Chapter Text
Stiles is lying upside down on his bed, his head hanging over the edge, contemplating the merits of rearranging his furniture. Because, see, the way his bedroom is arranged now, with the bed in the corner and the desk in front of the window, means the lighting is optimal. His study area gets plenty of natural light during the day and his sleeping area is far enough from the window that the glow of the streetlights doesn’t bother him at night. On the flip side, Stiles can get distracted by literally anything happening outside on the street and if he sleeps facing the wall he sometimes doesn’t wake up until someone forcibly removes him from unconsciousness (a werewolf someone, more often than not).
However, if he were to switch everything around and put his desk in the corner, that might help him stay more focused on studying. And having his bed under an east-facing window could work as a natural alarm clock in the mornings. He could boost his productivity rate by, like, 100%.
Of course, none of this actually matters because Stiles spends the majority of the year living in his dorm at Berkeley.
He’s just bored. Like really, distressingly, terminally bored. He’s home from college on winter break, his dad is working a double, Scott’s in D.C. very reluctantly visiting his father, and there are absolutely zero current supernatural shenanigans to entertain-slash-terrify him.
Kira’s in Japan, visiting relatives and communing with nature or something. Allison and Isaac are in France with Chris Argent, trying to sell the rest of the Argent clan on their new life motto of ‘let’s not kill absolutely everyone’. Erica and Boyd went to Aspen with his family, because apparently Boyd is an avid skier, and Stiles has not stopped calling him arcticwolf since he found out. Stiles annoyed Lydia one too many times and she threatened him with a shopping trip if he bothered her again this week. Jackson will be wherever Lydia is, doing whatever Lydia is doing. And Derek – well. Stiles can’t just call Derek and ask to hang out. Not anymore.
He can’t even go for a run because winter has decided to make itself known. And not in a pretty, snowy, fun way, oh no. It’s raining. It’s pouring. The old man is – not the point.
The point is that it’s absolutely sheeting down and Stiles wouldn’t step outside even if it meant free Netflix for a month.
So. Feng shui.
Stiles is crouched awkwardly under his desk, having just unplugged all his power cords in preparation for the big move, when his dad calls him.
“What’s up, oh captain my captain?”
“Stiles,” his dad replies wearily, “we’ve been over this. I’m a – ”
“You’re a Sheriff, not a police Captain, and although they work towards much the same goals, the sheriff’s department and the police department are two very different institutions. For one, the county Sheriff is an elected official whereas – ”
“Excellent, so we’re in agreement. And you’ll stop calling me captain.”
Stiles sighs gustily and agrees to no such thing.
“Anyway, kid, back to the point of my call.” And here his dad pauses uneasily. Stiles is intrigued. “Is everything okay at the house?”
Stiles’ intrigue turns to worry in a heartbeat.
“What? Why? What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, son,” his dad assures him. “I got a call from Mrs Hudson next door, though.” Stiles can hear the scratch of his dad’s palm against the skin of his jaw, even over the phone. “Apparently there’s a man standing in our front yard?”
Stiles jerks upwards, forgetting that he’s underneath a pretty solid piece of furniture and smacking his head against a desk leg.
“Kid?”
Stiles ignores his dad, and the large black spots floating through his vision, and scuttles over to the window, keeping low. He stops for a second to catch his breath and brace himself, then pops his head over the sill.
He exhales on a curse.
“Stiles!?” It takes him a while to register his dad’s panicked voice echoing from his phone and by that time he’s already charging down the stairs.
“You can call back the cavalry, dad, I’m not dealing with a hardened criminal. Just a gigantic moron.”
Stiles hangs up at the bottom of the stairs, stomps across the entrance hall, and throws open the front door.
There, standing stoic and motionless in the pelting rain, staring intently up at Stiles’ house like the massive fucking creeper he is, is Derek Hale.
He’s wearing nothing but his customary leather jacket and he looks soaked to the bone. His hair is plastered against his forehead; water is running in actual, honest-to-goodness rivulets off the ends of his sleeves; and he’s shaking ever so slightly, werewolf body temperature be damned.
The sheer amount of wet dog jokes Stiles could be making right now is almost overwhelming, but he’s more concerned with just how long Derek has been brooding on his driveway and, most importantly, why.
“Are you completely insane?” Stiles yells over the drumming of raindrops on the roof. Then he flails out a hand and shakes his head. “Wait, stupid question, of course you are, that’s long since been established.”
Derek doesn’t outwardly react. He just keeps standing there. In the rain. Gazing at Stiles like he’s trying to see into Stiles’ soul. Not getting any less creepy.
“Derek?” Stiles tries.
Nothing.
“Are you okay? What’s happening here? Have you been poisoned? Have you been possessed? Who do I call about a possession? Does Deaton do that kind of thing? And by that I mean can he handle possessions, not does he possess people himself. Although that’s also kind of a valid question because really, how much do we actually know about the guy? He’s irritatingly cryptic and mostly unhelpful and I’m starting to think – ”
“Stiles.”
Stiles huffs because honestly, he should have known. The only way to get Derek Hale to do anything is to annoy him into it.
“Yes?”
Derek goes back to his tortured statue impression and Stiles throws up his hands.
“What? What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“I want – ” Derek begins, but then starts to look like he’s choking on something and changes tack. “It’s been six months.”
The steady beat of water against concrete fills Stiles’ ears until he realizes that it’s not actually the storm he’s hearing but rather the pounding of his own heart.
He feigns ignorance. “Come again?”
“Six months,” Derek repeats, taking a jerky step forward. “It’s been six months since… Since.”
The fact that he can’t even finish the sentence, can’t even say it out loud, infuriates Stiles more than anything else that has happened between them. Because after everything they’ve been through, after everything Derek has done, he owes Stiles. At least that much.
He stops feigning ignorance. “Oh!” Stiles exclaims, snapping his fingers. “You mean it’s been six months since you left me sitting alone in a diner and didn’t even have the decency to tell me why?”
Derek grits his teeth so hard that the muscles in his jaw begin to turn white and he nods stiffly, staring over Stiles’ shoulder.
“So are we celebrating anniversaries now?” Stiles sneers at him. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be sure to send you a big bouquet of fuck you.”
He turns his back on Derek and stalks into the house, but before he can slam the door behind him there are footsteps on the stairs.
“Stiles, wait.”
He should shut the door in Derek’s face, or on his fingers, ideally, and then surround the house with mountain ash. He should delete all the texts he’d saved, block a specific phone number, and set his Instagram account to private. He should go back to college and fuck new people and forget that Derek Hale ever existed.
These are all things that Stiles should do.
But Stiles has never really been good at doing the things he should.
So he waits.
When he faces Derek again he finds the werewolf stopped halfway up the porch steps, hand on the railing. He looks like he’s searching for an opening and Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, stays silent. He shouldn’t even be giving Derek the time of day, so he sure as hell isn’t going to make this any easier on him.
“I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking,” Derek mutters, and Stiles scoffs because that’s a cop out if ever he’s heard one.
“Just tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth,” Derek says fiercely.
“Okay, so, you weren’t thinking when you dumped me in public.” Derek opens his mouth like he’s going to protest but Stiles barrels right over him. “There was dumpage and it was epic. I would know.” Derek closes his mouth. “And what, you weren’t thinking when you ignored every single one of my many phone calls? You weren’t thinking when I was knocking on your apartment door and you were climbing down the fire escape? You haven’t been thinking for the past half a year?” Stiles spits.
Derek’s lips, thinned almost to the point of extinction, flatten completely.
“Tell me a better truth.”
Derek swallows compulsively, avoiding Stiles’ gaze.
“Or just tell me why,” Stiles asks, embarrassed at the way his voice cracks over the last word, at the way it sounds like he’s pleading. “Why did you walk away then? Why are you here now?”
Derek says nothing.
Stiles rests his temple against the doorframe and laughs a bitter, resigned laugh. He’s tired.
“I was afraid.”
Stiles stills, looks up at Derek slowly.
“You were afraid,” he echoes incredulously. “Of me?”
“No,” Derek snaps. “Yes. I don’t know.” He growls, frustrated, and balls his hands into fists. “This isn’t how I wanted to explain it.”
“Use your words, Derek.”
Derek glowers at Stiles and he holds up his hands, palms facing out.
“Hey, no, I’m serious, okay? Take your time; say it how you want to say it. I’m listening,” Stiles assures softly. He recognizes that what’s happening right now is kind of monumental.
In all the time that Stiles has know him, Derek hasn’t once admitted to being afraid of anything. What he’s confessing right now just might be the most emotional maturity Derek has shown in, well, ever.
Derek does take his time, glaring at his hand on the railing where his knuckles are white and the tips of his claws are chipping paint away from the wood. Stiles waits patiently for the first time in his entire life, counting the raindrops that chase each other down Derek’s cheeks and disappear into his beard.
“I wasn’t – I’m not afraid of you,” Derek begins stiltedly. “I was afraid because… because I was falling in love with you.”
Stiles inhales so sharply he almost swallows his own tonsils.
“And that’s scary, Stiles,” he continues lowly. “You have no idea how frightening that is to me.”
Derek pauses here, eyes darting quickly to Stiles’ face and then away again just as fast, like he’s waiting for some kind of reaction that isn’t just Stiles boggling at him.
Stiles schools his expression and clears his throat.
“Oh, um,” he starts, scrambling desperately for words. “That’s, well. Love is a scary thing. It’s a big thing, and it’s scary, I get that, Derek. And most people – ”
“No, you don’t get it, Stiles!” Derek blurts out, scrubbing both hands through his drenched hair and then down over his face. He blows out a breath and carries on in a hollow voice, “Everyone I’ve ever loved has ended up either dead or evil.”
Oh.
“And I knew already that you aren’t evil, Stiles. You’re so good,” he says, looking into Stiles’ eyes for the first time in six months. “Except that you’re kind of an asshole, actually, and you’re intentionally obnoxious, and you seem to take some sort of sick pleasure in making people uncomfortable.”
“Not helping your case.”
“But you are good. Everything you’ve ever done you’ve done to save your family, or your friends, or innocent strangers, or fuck, even the entire town. You’re so brave and you’re so loyal and when you love someone you love them with everything you’ve got. And I worry about that, Stiles, because if you give all your love away, then what have you got left for yourself? And you’re way too selfless when it comes to your own safety. You’ll plant yourself firmly between your friends and danger, every single time, even when most of your friends are werewolves and a whole lot less mortal than you are. And you’re so – so fucking honorable. You don’t give a shit about power or money or control. You’d rather face down an alpha werewolf than be turned into something you’re not. And I love it, everything. I love you.”
Derek stops to breathe and his voice turns all small and broken. “I loved you and I knew you couldn’t be evil. So that only left one other option.”
Stiles exhales shakily.
“And I couldn’t. I couldn’t watch you die, I couldn’t be responsible for it. I couldn’t do that to you and everyone that loves you and I didn’t – I didn’t think I’d be able to survive history repeating itself. Not with you.”
Stiles is, probably for the first time ever, lost for words. There are so many thoughts whizzing in dizzying circles around his brain, moving too fast for him to latch onto any one idea. He wants to hit Derek, and kiss Derek, and piece Derek back together, one jagged fragment at a time. He wants to push Derek away and never let him go.
He’s going back over all of Derek’s words in his head, the most words Derek has possibly ever spoken to him, when one thing jumps out at him, demanding his attention.
“You weren’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t,” he says slowly. “It’s all past tense?”
“Yeah,” Derek agrees hoarsely. “All past tense.”
“What changed?”
Derek reaches up to push his limp hair out of his eyes.
“There was the thing with that coven at your school.”
“Honestly. Fucking witches,” Stiles hisses under his breath.
“I wasn’t there. I couldn’t protect you. And as scary as it was being with you, Stiles, it was fucking terrifying being without you. But you saved yourself, you were fucking amazing, and I realized that you don’t need anyone else to protect you. You are all you’ve ever needed.”
Stiles stares at Derek, still shaking from the rain, looking desperate and frightened and hopeful and younger than Stiles has ever seen him.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” he asks quietly, knowing Derek will hear him over the whistling wind. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“You,” Derek is quick to answer, twitching forward like he’s thinking about just grabbing Stiles and running. “Stiles, I just want you. For better or worse.”
“Are you proposing?!” Stiles yelps in alarm.
“Not marriage, not yet,” Derek says earnestly.
Stiles wheezes. “Not yet.”
“I know I hurt you,” he says miserably, back to staring at the ground. “I know I completely fucked everything up. And I don’t expect you to forgive me, or even want to talk to me, not for a while at least. But I just – ” he looks back up at Stiles helplessly, “I needed to explain. You deserved an explanation. And I wanted you to know that I’ll wait for you.”
“You could be waiting a long time,” Stiles mutters testily.
Derek nods his head, his wet hair flopping back onto his face. “As long as it takes. I would wait for you for ever.”
A little flame of hope has started flickering behind Stiles’ ribcage, but six months worth of pain and anger and crippling self-doubt is threatening to snuff it out.
“And what if I never get there? What if I don’t feel the same anymore?”
Derek pales slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.
“Then I’ll be your friend. Or even just your packmate. I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”
Stiles closes his eyes and tips his head back, listening to the rush of water in the downpipes and trying to filter through all the emotions stewing inside him.
When he opens his eyes again Derek has turned away, is walking slowly back down Stiles’ front steps with his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched up high.
Stiles launches himself across the porch and pushes Derek the rest of the way down the stairs. Derek tucks into a neat forward roll and pops back up on two feet, spinning around to gape at Stiles.
“Are you fucking serious, Derek?” Stiles yells, shoving at his chest. “In the fucking rain?! Really?! Did you plan this or are you just naturally as dramatic as possible?”
“Stiles – ”
“Oh my god. You stood outside my house, in the rain. I cannot fucking believe you.”
Stiles pushes at Derek until he wears himself out, and then they’re both left standing in his front yard in torrential rain like ridiculous idiots.
“God, you have so much groveling to do. So much.”
Derek just about cracks his face in half with the force of his grin. Stiles has never seen anything more beautiful and god, they’re still standing in the fucking rain.
“Come on, you can start by moving my furniture around.”