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There’s a familiar scent outside Derek’s door and he raises his head before shaking it off, ignoring it, because there’s no way it’s who he thinks it is. Turning back to his book, Derek tries to concentrate on the words, but then there’s a knock on his door and—.
“Hi,” Stiles says when Derek opens the door. He’s bedraggled, his hair flat against his head, obviously got caught in the rain, with a bag at his feet.
“What are you doing here, Stiles?”
“It’s been years, and you never came back.”
“There wasn’t a reason to,” Derek says. His book’s still in his hand, and he doesn’t quite know what to say to Stiles. “Did you want something, or—”
“Can I come in?”
Derek glances over his shoulder and back at Stiles before he reluctantly nods and steps back, gesturing with his book. Fingers wrapped around the handles of his bag, Stiles walks in, and Derek closes the door behind him, still wondering what Stiles is doing here, how Stiles even tracked him down.
“It’s small,” Stiles says, having dropped his bag on the couch where Derek had been sitting, and Derek can’t help the reflexive glare he aims at Stiles. “What?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised. “How have I managed to annoy you so quickly?”
“The couch is not a place for your wet bag, Stiles.”
“Oh.” Turning around, Stiles picks his bag up and drops it on the ground. “Better?”
“Barely.”
“Sorry, after the way you kept your loft, I didn’t realise you were so house proud.”
“Did you come here to be an asshole, or is the world ending?” Derek asks, putting his book down on the end table and folding his arms across his chest.
“Neither? I—” Stiles breaks off and shrugs before sticking his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I wanted to get out, okay? But when I started driving, I didn’t know where to go, so I—”
“Stalked me?”
“It wasn’t hard to find you,” Stiles says, walking around the side of Derek’s couch towards the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. “You use your real name, anyone could track you down. If you’re hiding, you’re doing a shitty job of it.”
“I’m not hiding,” Derek says, sitting on his couch, avoiding where Stiles had dropped his bag. “I didn’t expect anyone to come looking for me.”
“Your sister?”
“Cora’s in Vegas, she knows where I am if she needs me.”
“Really?” Stiles asks, walking into the kitchen and opening Derek’s fridge. “What’s she doing there?”
“Poker, she’s working at the Bellagio,” Derek says, getting up from the couch and closing the fridge door. “Stop looking through my things.”
“I’m still amazed you have things.”
Derek sighs and rubs a hand over his face, leaning against an exposed beam. “You want to stay here, don’t you?”
“I—”
“The truth, Stiles.”
With that, it’s like the mask Stiles has been putting on drops, and his face screws up in as much distress as Derek has ever seen from him. “I can’t stay there,” he says quietly, cracking his knuckles. “It’s hell. Like, I’m starting to believe there’s an actual gateway to hell somewhere in Beacon Hills. Nothing goes right, and since you left I—I’m alone. No one gets it, what it’s like to live there and see all the death and the chaos all the time.”
Stiles is wringing his fingers together and Derek wants to grab them, hold on to them if only to stop Stiles from tying himself up in knots. Instead, he switches the electric kettle on and takes down two mugs from the shelf above the counter. “Hand me that tin,” he says, pointing behind Stiles. As if he’s on autopilot, Stiles obeys, handing it over, his teeth worrying his bottom lip.
“What is it?” Stiles asks, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Tea,” Derek says quietly, as he measures out enough for each mug, fiddling with the strainer. “From my place.”
“You sell tea?”
“I own a cafe.” The kettle switches off and Derek pours the water over the loose tea, before putting the kettle back and looking over at Stiles. “It’s not far from here.”
“Selling avocado toast to hipsters?”
“Something like that. It’s quiet. Simple.”
Stiles looks at the mugs on the counter, gaze flitting over the rest of the kitchen before his eyes come to rest on Derek. “Me being here screws up your simple life, right?”
“I didn’t say that,” Derek says, turning back to the mugs and lifting the strainers out. He shakes the tea leaves into the compost bin and puts them in the sink to be rinsed out. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“I told you.”
“You told me why you left, Stiles. Not why you’re here.” There’s quiet in the house, if Derek concentrates he can hear Stiles’ heart beating fast, like he’s nervous, and that’s a sound Derek hasn’t heard in a long time. “Drink your tea,” he says, finally.
“Do I have to?” Stiles asks, wrinkling his nose as he reaches for the mug.
“If you want to stay here, you do.”
*
Wednesday is the one day Derek gets a lie in, leaving opening to his second in command, Celeste. It doesn’t stop him from waking up earlier than he’d like, and for a moment he wonders why he can hear someone else’s heartbeat in the house before he remembers. Stiles. Derek understands why Stiles left Beacon Hills, it’s the same reasons he left Beacon Hills, but he can’t get his head around why Stiles came here. More than that, even, Stiles sought him out. Derek hasn’t been hiding, but he also didn’t expect anyone to come looking for him, least of all Stiles.
Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Derek glances at his phone. He didn’t ask, last night, if Stiles’ dad knew he was here. Maybe he should’ve, but, as strange as it is, Stiles is an adult now, and if he wants to vanish, that’s his decision. It’s still early, but Derek shoots off a text to Cora, telling her that Stiles has turned up. There’s no immediate response, and that means Derek is out of excuses not to get out of bed.
Stiles’ heartbeat hasn’t changed, so he’s still asleep, and somehow that makes it easier for Derek to get up. Shoving his blankets aside, Derek sits up on the edge of his bed, bare feet against the soft rug that was a housewarming gift from Cora; it’s bright purple and a complete eyesore, but it makes Derek smile every time he wakes up. He runs a hand over his bare chest and stands up, walking over to the small ensuite bathroom, it’s nothing more than a toilet and a sink—there’s a bigger bathroom down the hall—but on a cold day, Derek appreciates not having to go very far in the morning.
By the time he’s washed and dressed, Derek can hear Stiles stirring on the couch; his heart rate is speeding up, like he’s panicking, and when Derek steps through into the main room, he can see that Stiles is tossing and turning, his face contorted in pain.
“Stiles,” Derek says, hand hovering over Stiles’ shoulder, not wanting to touch him for fear it might make whatever Stiles is experiencing worse. Stiles doesn’t wake at the sound of Derek’s voice, so he says Stiles’ name again, and then again, before it becomes painfully obvious that the only way Stiles is going to wake is with physical touch. Grabbing Stiles’ shoulder, Derek shakes him as gently as he possibly can. “Wake up, Stiles, come on,” he says, not liking how close his voice is to pleading with him.
All of a sudden, Stiles’ eyes shoot open, his chest heaving as he sucks in air. “Derek?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, quickly letting go of Stiles, hand dangling by his side awkwardly. “You were having a—”
“Nightmare,” Stiles finishes, swinging around and sitting up, resting his elbows on his legs. “Fuck. I thought—I got away.” Holding his head in his hands, Stiles sighs, heavier than Derek’s ever heard from him before, but then, it’s been years.
“You left because of nightmares?” Derek asks, still hovering by the couch.
“No,” Stiles says. “I left because I would’ve died if I stayed. The nightmares were just an offshoot of everything else.”
Before Derek can say anything, Stiles lifts his head from his hands and shrugs. “Guess that’s what I should expect, right?”
“No, Stiles,” Derek says, finally. “It’s not what you should expect. What happens in Beacon Hills isn’t normal, even for werewolves, we—” Derek breaks off and sits next to Stiles on the couch, trying to ignore how Stiles’ scent is all over everything around him. “We live peacefully, you know that. None of the town knew my family were what we are, not until the fire.”
“So what am I meant to do?”
“Find a way to live with it.”
Stiles shakes his head and grabs his bag before standing up. “You asked why I came here, last night?”
“I did.”
“That’s why.”
*
Derek heads into the cafe in time to help out with the lunch rush, Stiles tagging along with him, even though Derek has no idea how to explain him to the staff. When they get there, Stiles sets up in the corner table, his back to the wall, and pulls out his laptop. Celeste shoots Derek a look when he heads behind the counter, but people are starting to flood in for lunch, so he’s got time to think of what to say.
Soon, he’s lost in the rhythm of making drinks, keeping one eye on the part timer that Celeste hired recently to make sure he doesn’t get too lost, and making sure the kitchen is moving fast; the cafe took off fairly quickly once it was open, and ever since they’ve had a group of regulars along with the tourists dropping in, and the hipsters who Derek can’t get rid of no matter what he tries.
Once the rush dies down, Derek sets to clearing tables, wondering exactly what it is about people that make them spill sugar everywhere for no goddamn reason. Wiping down a table, Derek glances over at Stiles and sees he’s found the take one, leave one book nook that Derek keeps in the cafe as part of a local scheme.
“Who is he?” Celeste asks when Derek gets back behind the counter, like Derek knew she would as soon as she had a chance.
“Someone from where I was before.”
“An ex?”
“A friend,” Derek says, in a tone that he hopes means Celeste will stop asking.
“Uh huh,” she responds, eyebrow raised. “Don’t forget we’ve got the youth group tomorrow evening.”
“I know,” Derek says as he starts to make a coffee for Stiles.
“You gonna be here?”
Derek shoots her a look. “It’s my cafe, I’ll be here,” he says, before heading over to Stiles. He’s picked out a hardback book from the collection, Derek can’t see the cover, but Stiles seems engrossed by it. “Here,” he says as he sets the coffee mug down. “You need anything to eat?”
Stiles shakes his head as he grabs the mug, not looking up at Derek until he’s taken a sip. “This is good,” he says.
“I know,” Derek says with a shrug. “Do you want some food?”
“Maybe?” Stiles taps his fingers against the cover of the book. “What’s good?”
“All of it’s good,” Derek says, dragging a chair over and sitting down. “If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be on the menu.”
“Derek Hale, the foodie,” Stiles mutters around the rim of his mug as he takes another sip. “Who knew?”
Huffing out a laugh, Derek leans back in his chair. “I worked in kitchens in New York, I got to know some things.”
“And here I thought you were hiding in a cave in Central Park the whole time you were there,” Stiles says.
“I had a life. Kitchen work was what kept me going, I could stand there and scrub pans and no one would bother me. I didn’t have to think about anything.”
“Did you have friends there?”
“Kind of.”
“Why didn’t you go back there when you left Beacon Hills?”
“Explaining why I left, why Laura—” Derek breaks off and shrugs. “I didn’t want to do that, I couldn’t do that. I wanted a fresh start.”
“You stayed close enough that I could find you easily.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, standing up, wanting to put an end to the conversation. “Guess I did.”
*
Derek thinks he should be concerned about how easily Stiles seems to slot into the life he’s built here; the way he’s got used to Stiles snoozing on the couch when Derek wakes up early to get to the cafe; how Stiles moves around the house with ease, like he’s been there for months instead of weeks. It should be disconcerting, should make Derek want to kick Stiles out of the house and tell him not to come back, but—. It’s a comfort, having Stiles here, and really, if anything, that’s what Derek knows he should be concerned about.
“Do you do anything for Thanksgiving?” Stiles asks, interrupting his thoughts.
Derek looks up at where Stiles is perched on the edge of the porch and shrugs. “The cafe’s closed, last year I helped out at the youth group, they host a dinner for kids who don’t want to be at home, or can’t be at home.”
“Cora doesn’t come back? You don’t feel the need for a family gathering?”
“Not so much,” Derek says, running a hand over the edge of the bedside table he’s putting together, feeling for any places where it needs to be sanded some more. “Why?”
“Dad, he uh—he knows I’m not coming back, but he asked if you’d be okay with him coming here.”
“Oh.” Fingers hitting a rough spot, Derek reaches for the sandpaper and ducks his head as he works it over. “Sure, he can visit. I’ll talk to Laurie, she always needs volunteers, and clear out for the—”
“No, idiot,” Stiles says, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice as he steps closer. “You’re not going anywhere. Unless you want to, if you—he’s coming here to see both of us.”
Derek pauses, pressing against the groove of the wood, the solidity of it grounding him. Then, without warning, Stiles’ hand is tentatively resting on his shoulder, his fingers flexing against the muscle, and all of a sudden Derek’s flung back to the last time Stiles touched him like this, when Boyd—. The snap of the wood is a shock to him, and Derek stares at it, eyes wide and unable to comprehend what just happened.
“I can tell him no,” Stiles says, dragging Derek out of his reviere. “He’ll understand.”
“Stiles—”
“No,” Stiles says, firmly. “You’re not—I forget, sometimes, that you left Beacon Hills for a reason as well. You’re so settled here that it’s—” Stiles breaks off and shrugs, dropping his hand from Derek’s shoulder. “Christmas,” he says abruptly. “Maybe for Christmas he can visit.”
Derek looks up from where he’s kneeling on the ground, the remains of the bedside table he was making for Celeste a wreck around him. “Okay,” he says quietly, noticing how pinched Stiles’ face looks.
“Okay as in you’re not going to argue with me over this?”
“Sure, Stiles,” Derek says, suddenly exhausted. “I won’t argue with you over this.”
Stiles’ fingers brush over the nape of Derek’s neck as he turns to head inside, and Derek’s left wondering if Stiles being here is doing either of them any good.
*
It takes a moment for Derek to work out what’s woken him up, and then he realises that Stiles’ breathing is erratic, his heart rate rabbit fast, and it’s—.
He’s out of bed before he even realises it.
Stiles hasn’t had a nightmare since the first night he got here, but now he’s squirming on the couch, blankets kicked around his ankles, and his head is jerking like he’s trying to shake out whatever the hell is in his mind.
Not even bothering with a subtle approach this time, Derek kneels by the couch and clamps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, saying his name loudly, then again, and again until Stiles’ body stills, his eyes opening in a panic as they fix on Derek.
“Fuck,” Stiles breathes out, his heart still racing. “I—I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Don’t be,” Derek says, his hand still on Stiles’ shoulder. He loosens his grip and takes a breath, eyes flitting over Stiles’ body. “You’re drenched in fear,” he says quietly.
“And sweat,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Fuck, I haven’t—it’s been a while since they were that bad.”
Derek tugs at the blankets around Stiles’ ankles until they’re a pile on the floor, and he stands up, holding a hand out to Stiles. “Come on,” he says when Stiles shoots him a confused look. “Shower.”
“With you?”
“Stiles—”
“Just checking,” Stiles says with a shaky smile as he takes Derek’s hand, letting Derek pull him to his feet. “Not that I’d say no, but—”
“Just—go and shower,” Derek says with a slight smile, dropping Stiles’ hand and gently pushing him towards the bathroom. Watching Stiles walk away, Derek turns to the couch and sighs at the sweat marks having soaked through the sheets and on the cushion covers. Stripping everything off the couch, Derek bundles them together and drops them in the basket in the laundry room before heading to his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Derek rubs his hands along his thighs, knowing what he’s about to do is a bad idea, but unable to convinced himself that he shouldn’t do it.
The water in the bathroom switches off and he hears Stiles stepping out of the shower, the door to the bathroom opening followed by Stiles’ steady footsteps along the hall. “Derek? Where am I meant—”
“In here,” Derek calls out, reaching over and switching his bedside lamp on. “The bedroom.”
“Oh,” Stiles says as he pushes open the door, and then he’s just standing there in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, and Derek’s concentrating really hard on keeping his eyes on Stiles’ face. “Why are the covers off the couch?”
“Sweat,” Derek says before getting up and opening a drawer, tugging a pair of sweatpants out. “Here,” he says as he hands them over. “You can sleep in here.”
Stiles looks at the sweatpants and then back at Derek. “You don’t—I can sleep on the floor if—”
“Stiles, you—” Derek breaks off, ducking his head for a moment before looking back up and meeting Stiles’ eyes. “You woke me up because your nightmare was so bad that you—I could hear you.”
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t apologise,” Derek interrupts. “You came here to work out how to live, right? Away from Beacon Hills? Then just—get in the bed.”
“This is not how sixteen year old me thought I’d get in your bed,” Stiles mutters as he slips the sweatpants on, towel dropping to the floor. “I mean—”
“It’s not news,” Derek says, getting into the bed and rolling on his side. “You weren’t subtle about it.” He can hear Stiles huffing in faux indignation before the bed dips and Stiles tugs at the blankets. “Do you need the light on?”
“No,” Stiles says quietly. “No, it can go off, but I—you don’t have to—” Stiles sighs, not completing the sentence.
Reaching over, Derek switches the bedside lamp off and rolls over to look at Stiles, able to see him perfectly well in the dark. “What is it?”
Stiles is staring up at the ceiling, fingers tapping against his bare chest and Derek has to force down the urge to grab at them, to hold them tight. “Touch,” Stiles finally bites out. “After a nightmare—it helps.”
There’s a heavy silence in the room and Derek can feel the nervousness radiating from Stiles; the short sharp breaths he’s taking, the biting of his lip. Shuffling closer, Derek tentatively slides a hand over Stiles’ chest, trying to ignore the warmth of Stiles’ skin. “Is this—”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, his voice low. “It’s good.”
Before he can second guess himself, Derek rubs the pads of his fingers lightly against Stiles’ skin and closes his eyes. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”
*
The alarm buzzes at him a few hours later, and Derek wrinkles his nose against the soft hair in his face, curling closer to the warm body in his bed before—.
“If you want to snuggle just know that your alarm is ruining the ambience.”
Jerking back, trying not to notice how low down on Stiles’ stomach his hand had been resting, Derek blinks before rolling over and smacking the alarm. “Sorry, I—it’s been a while since I’ve—”
“It’s fine,” Stiles says, turning onto his back and craning his neck to look at Derek. “Seriously, don’t freak—”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Stiles rubs his eyes before fixing them on Derek. “And I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop.”
Derek sits up, back against the headboard, his hands resting against his legs. “I haven’t exactly had anyone here since I left,” he says, drawing his legs up to his chest. “I don’t know how to—”
“Do not try telling me you’re not good with people, Derek, you own a cafe, you work with kids, you have friends.”
“There’s a difference between friends and whatever we are.”
“We’re not friends?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Derek says, shooting Stiles a glare and sighing when he sees the grin on Stiles’ face. “You did that on purpose.”
“Definitely.”
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Derek glances at the clock. “I have to work.”
“Can I come with you?”
“I’m going to put you to work if you do.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
When they get to the cafe, Derek puts Stiles to work on the register, letting Sendhil, the new hire, concentrate on making drinks. Derek’s in the kitchen, working with Celeste, and trying not to think about the feel of Stiles’ body against his that morning. It’s almost working, but then Stiles sticks his head in the kitchen to say it’s slowing down, and Derek’s lost, looking down at the carrots he was slicing with no idea what they were for.
“Peanut salad,” Celeste says, nudging him with her elbow.
Derek nods, grabbing what he’s chopped and throwing it into the mix. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know—”
“You should take tomorrow off,” Celeste interrupts. “Sendhil is trained up, and I’ll have Kiki in, we can handle it.”
“But I—”
“We’ll be fine. Derek just—go out. Take Stiles somewhere. Have a break.”
Derek narrows his eyes at her. “Don’t burn down my cafe.”
“Cross my heart. Come on, you know I can do it. And you need some time off.”
“Where am I—what do people do with days off?”
“The fact you even have to ask me that is really sad,” Celeste says, grabbing the bowls of salad Derek’s plated. “It’s not that cold yet, take him for a hike.”
“Stiles. On a hike.”
“He’s your friend,” she says, hip checking Derek as she heads towards the swinging doors, bowls in hand. “You decide.”
*
“I didn’t know you knew what a day off was,” Stiles says when they get home, his sneakers in the shoe rack by the door.
“We close for holidays.”
“And how many of those holidays do you spend volunteering with Laurie?”
Derek winces as he heads into the kitchen. “That’s not the point,” he says, filling the kettle and reaching for a tin of tea. “Look, you don’t have to spend it with me, but—”
“Yeah because I’ve shown such a reluctance in wanting to spend time with you so far—”
“I thought,” Derek interrupts. “We could go walking through the forest. Pack a lunch.”
Stiles comes up next to him, reaching up to take down two mugs from the shelf, his side pressing against Derek’s body. “Okay,” he says, placing the mugs on the counter. “As long as you promise to chase off any animals that decide they need a taste of me.”
“Stiles—”
“What?”
“Drink your tea,” Derek says, pushing a mug into his hands.
“There are better ways to get me to shut up,” Stiles mutters around the rim of his mug, and Derek’s hand jolts, spilling hot water over the counter.
Grabbing a cloth, he sops up the water, trying not to react to the look he knows Stiles is giving him. It’s not—Derek hates this, a little. Not knowing how to react, what to do when Stiles drops innuendos like that. He’s not stupid, there’s always been a lust tinged scent from Stiles, but since he showed up on Derek’s doorstep it’s been different. It’s less desperate, not as needy. There’s a contentedness to it that Derek hasn’t scented on anyone since—.
Since his parents.
“Your tea will get cold,” Stiles says, interrupting his thoughts. “Derek?”
“What is this?” Derek asks, not turning from the counter. “Why are you—you could’ve gone anywhere, but you—”
“I told you why.”
“No. You gave me a reason, you didn’t tell me why.”
“There’s a difference? Look, if you don’t want me here, then—”
“I didn’t say that,” Derek says, turning around to face Stiles. “But you—last night, you slept in my bed and—”
“That doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Lie.”
“And what if it does mean something?” Stiles says after a beat, putting his mug down and stepping closer to Derek. “What then?”
“I—don’t know,” Derek responds, mug clutched in one hand, the other in a fist by his side, trying to stop himself from reaching for Stiles.
“Now who’s lying?”
“Stiles—”
“Just—” Stiles reaches out and takes the mug from Derek’s hand, placing it next to his. “Derek.”
Derek avoids his gaze, staring down at the floor, and even that’s a mistake because it means he has a perfect view of Stiles taking his hand, holding on tightly, like he never wants to let go. It means he’s given Stiles an inch, and when Stiles gets an inch he—.
There’s Stiles’ mouth brushing against Derek’s neck, and Derek swallows, his own grip tightening around Stiles’ hand. Turning his head, Derek meet Stiles’ eyes and nods, gaze flicking down to Stiles’ mouth. “It means something,” Derek says. “But if you—”
“If I what?”
“If you don’t—” Derek takes in a breath. “This is my life, Stiles. It’s quiet, and small, and—”
“You’re happy.”
“Getting there,” Derek says, loosening his hold on Stiles’ hand. “But I—” he breaks off and leans in, his nose bumping against Stiles’. “I could be happier,” he says before catching Stiles’ mouth in a kiss.
Stiles lets out a sharp gasp, his mouth opening, and Derek takes advantage, deepening the kiss and losing himself in it. Letting go of Stiles’ hand, Derek curls his hands around Stiles’ waist, fingers sliding underneath the thin long sleeved shirt Stiles has on, pressing his fingertips against the soft skin above Stiles’ waistband.
He never allowed himself to think about this, back in Beacon Hills, and he tried—so hard—to forget Stiles once he left, but now he’s got Stiles in his arms, his scent filling Derek’s senses, and Derek—.
Derek’s not going to want to let him go.
That realisation is a sharp shock to his brain and Derek breaks the kiss, his hand still against the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles’ mouth is reddened, looking like the best kind of sin, and it’s taking all of Derek’s willpower not to press Stiles against the counter and find out what noises he could drag out of Stiles.
“Are you staying?” he asks, eventually. “Stiles if I—this isn’t just—”
“Yes,” Stiles says, his hand reaching up and touching Derek’s face, fingers trailing along the line of his jaw. “Derek, I’m staying. However long you want me to.”
“Could be a while.”
Stiles smiles at him, a small, intimate smile that Derek could get used to seeing. “I’m okay with that.”