama is doing him nothing but good. And Stiles is a fucking magnet for trouble, not to mention that he has his very own psychological trauma to deal with, one that comes with being possessed first and cancelled from existence for months then. Light stuff.
Derek has enough on his plate without having to worry about any Stiles-caused trouble, so, no, he isn't going to drag Derek back into any of it. Derek deserves a chance at being happy, and Stiles isn't going to take it from him no matter how much he misses the man.
This doesn't stop Stiles from trying to picture what it'd be like, though. Sometimes a particularly spectacular view makes his heart beat a little faster, and he can't help but think of Derek then. He thinks of the way he can't stop smiling when they exchange funny texts and of how comfortable it feels when they spend hours on the phone, talking about everything and nothing.
Other times, like now, Stiles imagines they are exploring Europe together. Derek would totally be grumbling now, walking one step ahead of Stiles and asking him how he could be so dumb. He'd be pissed, and he'd be growling so much, and really, Stiles can almost hear it. Like a steady low rumble.
And, fuck.
Suddenly Stiles realises that that growl he's imagining? Well, that’s most assuredly not only in his head because he can hear it for real.
Stiles immediately snaps his eyes to his right. There, in the open field, he can see a beta-shifted werewolf staring at him. And, of fucking course, he doesn’t look friendly at all. Stiles's a fucking magnet for trouble, indeed.
The werewolf snarls, looking ready to attack, and, well, shit.
Stiles reaches out for the Mountain Ash in his pocket. He briefly thinks that he hasn't replied to Derek before the werewolf leaps towards him. Stiles shouts out, throwing the Mountain Ash around himself, willing it to form a barrier strong enough to keep him safe and hoping for the best.
•••
With a pocket full of that gipsy stuff
I heard you calling me, calling me, calling me through the dissonance.
•••
Derek is packing when he suddenly hears the roar of a werewolf in the distance. He almost tunes it out, still unsure whether Alpha Claire would be okay with him trying to stop her rogue beta. However, another sound, muted underneath the werewolf’s growl, makes him stop dead in his tracks and almost drop a pair of folded shirts to the floor. Because that sound, that entirely different sound reaching his ears through the noise, sounds an awful lot like Stiles's voice.
Derek forces himself not to panic. He checks his phone, thinking that maybe he’s dialled Stiles without noticing, but the screen is dark. He speeds towards the door then, as he hears the werewolf roar again, it sounds deafening in the silence of the small village. The following sound is what finally makes him panic. Because Derek is sure now, he can hear another voice shouting, almost as loud as the werewolf, and it sounds so much like Stiles that Derek is out of the house so quickly he forgets he’s still holding the two folded shirts in one hand.
He hears Stiles’s voice clearly as he runs towards it. He’s shouting about “motherfucking werewolves”, and a wave of relief washes over Derek when he smells the Mountain Ash. It means that Stiles is still safe and sound. This doesn’t mean that his overactive, treacherous mind stops conjuring up worst case scenarios. Luckily, they just push him to run faster, his claws poking holes in his shirts which, yeah, he knows he’ll probably have to drop at some point. At the moment, all his energies are concentrated on making sure he reaches Stiles the fastest he can.
He’s running along A82 going East towards Urquhart Castle when he’s suddenly hit with a scent so unmistakably Stiles that his heart skips a beat. He can’t believe that he’s going to finally see him in the flesh after all this time. Hell, he can’t even think that he was about to miss him while they were in the same place. He briefly wonders whether this has anything to do with fate and he’s still thinking about it when he rounds the corner and finally sees them in the distance.
The werewolf – Derek’s pretty sure his name’s Tony – doesn’t seem to notice him approaching, too busy poking at the Mountain Ash barrier and growing frustrated with it. Tony tries to claw at Stiles one more time, meeting resistance. Stiles takes a small leap backwards nonetheless. Although Derek is perfectly aware that the werewolf can’t get through, the scared expression on Stiles's face makes him lose control. He finally drops his shredded shirts and attacks, leaping from almost 10 metres and landing square on the very surprised werewolf.
Derek’s lost in a mess of claws and teeth as he and Tony roll down the grass towards the shore in a bloody tangle of limbs. He thinks he can hear voices through the sound of their roars, but he’s too absorbed in the fight to figure out whether it’s just Stiles or if there’s someone else around. They’re clashing together, clawing and biting at each other’s faces and bodies. He worries for a second when he looks towards Stiles and is surprised to see he’s not there anymore. He got distracted, though, and he realises his mistake when Tony swipes angrily at his chest, just barely missing but making him lose his balance. He lands on his back, holding the rogue werewolf at arm’s length trying to keep him from digging his claws into his body.
“Derek!” He suddenly hears Stiles shout, and he barely has the time to push Tony upwards before Stiles’s ever-present wolfsbane bat hits the other werewolf on his face, with a precise movement, sending him tumbling down to the edge of the water.
How did he even get that bat through border control? Derek isn't sure he wants to know.
Derek blinks, trying to clear his thoughts, he can see Stiles a couple metres from where he’s laying. He’s hovering over the werewolf’s unconscious body, ready to hit at the slightest movement. Derek tries to push himself up, and he’s surprised when a pair of hands pull at his arms, helping him up until he’s standing. He didn't expect Alpha Claire to be the one who’s helped him up. Attacking a member of another pack is greatly frowned upon, and Derek didn’t really think about the consequences of his actions when he assaulted Tony, his head only filled with thoughts of Stiles and ways to keep him safe.
“Are you okay?” She asks, patting his shoulder amicably as two of her betas, Ciara and Greg, are kneeling down next to Tony. Derek nods, his gaze cast down in what he hopes Claire will read as a sign of respect. He really doesn’t need to involve Stiles in another conflict, he just wants to take him home and make sure he’s fine.
“I’m sorry for Tony’s behaviour, he’s been cursed by a witch.” Derek frowns briefly, wondering why Claire is telling him something he already knows, but as he looks at her, he sees she’s talking to Stiles.
Stiles, who has dropped his bat and is approaching slowly, his gaze fixed on Derek as if he, too, can’t believe this is happening for real.
“It’s okay, Derek got here just in time to save my ass, as usual,” Stiles says, nodding to Claire before turning his gaze back to Derek.
“Well, we’d offer you hospitality for the night, but it looks like you two have a lot to catch up.” Derek can hear the smile in Claire’s words, but he can’t concentrate on her voice.
He thinks she leaves at some point, followed by her betas who drag Tony away, but he can’t be sure, and he actually doesn’t care. Because Stiles is finally in front of him, and Derek can’t seem to be able to take his eyes off of him. They stare at each other and Derek is pretty sure that he’s matching Stiles’s incredulous expression.
Stiles looks good. He looks incredible, even. And, like, Derek knew what Stiles looked like lately thanks to their frequent selfie exchanges, but seeing him up close is something else entirely. His hair is longer than Derek expected, half hidden under a cap with the Mets logo on it. His stubble looks a bit uneven, and it still makes Derek want to nip at his jaw. But, really, it’s the slightly sunburnt nose that does it. It makes Stiles look a bit disgruntled but incredibly cute, and that ultimately breaks Derek’s resolve to keep a bit of respectable distance between them. He wraps Stiles in a hug and buries his face in his neck, trying to avoid doing something incredibly stupid, like kissing him out of the blue.
And just like that, as Derek takes in Stiles's scent and his warmth wraps around him, he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding and suddenly feels at home.
•••
They hug, or, rather, they snap together like magnets, as if an elastic was pulled from each of their chests then released. And Stiles feels his heart swell somehow. He takes a deep breath and buries his face in Derek's shoulder as the werewolf does the same. He breathes in Derek's familiar scent and, immediately, relief washes over him as he suddenly feels like he's found something. It's funny how he wasn't even aware he was looking for anything.
He still can’t believe they get to see and hold each other like this. To think that he could have missed Derek if only he had caught the stupid bus back to Inverness fills him with thoughts about fate and predetermination that almost make him want to shout how glad he is to be there and how he never wants to leave.
They don’t really speak, they just stay wrapped around each other; Derek strong arms keeping Stiles in place until the sun goes down and a cool breeze makes him shiver slightly. Derek notices, of course, and he pushes Stiles back to look at him again.
“Come on, I have a place in Drumnadrochit,” Derek says, then, grabbing Stiles's backpack effortlessly and putting it on one shoulder. And Stiles has about a million questions, starting from how Derek managed to pronounce the name perfectly. He doesn’t ask, though. Not yet.
Instead, he grabs his bat and fills the silence while they walk back to Derek’s house with stories about his trips. He tells Derek about Rome and how he spent almost two hours sitting in front of the Trevi Fountain, staring at every single detail of each statue as water calmed him and somehow seemed to soothe his soul. He tells him about Iceland and the ride up the Eyjafjallajökull, that moment when – after driving for miles on a shitty road – the glacier suddenly appeared in all its glory right in front of him, startlingly white and immense. He tells Derek about the friendly demon he met in a club in London, he doesn’t miss the way Derek tenses when he talks about the way he spent the night with him. “We didn’t do anything,” he’s quick to say. And Derek visibly relaxes as he pushes his front door open.
Derek tells him to shower first, and Stiles still doesn’t stop talking, knowing that Derek will hear him through the walls. He tells Derek about Poland, about that part of his family he’s finally met and doesn’t want to let go of.
Putting on a pair of sweats and one of Derek’s shirts seems to give Stiles enough strength to tell Derek about the concentration camps he forced himself to go visit. The burden of death he felt as soon as he got closer to the place. He doesn’t even notice he’s crying when Derek opens the door of the bathroom and hugs him close.
They sit in the kitchen afterwards, when Stiles has finally calmed down, and Derek has had the quickest shower known to man. Stiles recounts a story about a strange fae princess with a passion for fashion he met in Paris. She tried to turn him into a real-life mannequin and Stiles had barely managed to escape before she completed the terrifying enchantment. Stiles isn't sure whether he imagines the look of absolute relief on Derek's face and the whispered, "Thank God," when Stiles says he has no intention of going back to Paris.
Derek, of course, listens carefully and asks him relevant questions. Then, when Stiles seems to have run out of stories to tell, Derek tells him some of his own. He talks about the vampire he had to kill in Romania, which has Stiles comment, “Seriously, Derek could you be more predictable?”
He blushes when he tells Stiles about how wrong it felt when a girl he met during a job in Germany tried to talk him into bondage and kept on calling him “sweetheart”. How she sounded so much like Kate, and it made his insides crawl. Stiles has half a mind of going to find her and strangling her with his bare hands. But, okay. He promises he won’t.
Derek tells Stiles about the exorcism he helped perform in Spain that somehow left him with a weirdly shaped scar on his shoulder blade. Stiles, of course, demands to see it and looks at it closely, fingers skating over it as he tries to keep his worry at bay. Because if it left a scar, then it could have been lethal.
“I’m fine, Stiles,” Derek says, pulling down his shirt and turning towards him. Stiles gulps down his apprehension and goes to sit down while Derek stirs spaghetti as if nothing happened.
“So, Drumnadrochit? What brings you here?” Stiles says once they’ve finished eating, and they’re sitting at the kitchen table drinking some kind of bitter concoction that should help with digestion. Stiles doesn’t really want to know what’s inside it.
Derek takes a deep breath. “There was a witch,” he says.
Stiles rolls his eyes. Seriously, he expected some kind of weird monster or something. He says as much, eliciting a snort from Derek.
“Of course there was a monster, we’re at Loch Ness, Stiles,” he says.
“God, this is some medieval shit. Why are evil witches so unoriginal?” Stiles groans, bringing a hand to his face and shaking his head in a perfect imitation of the face-palm emoji.
“I know, those were my thoughts exactly,” Derek says with a low chuckle. They smile at each other before Stiles can’t suppress a yawn.
They don’t even discuss it as they crawl together into Derek’s double bed. They lay face to face in the dark for a couple of minutes, eyes searching for each other in the darkness of the room. Until Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and buries his face in his shoulder. Derek seems surprised for a moment but is quick to mirror Stiles’s actions, and they seem to melt against one another.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Derek suddenly whispers, voice muffled by Stiles’s shoulder. And Stiles almost doesn’t hear it because he’s half asleep.
“Yeah,” he manages to mumble, right before he feels Derek’s lips ghosting over his bare neck. His beard, soft, just as Stiles imagined it, tickles his skin and sends a shiver down his spine, making him burrow even deeper into Derek’s arms.
He falls asleep then, feeling warm and safe and completely at home.
•••
It’s hard to see beyond what’s in sight,
but when you tilt the light, I realise…
for a thousand nights I’ve been a restless soul
just wasting time, digging up fools’ gold.
It took a thousand lives being on my own
for me to find it was all fools’ gold.
•••
Derek wakes up slowly, the soft weight of Stiles’s body a gentle reminder that they’re finally together, after so long apart. One of his arms is wrapped around Stiles’s shoulders, keeping him in place as he’s sprawled halfway on Derek’s body. Derek brings his other hand up, circling Stiles’s arm and drawing him even closer. Stiles’s head is resting on Derek’s shoulder, and his nose is buried in Derek’s neck.
He doesn’t know what it is, but as soon as he hugged Stiles the previous night, there was something he had never felt before. A strange feeling of accomplishment, as if he’d found something he’s spent a long time looking for. Derek is pretty sure he wasn’t looking for anything in particular, not that he knew of at least. But the way Stiles fits in his arms can’t possibly be a coincidence. The way Derek’s heart almost burned a hole in his chest the moment he breathed in Stiles’s scent, too can’t be a coincidence. And the way the warmth of Stiles’s skin makes Derek feel at home? Or the way the house started finally smelling right as soon as Stiles stepped inside? Yeah, those can’t be coincidences either.
Derek closes his eyes and wishes for a moment that he could keep this, keep Stiles, forever. He smiles at the thought and, as he concentrates on Stiles’s deep breaths, he falls back asleep.
When he wakes again, Stiles is laying on him fully, his hands pillowing his chin as he stares up at Derek’s face, his gaze intent, as if he was studying him. Knowing Stiles, he probably was.
“Hi,” Derek mumbles, blinking wearily.
“Hi,” Stiles says back, a blinding smile appearing on his face. Derek has to suppress the urge to kiss it off his lips.
“Did you know that we haven’t seen each other for exactly one thousand days?” Stiles goes on speaking, taking one of his hands out from under his chin and trailing his fingers along Derek’s shoulder and down his arm. He follows his movement with his eyes, not looking at Derek’s face.
And Derek is unsure of what to say. He doesn’t know if Stiles is being serious or using hyperboles, but he thinks that one thousand days are way too long to stay away from someone you care so deeply about.
“Exactly one thousand?” Derek asks, a small amused smile on his lips as his gaze searches Stiles’s face. His sunburnt nose is even more glaringly red in the light of the day. Derek wants to kiss him so bad it almost hurts.
“Yeah, I counted, one thousand nights and one thousand days. That's one thousand adventures we could have lived together,” Stiles says, still not meeting Derek’s eyes. Derek doesn't really know why; he just hopes it’s not because he’s ashamed. Because, okay, maybe Derek didn’t keep count of the days they’ve spent apart. But, sure as hell, he felt the heaviness of every single one of them. And every text, every Snapchat notification from Stiles made it a little more bearable, made him happier and calmed him down, no matter how shit his day had been; so, yeah, there’s that. He’s not sure if they are on the same page here, but they are close, for sure.
“I’m sorry. I should have visited.” Derek says, grabbing Stiles’s hand and twining their fingers. Stiles stares at them for a half a minute, looking almost mesmerised by the way they fit together. Then he finally looks up, big brown eyes staring right into Derek’s.
“No, you didn’t need to. You were happy– You look happy. And relaxed and at peace. I wouldn’t want you to give it up just to come visit me–“ Stiles blinks for a moment before correcting himself “–us. Visit us.”
“I would have come to visit you,” Derek says with a smirk, stressing the word enough for Stiles to catch on. Stiles looks surprised for a moment before pushing down with the hand still pillowed under him, jostling Derek and pushing himself up.
He keeps himself up, back arched slightly, his elbows digging into Derek’s chest while a huge grin appears on his face. As if he knew exactly what he was doing to Derek. That asshole. He probably did.
“It’s been hard you know?” Stiles says suddenly, his gaze turned down as he stares at an undefined point on Derek’s chin.
He looks up briefly, and Derek’s frown seems to prompt him to cast his gaze down once more and carry on talking.
“I tried not to think about you, but every now and then there was something amazing that reminded me of you. So I would text you, or Snapchat it to you. And your answers were always on point. Always funny. And they made me miss you even more. And at some point I thought I’d ask Danny to trace your phone, find out where you were and come over. Pretend I was there by chance–“ Stiles pauses, casts one quick look up as a smirk appears on his lips.
“But you would have known, wouldn’t you? You would have seen right through me, and– and you would have worried. You would have thought there was something wrong, you would have thought that I was there to ask for help. To drag you into some trouble like I always do.” Stiles sighs deeply. Derek is shocked into silence by his words and by the onslaught of horrible feelings he can smell coming from Stiles. Guilt, self-deprecation, worry. It’s not pleasant, and Derek wants it to stop.
Derek squeezes Stiles’s hand, hoping that he’ll find it reassuring. Sure enough, his scent turns a little bit sweeter, his gaze a little bit fond. Derek is willing to hold him this way forever if it means Stiles can feel like that all the time.
“You know, I didn’t come looking for anything. When I left for this trip, I just wanted to explore Europe, nothing more. But, when we hugged last night– When we were finally together, I– I think I found something– I don’t know what it is, but it made me feel at home. So I was wondering–“ Stiles pauses, and it’s probably because Derek’s eyes have grown as big as saucers. Because what were the chances that Stiles felt exactly how Derek did?
“Yes,” Derek can’t help but rush out, as if it’s punched out of him. He pulls himself up, trying to sit while keeping Stiles on him at the same time. It doesn’t work exceptionally well, but after some pulling and pushing they’re finally sitting in the bed, Stiles almost straddling him as one of Derek’s hand spans on the back of his neck and the other keeps him in place, his thumb digging into his hip.
Derek looks one last time in Stiles’s eyes, searching for a sort of confirmation that what he’s about to do is completely 100% okay, then finally dips his head. Their mouths are almost touching when Derek whispers, “I think you’re my home,” and closes the distance between them.
They kiss slowly at first, just mouth moving on mouth. But then Derek feels Stiles tracing his lips with his tongue, and he can’t do anything but open up, letting Stiles take control. Stiles licks into his mouth as they deepen the kiss, making it hungrier and almost bruising. When they part, out of breath, Derek finally has the chance to run his lips along Stiles’s jaw, nipping at it softly and kissing soothingly right after, and, yeah, it’s exactly how he’s imagined. He kisses Stiles’s sunburnt nose for good measure before he focuses his attention back on Stiles’s mouth.
They kiss deeper, bolder, hands roaming each other’s bodies this time. Derek pulls Stiles’s shirt off and wraps himself around his torso, kissing and suckling down his chest as Stiles lets out rather obscene moans that seem to go straight to Derek’s dick, making it twitch in his pants.
It’s not long after that Stiles pulls Derek’s shirt off, too. Mirroring Derek’s previous assault and pushing him back on the bed, as he trails wet kisses down his torso and moves down, down, until he’s met with the edge of Derek’s trousers. He pulls them down along with Derek’s pants, biting and sucking at Derek’s hipbone and Derek seriously has to thank some kind of deity that he doesn’t come there and then.
“Can I?” Stiles asks, looking up at him through his lashes. His hand is hovering over Derek’s dick, and Derek is seriously having a hard time forming any coherent thoughts, not to mention talking. He has no idea what exactly he’s agreeing to, but he thinks he’s willing to take whatever Stiles has to offer.
“Yeah,” he thinks he slurs a bit, but can’t focus on it too much when Stiles kisses his hip once again, then licks the underside of his dick before taking him fully into his mouth. Derek thinks that maybe he never wants to feel anything else again except for Stiles’s mouth on him.
Later, when he’s finally, finally, pushing into Stiles, a low moan coming from his mouth that Derek can’t seem to stop kissing, he thinks he was wrong all along. Because that’s the best feeling in the world. Being with Stiles so completely, his eyes boring into his own, the smell of arousal mixing with the sweet scent that means Stiles is happy and relaxed and cared for. And that is what Derek wants for the rest of his life.
•••
“Where’re you headed then?” Stiles asks later, his head resting on Derek’s chest as they catch their breaths. They kind of look revolting, both sweaty, with cum and lube drying on their skin, but the way Stiles's cheeks are flushed just makes Derek want to pull him close and plant a kiss on his lips.
“Finnish Lapland,” Derek says as they part, uncertain about the consequences of his words.
He doesn’t want to leave Stiles, he doesn't want to let go of him. If Derek could, he'd keep Stiles as close as possible for the rest of his life. But Stiles is travelling Europe, living this adventure for his own benefit, and Derek wouldn't want to keep him from doing something so important for him. He isn't sure Stiles would want to share his adventures with him, he thinks he might. But he doesn't dare to ask him, he doesn't dare to believe that Stiles would follow him.
But Derek can feel the corners of Stiles's lips moving upwards against the skin on his chest, and he thinks that, maybe, he doesn't need to let go of him yet.
“Cool, I’ve always wanted to see the Northern Lights,” Stiles says simply.
With that, he lifts his head, his smile blinding and wide. A sweet scent that speaks of happiness and love fills Derek's nostrils as Stiles starts trailing his lips along Derek’s neck and kisses Derek's mouth deeply at the end of his path.
And Derek can't do anything but hum contentedly, wrapping his arms around Stiles and keeping him there. Because that, along with the way Stiles's limbs are tangled with his, feels a lot like a promise. A promise to never let go. And Derek is absolutely okay with it.
•••