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The thing is, Derek knew who Stiles was before Stiles and Scott even knew he was there. He’d heard them, had reluctantly unbent his body from the space between the roots of a tree where he’d lost time, hours staring at the fresh earth above the last of his family, not even seeing as the sun slipped above the horizon. He wasn’t thankful for the distraction, didn’t welcome the return to his own body and consciousness.
He’d followed the sound of uncoordinated limbs and teenaged voices, so light and relatively carefree that it plucked at him, brought the simmering anger roaring up. How dare they? Not just trespass but be alive and easy while his family was a broken, burnt husk. He was almost on them when the scent finally reached him and that scent, it pole-axed him.
~
He’d been shopping with his mother, singularly happy because he got to go with his mom, just him and her. He’d been feeling left out, ignored; in a house full of strong voices his was getting drowned out, except, maybe it hadn’t. The night before, Derek had been moping in his room, alone in the brief moment before his brother and cousin were finally forced to bed. His mother had knocked before letting herself in, had leaned against the doorframe as she asked him if he’d mind going with her to a few stores the following day, just him and her.
The joy hadn’t dimmed overnight and through the morning, so when he scented something curious among the racks of clothes, he’d followed it, feeling light and like nothing could ever go wrong again because he knew his mother loved him and wouldn’t ever forget him. He followed the scent straight to a woman a few sections down, a stroller held absently but tightly in front of her as she looked at something on a shelf. The baby had been a surprise, fresh faced and wide-eyed. It’d reached out to him, grabbed his face when Derek had leaned in, chasing the scent.
“Oh! Przemysław! It isn’t nice to tug on people’s faces!” The woman who crouched next to Derek smelled nice, warm, though there was something off in the scent that tickled Derek’s nose, kind of like how his great aunt’s scent had tickled his nose before she died, except not nearly as strong and, just, different.
“I don’t mind.” He’d quickly said, moving his face within the tight confines of Przemysław’s hands. His mother had walked up just then, distracting Przemysław’s mom. Derek took advantage of her distraction and leaned in further, pressing his nose to the side of Przemysław’s face. The baby giggled and, grabbing fists full of his hair, tugged sharply. Derek couldn’t help the small, pained noise that escaped him but he didn’t move away. He felt an odd tugging in his chest, though both the baby’s hands were busy in his hair. He felt like… he knew this little person was important, that he needed to be protected. So, when his mother finally managed to drag him away, holding on to his hand tightly, Derek told Przemysław’s mother as much.
“Please take care of him. He’s important. Needs protecting.” The woman had smiled down at him, bemused but fond.
“He’s the most important, and I will. Thank you, Derek.”
His mother had spent a good half hour laying down the law, after that. They’d driven to a park not far away and she’d bought him a popsicle. He’d chased the rivulets of artificial fruit flavoring that tracked down his hand as she explained about Important People and the need to never reveal their secret because, sometimes, those Important People couldn’t understand how special Pack was and would do things that couldn’t be undone. He’d promised her, had promised with everything he had at her intense, serious look, that he would avoid Przemysław… at least, until Przemysław was old enough that she could talk with him. He’d pressed his hands into hers, hands sticky, and promised in the way that Pack promised and couldn’t take things back.
He didn’t have much occasion to take an active role in that promise. His and Przemysław’s paths didn’t intersect often. When he sensed the tang in the air that was uniquely Przemysław, he’d find somewhere else to be but, again, it didn’t happen often. By the time he heard about the Sheriff’s wife dying, a passing, overheard comment, he’d almost forgotten the store and the baby that had clung to his face and giggled, too busy chasing away his loneliness and the ever present feeling of not fitting in.
The next and last time he’d sensed it, he’d been too lost in grief to even recall what it meant, had barely seen the ghost of a boy that had watched them with something like understanding in his eyes. He had handed them warm drinks they never drank and plopped down next to Derek, his own mug cradled in his hands. He talked a lot, talked about how everyone had given him hot drinks when his mother… well, people seemed to think it would help, and it didn’t but maybe the thing that had been important was knowing he wasn’t alone. Derek hadn’t been able to respond and it wasn’t until later, much later, that he realized, he hadn’t needed to. Przemysław couldn’t have been more than eleven but he’d understood and given Derek the only thing that could have possibly helped in that moment.
~
It’d only taken a moment for everything to come crashing back, that one scent to send him reeling and tumbling into memory. The bubble of grief fueled anger was still there, taking room in his chest and making it hard to breathe but now, now there was also the nearly panicked “get them out, get them away, he can’t be here”. It’d taken a long few moments for him to contain himself, to tamp down the rising panic so the only thing left was the anger.
~~
He honored the promise he’d made to his mother nearly two decades earlier. He kept Przemysław, who now went by Stiles, at arm’s length, treated him like he would any stranger. He couldn’t avoid him, the boy’s and his lives seemed inextricably intertwined. He couldn’t help the attachment that built, the respect that formed, and the protectiveness, well that had never gone away, he had no need to rebuild that emotive pull. He could hide it though, hide it with a vehemence that spoke as disdain and dislike. But, as time dragged on, forced interaction broke down Derek’s defenses and excuses. It didn’t take long until the only person who didn’t realize how deeply he cared for Stiles was probably Stiles himself.
He didn’t let anyone talk to him about it, though. He didn’t need to protect Pack anymore, out of everyone, Stiles would probably be the very last to betray Pack, but he did need to protect himself. He’d put himself through the ringer. Had allowed his affections to destroy lives, very much including his own. He’d come to terms with what he saw as his damage, was seeing a woman a town over that Deaton had recommended. Nothing supernatural, just a really fucking good therapist experienced with PTSD and the like. It was a constant effort but he was in a good place, Pack solid around him, occasional construction work between art projects and contract work with the Sheriff. He was content, happy even. If his heart hurt whenever Stiles visited, this year’s romantic interest filling his scent, he never let on, couldn’t really even bring it up in session in so many words. The one thing his therapist couldn’t help with was the instinct written into his nature.
Important People weren’t singular. In his life he could meet several. There was always choice. But instinct screamed at him, a predisposition to not let someone suited to him, suited to Pack, miss out and go unprotected.
He bit down on the instinct until it was a buzz in the back of his head, easily ignored except… except those quiet moments. The moments when Stiles was soft, contemplative, content. He could handle Stiles happy and ricocheting off walls. He could handle the overactive research binges and following information dumps. He could handle Stiles’ anger, his grief. No, what got to him was the loose-limbed Stiles, face relaxed, showing the subtle indications of wrinkles to come at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Stiles in sweats, settled deep in his father’s chair, hot mug of cider in one hand and a book in the other, slouched and legs akimbo.
It’d gotten to the point that he avoided the Stilinski’s or the McCall’s around holidays. He always made it for the day of, wouldn’t even want to, no matter how painful. But around Christmas, he only ever made it to which ever house was hosting for the night of Christmas Eve, would be cajoled into staying the night by the pack spawn (it still hit him every now and then, a physical blow, that he could be a part of this thriving pack, that he would be allowed this family even after his was taken from him), he’d then stay for the morning festivities but would head to his apartment in the space above his studio, couldn’t ever stay past dark because, by that time he’d had as much as he could possibly handle of Stiles soft and accessible but not for him.
For Thanksgiving, he’d always be sure to surround himself with others, helping Isaac and Melissa with pies, shouting at the TV with the Sheriff, Chris, and Kira, wrangling children with Scott, Ericka, and Boyd or ‘helping’ Allison with the turkey (sometimes he’d track for her, or gut the carcass, but he never got to help with the cooking, that was Allison’s domain). He would, on rare occasion, find himself alone with Stiles. It was easy to keep things neutral, they always had things they could talk about, books, movies, recent political movements, the stresses of work, recent projects, but never anything about relationships, no questions about social activities, no stories of nights out or nights in. Stiles had once gone into a mishap his boyfriend at the time had gotten them into. Derek had listened politely, laughed where he knew Stiles was looking for him to, and after Stiles finished he’d lightly asked the one question Derek never wanted to be asked, “So, are you seeing anyone special?” Derek still wasn’t sure how he’d responded, what he’d done to extricate himself, but it’d been enough that Stiles never asked again, and the only fun anecdotes he’d been subjected to after that, were told in a group setting, at someone else’s request.
The worst was the dreams. Pornographic, sweat, romantic, they ran the spectrum. He’d wake up reaching for the man he’d been married to in a sweet, hazy reality where they had kids and a home. He’d wake up gasping, Stiles’ name on the tip of his tongue, ready to beg. After those nights he never could get back to sleep, would spend hours in the studio, shaping things with his hands, metal or clay, the forms would be fluid or stark, but they were the pieces that sold the best. It wasn’t often, thankfully, Derek did lead a life he was proud of, that he was happy with. He even went on dates. But they were always overly polite affairs; he’d had one or two call him on the distance, on the walls he put up and the masks he wore. Those ones either threw drinks on him or he became somewhat friends with, people he would occasionally go to bars or museums with.
It was after one of those nights, an opening that led to drinks, that led to him helping home three very drunk women when he’d started off the night with one sober one. It’d been fun and he’d been glad to be able to help them get home. So, when he woke up the next morning, he woke up happy, content. He knew, somewhere, his pack was safe and Stiles was happy.
He rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of ancient sweats and a tank and wandered into his kitchen to hit the coffee button before doing the bare minimum morning ritual in the bathroom. He felt the tingle in his fingers that meant he needed to feel clay, needed to channel this feeling into something solid.
He worked until he got hungry. While he was making his sandwich he noticed the sun and sky and let himself go for a short run. He got back energized, the sparking in his fingers stronger. He worked into the night and past the wee hours of the morning. He finally let himself sleep as the sky was turning grey. He woke around noon, stomach grumbling and fingers still caked in dry clay. The sparking had subsided but the happiness hadn’t. He took a shower, put on a slightly less ancient pair of sweats and a tank and went downstairs, coffee in hand, to look at what he had made.
In the full light of morning he knew he wasn’t going to sell this piece, might not even share it with anyone, if it came through the fire. It was Stiles, it wasn’t, but it was. Stiles…the figure was rising as if the ground could not hold it, swirls of formed clay that could be seen as a cage served, instead, to emphasize bonds broken, freedom claimed.
A part of him thought it should make him sad but it served instead as the embodiment of the feeling that had driven him. He was ready to let go.
“My mom used to tell me this story, before she died, kind of a way to emphasize her point that I needed to take care of myself after she was gone.”
Derek startled but settled quickly, looking at Stiles standing in his (purportedly locked) doorway. Stiles had been practicing the trick that put him under werewolf radar since he was 17 and Derek had gotten used to having a Stiles pop up unexpectedly, had gotten over it quicker than anyone else because of how deeply he trusted Stiles… but he never told anyone that.
“I’d always thought she was making it up. What kid would so seriously tell someone, a complete stranger, how important their own son was?” Stiles paused, seeming expectant, but Derek wouldn’t ever deny this, just waited for him to continue. “I’m a little embarrassed it took me so long to figure out. I had to overhear Cora’s explanation of Important People to Tyler, last night, before I realized doing something like demanding someone protect their own son is something only you would do.
It took even longer for me to really think about the last decade and a half, goddamnit Derek, fifteen fucking years.” Stiles rubbed both hands into his hair, the usual exasperated movement comforting. Derek made a move to put down his coffee but Stiles put up a hand. “No, I’m not done. You get to listen. I really thought about all the shit you put me through, those first few years. And, yeah, I get it, a part of me is thankful you dealt with the crazy ass shit that had been done to you before you came to me, but you treated me like shit, Derek. And you never. came. to. me. I had to figure this out on my own. Do you know, I thought there was still some part of you that hated me. That that was the reason we never talked about truly personal shit, why you walked away whenever my boyfriends or girlfriends came up, never stuck around during holidays when I had them with me, or the scent of them on me. No, you are not subtle, Derek Hale, I can tell when your sniffer has caught something you don’t like. I know your tells. So, how did I not know that… how did I not know that I’m your Important Person? And how, I know you know me just as well, how did you not catch on that you’re mine?”
Derek’s heart was in his throat and his palms were sweaty. The hope was heady and devastating. “I knew what I looked like, had gotten that part well understood while I was in New York, and we both used it to our advantage more than once, if Miguel rings any bells.” Stiles looked abashed for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I never did apologize for that.”
“You don’t need to. I knew you liked me, Stiles; after the first few months I knew you tolerated me and I could tolerate you.” Stiles squawked indignantly to which Derek crossed his arms and cocked a judgmental eyebrow. “Just because you’re Important doesn’t mean our edges didn’t rub.” Stiles harrumphed but waved for Derek to continue. “After that first year, I knew I needed space for myself and I wanted to give you the room to make your own choices. After that… it became habit, I guess. I mean, there are leagues between tolerate and love, Stiles.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Derek.” Derek gave him a quick unimpressed look, hiding the zing that went through him, knowing that Stiles, as usual, had seen to the heart of it. Stiles laughed, a little loud, a little like he had when he was 16 and all limbs. “Okay, well, not any more than I usually do, not any more than what is our normal. And I’m really good at apologies.”
“Miguel.” Derek dropped the name, lightly sarcastic.
Stiles had moved closer while he talked, was easily in Derek’s space by this time, so it was easy for Stiles to sock him in the arm. “You just excused me from that apology, no take backs.” Stiles smiled, softly, and pressed a finger against Derek’s forehead, pushing the slightly furrowed brows back up. “Fifteen fucking years, Derek, sans fucking, I should have you arrested.”
“You already did, remember?”
“Yeah, but this time I’d press charges.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Stiles laughed, a bright peel of laughter leaving him like light. “If that’s your way of shutting me up, I can maybe deal with it.” He grinned at Derek and placed both hands on his face, bringing him in to place a soft kiss against his lips. Derek let the light press continue, just the soft tickle of lips, before a heavy pant of a breath finally escaped the tightness that had bound his chest since he saw Stiles in his doorway. He chased the breath across Stiles’ lips, kissing hotly, wetly, as the tension leaked out and he felt his body go limp with it. Feeling overwhelmed, he broke the kiss, a soft keen tugging free. He nosed at Stiles’ cheek, shifted and buried his face in Stiles’ neck, his breathing rough. Stiles fingers found their way into Derek’s hair, carded through the soft hair at the nape, scratched against his scalp before tugging lightly.
“I will take care of you. You are important. And I will protect you as long as you continue protecting me. Yeah?”
Derek breathed in deep, the scent behind Stiles’ ear delicious and comforting. “Yeah.”