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• • •
By the time Derek finally notices it, it's been there for at least a few months, if not years. It isn't new — no longer the shiny, aggressive pink of a freshly branded burn mark, but a faded dusty rose, like an old scar or a birthmark, slightly blurred around the edges, though just as clear as the one he remembers seeing emblazoned across his father's chest every time they'd go for an early morning run through the forest.
It doesn't come with the fanfare and fireworks you hear about in all those fairy tales about love at first sight — a spark of light and a rush of summer heat like a flint being struck against steel — less of a wildfire, more of a slowly stoked hearth filled with glowing embers, a gradual warmth that envelopes him over time, without him even realizing, until one day, Derek forgets what it's like to shiver.
Though it still comes as a shock — after all, he'd long given up on the idea that it would ever happen to him.
He remembers the sting of spurned hope, wondering why one had never appeared when he was with Paige, remembers hardly being surprised or even caring that it had never happened with Kate (and really, that should've been his first clue) but even amongst the supernatural, soulmate marks were rare.
According to the stories Derek's mother used to tell him as she tucked him into bed and kissed him goodnight, when you meet your soulmate, and they fall in love with you, a heart-shaped mark will appear across your chest, right over your own beating heart, and then you'll know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you've found the right one.
Six years later, Derek stumbles across an awkward, gangly teenager trespassing on private property in the middle of the woods, and his first thought is that he's never met a more infuriating person in his entire life. He blames the strange surge of heat that blossoms in the center of his chest on the growing pains of re-adjusting from east to west coast weather (never mind the fact that this is northern California and it's the dead of winter.)
Despite all of his best efforts to mentor the newly-turned beta, it's his mouthy little shit of a best friend that Derek keeps getting stuck with. Even more bewildering is the fact that this person, this skinny defenseless human, this near-perfect stranger, keeps going out of his way to help Derek, to protect him, so much and so often that Derek starts to — dare he admit it — trust him.
He doesn't understand it, this unfathomable pull he feels toward him, the way they keep being drawn to one another, tangling up in each other's lives like some kind of invisible string tying them together, crossing paths seemingly whenever they need each other most. It's that same irresistible tug forward that leads him to the high school the day he gets shot with a wolfsbane bullet and makes it standing long enough to collapse in front of a powder blue jeep held together with duct tape and spite; that same logic-defying instinct that tells him to scale the side of the sheriff's house while on the run for multiple murder convictions and hide out in the bedroom of the sheriff's sixteen year old son.
There's no rhyme or reason for it, no history of familiarity — just an inexplicable feeling of this is safe, this is home. It's the last place Derek should call sanctuary, yet here he is, one clawed hand curled around the frame of the open window, tamping down the foreign flutter in his chest as he's met with a startled laugh and a smile warm enough to rival the sun.
It's easy enough, in the beginning, to convince himself he's strictly here on business, begrudgingly admitting that maybe the guy's not nearly as thick-skulled as the rest of their generation, and that maybe he could use a sharp mind to bounce ideas off of, to help him research and come up with strategies so that they'll be better prepared for the next time a half-insane alpha starts attacking kids in the woods, or a venomous lizard goes on a murderous rampage.
But then enough time passes in between Peter chilling the fuck out and going to therapy, and Jackson learning to balance the kanima with the wolf, and aside from a minor incident involving a curse cast by a coven of territorial witches that makes everyone within a ten mile radius belt out their feelings in the style of operatic show tunes, the big bads of Beacon Hills kind of stop being an issue, bringing the bi-weekly Stiles and Derek strategy session to a screeching halt.
Which is why no one is more surprised than Derek when he shows up at the same time the following week, boots crunching over the frost-bitten grass, heart pounding like he's in the heat of battle, that same nettling question of what the hell are you doing here splintering through his mind for the hundredth time in as many seconds as he dithers over whether or not he should go up, even though there's nothing left to research, no imminent danger to prepare for—
When his racing thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a bedside lamp clicking on, a familiar figure framed in the open window, silhouetted in a golden glow, disheveled bedhead sticking out and shouting, "You coming up, or what? Cause I'm only gonna keep this window open for so long. It's thirty fucking degrees outside, and some of us weren't born with a built-in fur coat."
Laughter rushes out of him like a sigh of relief, and in two seconds flat, he's scaled the side of the house and tumbled through Stiles's bedroom window, earning himself a string of startled curses and a pillow to the face. And that's how he ends up spending the night curled up against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder with Stiles, a family-sized bag of M&M's shared between them, watching old reruns of Supernatural in the name of "research."
It's a little too easy, the way they fall into this new routine — nights filled with movie marathons and video game tournaments and the occasional baking experiment that somehow, miraculously, doesn't end in the two of them accidentally burning down the Stilinski's kitchen — until one day, it isn't so much routine as it is tradition. Two years to the day they met finds Derek crouching in a flower bed of the sheriff's prize-winning lilies, dodging the watchful eyes of nosy next-doors as he scales the length of the Stilinski house, fingertips finding familiar grooves in the siding.
He doesn't look up from his laptop, but there's a roguish grin curling across Stiles's face as Derek vaults through the open window with practiced ease and lands on the floor with a gentle thud, shucking off his boots and leather jacket and settling into the well-worn spot on his side of Stiles's bed, stealing handfuls of popcorn and bickering with Stiles over which franchise they should marathon tonight: Marvel or DC.
(Spoiler alert: they can't decide between the two and end up watching a little bit of both, Stiles draped across Derek's chest come morning, snoring loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood and drooling on Derek's t-shirt. Derek complains about it at great length, insisting that he'd had less of a chance of drowning when he was paralyzed from the neck down in the high school's swimming pool. But then, if it actually bothered him, he probably wouldn't try so hard to stay still on all the mornings he happens to wake before Stiles does. And he absolutely, definitely does not spend the extra time counting the freckles and moles scattered across Stiles's skin like a delicate dusting of cinnamon and brown sugar, or marvel at the way the sunlight threads through his tousled chestnut hair and ignites it in a golden glow.)
They never talk about it, never plan it — it just becomes this unspoken promise between them. Sure as the phases of the moon, the one true constant in each other's lives.
Until it isn't.
Until one night, Derek doesn't show up.
• • •
There's something eerily beautiful about the way the world looks in the middle of the night, wind waltzing through the trees, moonlight casting a hazy silver glow against the pitch black of the forest. Stiles likes driving at night. It helps him think. Helps him decompress. It's how he'd come to memorize every inch of this town, mapped it in his mind better than the moles and freckles dotting the back of his own hands.
It's how he knows something is out of place when he comes across a clearing at the edge of the preserve that wasn't there before, trees uprooted, scattered to the sidelines like fallen chess pieces, trickles of blood dripping from their splintered cores. He follows the blood splatters like a macabre trail of breadcrumbs all the way to the abandoned railroad depot, shines his flashlight into a corner of the broken-down train car covered in rust-colored handprints, and finds a half-shifted werewolf huddled in the corner, skin slashed to ribbons across his chest and torso.
Panic paralyzes him for a fraction of a second, and then he's springing into action, heart beating a frenzied staccato against his ribcage as he drops to his knees at Derek's side, an endless chorus of it's okay, I've got you, it's gonna be okay spilling from his lips as he scours the first aid kit he keeps hidden under the driver's seat in an effort to clean and dress the worst of it.
The moment Stiles touches him, Derek visibly relaxes, breath rushing out of him like a sigh of relief. Stiles, he says, like his name is a panacea wrapped in honey, the soft pad of his thumb coming up to rest against the swell of Stiles's lower lip. Eyes like a forest sunrise lock onto his, and for a moment, Stiles forgets how to breathe, heart aching at the way Derek looks at him — like Stiles is safety, like as long as Stiles is here, nothing else matters.
He pieces enough of the story together through sheer detail of their surroundings and the few words Derek manages to grind out between winces and gasps of pain — enough to know that the pack of feral omegas that ambushed Derek on his way through the preserve tonight won't be sniffing around their territory anymore — enough to know that a band of Kate Argent sympathizers broke into the Hale family vault and took everything down to the last penny — enough to know that Derek has been living out of this broken-down train car ever since.
Why didn't you tell me? the thought sparks through his mind like an accusation, a question steeped in protectiveness that masquerades as anger, because Stiles already knows the answer: Derek didn't want to burden him.
He makes up his mind without really even considering any alternatives, because honestly, it's been long enough. Once he's got Derek safely settled into the passenger seat, he leans up against the hood of his Jeep, takes a deep breath, and dials the sheriff's station.
That night, Stiles tells his dad the truth — about werewolves, about what really caused the Hale house fire, about everything, and the Sheriff, mouth drawn into a tight line, eyes blinking back tears, doesn't take no for an answer when he asks Derek to move into their spare room.
• • •
It's strange, adjusting to domestic life again.
Having people be kind to him again.
Feeling like someone's son again.
He doesn't realize how desperately he'd missed it all until the Sheriff — John, he'd insisted Derek call him — claps him on the shoulder and thanks him for keeping his son safe all these years, that after everything he's been through, giving him a home is the least he can do. He doesn't realize he's been crying until his pillow is soaked through, at odds with the blissful, welcoming warmth of his bed, drifting off into the first peaceful night's sleep he's had in years.
Stranger still is all of these new things he starts feeling — or maybe they were always there, he just never fully appreciated them until now — little sensations drowned out by the constant swell of fight or flight mode, now amplified to a thousandfold in its absence.
The way his heart leaps into his throat every time Stiles's eyes meet his, the delicate shade of rose that tinges his cheeks as he looks away and tries not to smile rapidly becoming Derek's new favorite color.
That little spark of electricity, like a live wire just beneath the surface of his skin, every time they brush past each other on their way to the sink, legs touching underneath the dinner table.
That little tug of hopeful anticipation every time they linger in their doorways as they say goodnight, the way one of them always ends up knocking on the other's door less than ten minutes later for another movie marathon.
He's been living with the Stilinskis for less than a month when he finally notices the mark. In his defense, he hardly ever looks in the mirror. Hasn't quite grown comfortable enough to stare at his own reflection any longer than it takes to brush his teeth at night. But this time, he sees it, reflected back from the glare of the early morning sunlight as it dances across the screen of his brand new phone — a gift Stiles had badgered him into accepting his first week here. It's small and unassuming, barely bigger than a cluster of freckles — a little heart stamped across the center of his chest, bearing a striking resemblance to the same shade that paints Stiles's cheekbones every time he blushes.
He's half-awake, stubborn, and stupid enough to actually sit there for a moment and wonder who it could possibly be. His first thought is that the universe must have made a mistake. He hasn't gone anywhere else, hasn't met anyone new — he's hardly at the station long enough to warrant a universe-approved-meet-cute (his interview the sheriff helped him secure isn't until next week, after all.) So who could it possibly—
Derek perks up at the familiar scent of cinnamon and brown sugar, and can't help the smile that immediately curls across his face when Stiles comes stumbling out of the bathroom, toothbrush half hanging out of his mouth as he glares down at his phone, jabbing blindly at the screen to silence the alarm telling him he's late for his first day of his summer internship.
He's got nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, rivulets of water trickling down his bare skin from the dripping, tousled mess his hair always becomes post-shower, and all at once, Derek feels that familiar rush of heat creep up the back of his neck and burn the tips of his ears as his eyes linger over the well-muscled plane of a torso dotted with freckles and moles like constellations just begging to be mapped.
And that's when he sees it — the little heart branded across Stiles's chest, identical in every way to Derek's, down to the very last detail. The heart beating inside Derek's chest goes haywire, breath rushing out of him on a startled gasp. A pair of curious eyes, golden brown in the sunlight filtering in through Derek's bedroom window, lock onto his, and a big, goofy grin spreads across Stiles's face.
As if led by instinct, by some invisible string tugging them in the right direction, the two of them look down at precisely the same moment — first, at each other's chests, then at their own, and finally, back into each other's eyes. He's not sure which one of them makes the first move, who closes the distance between them faster, but all at once, they're here, wrapped up each other's arms, Stiles's laughter the bass line of a melody thrumming through every bone in Derek's body, and it's clumsy, and awkward, and Derek ends up with toothpaste on his cheek, but it's the best kiss he's ever had.
• • •