Archive of Our Own

It’s fucking hot. That dry, desert kind of hot where the sun is beating down on everything and conceiving burning surfaces and visible heat waves.

He wants to go see the white sand dunes and the Carlsbad Caravans, but the weather has clearly made that impossible.

They’ve barely left the room in two days, sitting lifelessly in their air conditioned motel room, only leaving in the dead of night for food at the Taco Bell just up the street.

Derek’s had three cold showers today already. Werewolves already run hot, so the sweltering sun outside is only making his body temp rise and grow warmer. He’s taken to lying around the small, cramped room in only a pair of black, boxer briefs.

Stiles tries hard not to stare.

He’s failing, and has been since yesterday afternoon. He knows he probably reeks of sex pheromones, but he’s feeling too sluggish to give a shit.

Or eat. Derek shoots him worried side glances when he takes a bite of his taco, spits it out, and pushes it to the side. He’ll finish it later. When it doesn’t taste like sulfur, he lies to himself.

He sticks to the large slushee Derek got him at the Circle K. “Wait. Go back,” Stiles tells him, mouth bright blue from his drink.

Derek flips the channels back a couple notches.

“Here,” Stiles says excitedly.

“You want to watch this?”

“Hell yeah. I love Days of Our Lives.”

“When do you have time to watch it?”

“I DVR it, but I only like the parts with Sonny, Will, and Paul. They’re in a gay love triangle and it’s amazing.”

Derek shrugs and returns to lounging on his bed. No clothes but his underwear, arm behind his head, flexing his bicep and stretching his abs taut.

Stiles tries hard not to stare. Again, he’s failing.

Derek’s nose scrunches up slightly, but he keeps his eyes on the TV and says nothing.

Stiles almost wishes he does. It’ll give them something to talk about other than why they’re so broken.

“Why are they fighting? The three guys. Why is there a love triangle?”

“Oh. Um, because Sonny, the dark haired one with the puppy face, is married to Will, the blonde with the ‘bitchface’—”

And Derek smirks. It’s a small, private one, like a joke Stiles isn’t in on.

“And Will is all in a tizzy because Sonny’s ex-fiancé, Paul, has decided to move back to town. And Paul is such a nice, sweet guy, but he’s also got some serious game, because he told Sonny that he’s still in love with him and wants him back, even though he’s married to Will now. Sonny’s trying to be faithful, and committed to his husband, but he’s still so totally in love with Paul and making heart eyes at him every time he sees him in town, and Will always shows up, killing their moment, freaking out and turning into this raging— no offense—drama queen, like his mom, who is one of the greatest villains ever by the way.”

“Shouldn’t that be understandable though? Will is after all Sonny’s husband.”

Stiles bolts upright. “Dude! No, because Will cheated on Sonny!”

Derek turns to Stiles, furrowing his brow. “Does Sonny know?”

Stiles shift his body toward Derek, sitting cross-legged. “Yes! And guess who it was with? Paul.”

The shocked look on Derek’s face is one that Stiles knows he’ll always wish he had a picture of. “Yup. Exactly.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Okay, see, Paul is actually a pro baseball player that’s in the closet, or he was when he first got to town, and Will is a writer at a local magazine. He was doing a piece on Paul at the time, and actually got him to admit he was gay and come out in the article he was writing about him, not knowing he was Sonny’s ex. Paul had no clue either, because Will never said he was married, let alone who he was to, and they ended up sleeping together. Sonny found out, and forgave Paul, because he didn’t know, but Will is a lying liar who tells lies, and got all desperate and gross, begging for Sonny to forgive him and work things out with him. Sonny said yes, and that’s where we’re at now: Sonny and Will are trying to work things out between them with couples’ therapy, but Sonny keeps finding out more and more that Will is totally untrustworthy. Plus, Paul is trying to be respectful and keep his distance from Sonny, but he’s just too in love with him to try very hard.”

“Why can’t Sonny just be with Paul,” Derek asks innocently.

“Pfft. I ask myself that every week. Doesn’t make for good drama when people are happy I guess.”

“I think the two of us can attest to there being no such thing as ‘good drama’.”

“Not in the least.”

Without thinking, Stiles picks up his taco and finishes it while watching the show.

»»»

Stiles tosses onto his back, eyes to the fiberboard ceiling, thinking of Peter biting Lydia. Gerard beating the crap out of him. The look on Derek’s face when Boyd fell from his claws. Scott holding Allison in his arms with blood in her mouth...

“I’d let you crawl in with me, but it’s too damn hot.”

Stiles snorts. He didn’t even think Derek was awake, let alone alert enough to make jokes.

“No. It’s okay. I slept a little.”

“You ate a little, too.”

I did…? He remembers the tacos and breakfast burritos they had earlier. “It’s not a breakthrough.”

“It’s a start.”

It is, but it’s such a small one. One that could easily change tomorrow, or the next day, or two weeks from now. It’s not concrete enough for him to appreciate.

The air conditioner makes a loud, vibrating noise, sputters sadly, and then goes silent.

“Oh, fuck no,” Derek groans.

Stiles turns on the light. Derek climbs out of bed looking at it confused and a bit heartbroken.

“We can ask for a different room with a working air conditioner.”

“You want to spend another night in New Mexico?”

“Christ, no.”

»»»

It’s almost two in the morning and still just a little too hot, but better than it was at noon.

Derek checks them out. Stiles runs to the mailbox just outside the office, dropping in his postcard to his father. He’s called twice since getting Stiles’ postcard from Arizona with a picture of the Grand Canyon on it.

Stiles didn’t answer. He never answers.

Derek doesn’t either. Even when Scott leaves threatening text messages on is phone about “kidnapping Stiles,” or when the sheriff asks him how Stiles is “really doing.”

They wordlessly climb into the camaro. Stiles grabs their map. “Southeast.” And Derek turns away from the motel.

»»»

Its pitch black out. They can only see what’s ahead of them, lit by the muscle car’s headlights. And Stiles can’t but find it a serendipitous metaphor.

“I forgot.”

“What?”

“I forgot. Just for a couple minutes I forgot to feel sad. Or angry. Or lost. It was nice to think about something other than how much I hate everything. That’s why I could eat.”

“…I get that.”

“Still can’t sleep though. You can’t either.”

“I haven’t really slept in a long time.”

“How long?”

“…Long.”

They listen to the warm air whip through the car’s open windows. Neither of them in the mood for the AM radio’s fire-and-brimstone sermons they’ve only been able to pick up.

“I don’t think I should forget though.”

“It’s not about forgetting how you feel. It’s about what you do with those feelings.”

“Why do you talk like this is only about me? We’re both fucked up. We both need help.”

“Then go to therapy, Stiles,” Derek snaps.

Derek’s not above an unwarranted outburst, but it’s rare when it happens.

“You think you’re hopeless. Beyond repair. You’re just…entertaining me.”

Derek switches the radio on, not wanting to deal with any of this. Stiles switches it back off.

“What are you doing? How long did you think this would go on until I figured it out?”

Derek draws silent. Stiff.

“I won’t do this with you if it’s not about the both of us.”

“It never was.”

“…I see that now. Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull the fuck over now, Derek!”

“Are you out of your mind?”

Stiles opens his door!

“Jesus!” Derek reaches over him and shuts it, swerving all over the dark highway. He slows down to the side of the road. “What the fuck, Stiles?!”

Stiles flicks the hazard lights on, then turns to Derek, all stern-faced and intense. “I hate what’s going on with me. With us. And I hate that we’re the only ones that seem to feel anything about what’s happened for the last 3 years, and even longer for you. It’s like everyone’s asleep and we’re the only ones awake. It’s like the fucking Giver, or Invasion of the Body Snatchers and we’re Miles Bennell. And they have the nerve to look at us like we’re the ones losing it, but they’re right because we are. I don’t want us to be like them, and pretend and forget, but I don’t want us to give up either. You’re giving up. You’re being beaten. You can’t do that, Derek. It’s too easy, and not going to do a thing to help you in the future.”

Derek’s face trembles. His green/gold eyes shining bright with tears. He wipes away the one that escapes, crawling down his cheek.

“I have no right to ask you to do this again. To try and pick up the pieces one more time, and if I were you, I know I’d feel the same way, but… Please. Just, please.”

The light inside the car clicks out. There’s just darkness, no sound, and them. Stiles isn’t looking for Derek to answer, but he’d like him to. Even if all he says is “fuck off.”

Derek shifts in his seat, turning the key in the ignition. “Put your seat belt on.”

Stiles buckles up. Derek turns the hazard lights off, and pulls back onto the road.

Stiles sinks into his seat, wondering where the next greyhound station is. Derek just wants to wallow and be hurt. That’s fine for him. He’s a werewolf. He can use his pain as an anchor. Stiles can’t. Even if he could, he’s not sure he’d want to.

“Why did Sonny and Paul break up?”

“What?”

“You said Paul was Sonny’s ex-fiancé. Why didn’t they ever get married,” the werewolf asks.

A small smile grows on Stiles’ face.

Derek has always had his own way of saying “yes.”