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“I don’t think this was supposed to happen,” Stiles said as he set down his cup.
The steam rose straight into the air. His eyes followed the tendrils till they vanished into nothing.
“I agree,” Derek said, his back turned to his houseguest. He was focused on the food sizzling in the pan before him.
“This was not the mission," Stiles hummed.
“Ah, the mission.”
Stiles blushed at the way Derek said the word. His mission had certainly been derailed. He had a clear objective when he arrived at the farmhouse nearly a week earlier, but he hadn’t expected to deviate as far as he did.
“So what do we tell them?” Stiles asked. He was referring to the rest of the Beacon Hills gang, of course, and not his bosses.
“Do they have to know?” Derek asked over his shoulder, his sour wolf pout in full force.
“Well, I guess not yet, but. . .”
“But nothing, Mischief. There’s nothing to tell.”
Stiles agreed with a nod. “Nothing yet.”
He had put the cart before the horse in his mind. The whole trip to Montana had yielded surprises, one right after the other. His head was a swirl of emotions and protocol, everything blending in a thick fog.
The objective was simple: inspect the supernatural disturbance in the area and report back to home office. He was instructed not to engage with the subject. Just observe and report. He hadn’t been told anything about the subject beforehand, though.
How was he supposed to know the supernatural disturbance was one of his oldest wolf mates? How was he to know it was Derek Hale? He hadn’t seen or heard from the elder wolf in months, nor had the rest of the pack. He was both relieved and annoyed to find him in the middle of nowhere Montana.
Actually, Stiles felt blessedly happy to have found Derek. He didn’t know that he had missed him so much. Hell, he didn’t know that he could miss Derek at all.
“What are the winters like around here?” he asked in a poor attempt to change the subject.
“Cold. Rough. Blinding,” Derek answered without turning.
“Hmm. Sounds like the perfect hiding place for a sour wolf.” He lifted the mug and took another drink.
Derek definitely wasn’t a sour wolf anymore, not really, but the epithet had stuck like a term of endearment, just like his own misnomer of “Mischief.” Although, grumpy fangs is the only who had ever called him that.
“Scott will come,” Stiles finally said. He’d been sitting on that thought for a couple days, but he didn’t want to breach the bubble of whatever it was he and Derek had found in one another.
“If he isn’t on his way already,” Derek said, turning to the table with two loaded plates.
“I haven’t said anything. He doesn’t know-”
“Doesn’t he? He always knows when it comes to you,” Derek said as he set down the plates.
“I guess he does,” Stiles agreed, centering his plate and lifting his fork.
The chef had surprising skills. Derek had cooked for Stiles his entire stay, and every morsel had been better than the last. Even after all this time, Derek continued to surprise.
“Whatever happens, and whatever this has been,” Derek said, his hand crossing the table to take hold of Stiles’s, “I’m glad you found me.”