Chapter Text
Derek had forgotten how far into the woods the old house was. He squinted and adjusted his glasses as a lowering sun cast stripes of light and dark across the track, driving with more care than he preferred. He was going to need someone to look at the track, the Camaro's suspension already hated it, as a first order of business. The winter-bare trees allowed him short glimpses of the house as the track wove back and forth.
He pulled up in a clearing that was drifted with fallen leaves, the mass of them soft and pulpy beneath his boots, a strong smell of earth and wood heavy on the air. He'd told the contractors, who'd downed tools for the holiday period, to save as much of the old structure as they could. It wasn't much; the right half, kitchen, second floor bedrooms, some of the back end of the house. The fire -
They'd rebuilt the left half of the house, repaired plumbing and electrics, and had finished enough of the interiors for him to move in. Not before time, some of his more dedicated fans had finally tracked down his nondescript New York apartment, he'd needed the escape. Laura told him he needed to be there to oversee the interior decorating, knowing there was nothing he hated the thought of more.
“Go,” she'd said, laughing at him. “Otherwise they'll paint and paper in bright colours and you won't be able to brood about the windows effectively.”
“I do not brood,” Derek said, feelings his eyebrows lower into a heavy scowl. Laura's eyes flicked up to his brow and she laughed again, making him fold his arms and glare at her.
“Go,” she'd repeated, her tone of voice softening. “You want to be there anyway. Besides – maybe it'll unblock you on the sixth book.”
The Sixth Book (Still Untitled) was lurking in the back of the Camaro, scribbled notes on fifty different types of media and false starts over five different documents on his laptop. Having family as his agent was both a blessing and a curse, on one hand he didn't have to trust someone he didn't know with his words and on the other Laura was much less likely to cut him slack than any other agent that had chased him over the years. He'd watched his deadline sail over his head three weeks ago and it was only because the Wolf Haven books were curiously popular that he wasn't in an extraordinary amount of trouble.
Derek shook himself and walked around the back of the car to pull his luggage out. He looked briefly at his laptop case before deciding he could leave it where it was for the moment. He hauled his stuff up to the deck and paused to hunt around for the spare key Johnson said he'd left for him. He found it in a fake rock that looked absolutely nothing like a rock at all.
The house smelled of freshly varnished wood and sawdust and he had to stifle a sneeze on the threshold, almost dropping one of his bags. The undressed walls were unnerving, he remembered this room being wallpapered in a tasteful dark green, and he shuddered. It really was a new house, now, and he was going to have to get used to it.
“I'm back,” he muttered, feeling stupid even as he said it. He felt he owed to the ghosts of memories that swirled all about him. “I'm back.”
–
Derek went to the gas station just out of town, not yet ready to run the risk of the people of Beacon Hills recognising him, to pick up some essential stuff. He was thinking about pizza, and whether anyone would deliver to the house, when he felt eyes on his back. He resisted the urge to turn around and glare, knowing that wouldn't help if he'd been recognised.
He continued picking up shit he hadn't even thought about bringing; toothpaste, toilet paper, snack food for when he'd inevitably be unable to sleep. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught sight of a guy, maybe five years younger than him, shadowing him in the least inconspicuous way he'd ever seen. He was wearing a striped hoodie and had wide, wide eyes that probably would've fascinated Derek if the guy wasn't stalking him around a store.
Derek doubled back on himself, just to see what the young guy would do, and stifled a snort when the guy span around and stared really intently at a shelf helpfully labelled in large letters as 'feminine hygiene products'. The guy realised his mistake around about the time Derek passed him, muttering at himself and shaking his head.
“Real smooth, Stiles,” he mumbled on the edge of Derek's hearing, shuffling along the aisle.
Derek didn't laugh, though it was a close thing, and carried on back down the aisle. Stiles reminded him of Jason, the new kid in town for Still Untitled, awkward and lanky and -
Actually.
Derek had his notepad out of his pocket and his basket on the ground before the thought could escape, not caring that he was in the middle of an aisle. He uncapped a pen with his teeth and frowned at the paper for a moment.
Sarah was almost certain the guy was following her by accident, she already knew she was having a bad pheromone day, but she thought she'd put it to the test by turning briskly around and walking back past him. He flailed – actually /flailed/ - around and stared intently at the nearest thing. Sarah tried not to laugh too obviously when he realised he was right in front of the tampons.
“Yeah, Jason,” he muttered, so quietly a human wouldn't have heard him. “Real smooth there, buddy.”
Sarah let herself laugh when she got to the end of the aisle, checking behind her to see Jason now nonchalantly examining a tube of toothpaste. He was cute, really, and she wouldn't mind if it turned out he was following her for non-pheromone reasons. It was only after -
“Excuse me, sir?” a polite voice interrupted Derek's focus and he very nearly growled at the offender. As it was his glare was enough to make the red-headed clerk, in the gas station's uniform, take several steps back.
“What?” Derek bit out, trying desperately to cling to the edges of his inspiration.
“I –” the clerk swallowed visibly and twisted his fingers into the hem of his shirt. “Are you going to be buying those items, sir? Only – you've been standing there for a while?”
Derek looked down at his notepad, filled with his a page or so of his scrawl, and shook himself. He didn't have enough brain power to devote to coming up with something witty to say, still squeezing tight around the scene in his mind, so he simply stooped to pick up the basket and moved past the clerk. The clerk flinched slightly as he brushed past and Derek caught a muffled snort of laughter on his periphery.
He looked up to see Stiles watching him, now one aisle over, and lowered his brows in the glare Laura always referred to as his 'stay the hell away from this grumpy author' look. She swore the impact was lessened because he was always wearing soft, harmless looking sweaters instead of the leather jacket she insisted would suit his 'aesthetic' better. Maybe she was right because Stiles just rolled his eyes and made something like a cross between a salute and a lazy wave in his direction. Derek huffed out a breath and ignored him, making his way to the counter to check out.
He was served by the same red-head who had interrupted him earlier and so with more speed than he was used to. People seemed to like taking their time with him, something his publisher had once told him was because of his 'ridiculous good looks, seriously Derek, do you not own a mirror?', and it irked him. The clerk stuttered out a 'have a nice evening' and Derek barely responded, lifting his bags and walking swiftly from the store.
He pulled his notebook out as soon as he was back in the driver's seat of the Camaro, trying to pick up the trailing thread of the scene he'd been struck by.
- getting halfway down the next aisle over that Sarah realised she'd been in the other aisle for a reason, making her look the idiot. She huffed at herself and looped back around, perusing the shelves for any deodorant strong enough to cover at least some of the scent she was giving off.
“If I could just say -” Sarah looked up to see Jason hovering nearby, the cuffs of his sweatshirt's sleeves pulled down over his hands. “I think you smell pretty good right now.”
Pheromones, then, Sarah thought with a sigh, staring disbelievingly into Jason's golden brown eyes.
“Creepy,” she said, laying a little edge into it, and his eyes went wide as he raised his hands in apology.
“God, I'm really sorry,” Jason said, waving his hands. “I didn't – I've got a bad habit of speaking without thinking first. And I totally didn't mean to follow you around the store, I don't even know why I did that, that's so totally creepy in the absolute worst way and I don't want you to think I'm Edward Cullen-ing it up in here -”
“S'okay,” Sarah said, lifting a hand to stop the tide of words. “You couldn't help it.”
She left him with that, grabbing a random can of Axe and spinning on her heel to walk back down the aisle. She'd rather smell like teenage boy all day then miss school because most of the guys, and some of the girls, wouldn't be able to stay away from her. She laughed belatedly at the Twilight reference and looked back toward Jason before leaving, wanting him to know she got it. He smiled back and half-saluted, half-waved at her. She made the same gesture back and ducked through the door.
Something about Jason sticking in her head I don't know
It wasn't until Derek was typing up the first scene in months he'd written that he didn't hate that he realised he'd changed Jason's eye colour to brown from blue. He was tempted to leave it but considering the importance of Jason's eyes to the extremely loose plot he'd developed he couldn't afford to. He didn't know where the verbal diarrhoea came from either but he liked it, knew he could use it for comic relief.
He tore the pages out of the notebook and pinned them to the wall in the room he was going to use as a study, the room that had once belonged to his Dad and his paintings, along with the receipt from the gas station. He wrote 'first scene!' on the receipt and smiled to himself.
Looked like Laura was going to be right. She'd be insufferable when she got his e-mail in the morning but he didn't care, the words were in his fingers again and it was thrilling.
–
Derek woke up with his face on his laptop, his screen a never-ending stream of nonsense letters. He blinked and tried to sit up, which his neck really hated, before crtl+backspacing the nonsense. He checked the wordcount, pleased to see around 3000 words reflected back at him, and jumped slightly in his seat when there was knocking on the front door.
That was probably what woke him up. He stood up, his back cracking like Mount Doom on a bad day, and made his way out of the study and down the stairs. He didn't recognise the silhouette outlined by morning sun against the front door and just what the hell time was it? His eyes flicked up to the wall above the door to the living room, where one of the many clocks had been before the – anyway, there was nothing there and he felt a little hollow at the instinct.
“What?” he asked when he opened the door, his neck aching almost as much as his heart.
“Uh,” there was a Hawai'ian guy on his porch, blinking up at him. His hair was shot through with grey and he was handsome in that silver fox sort of way that Laura loved. “Keahi Mahealani – I'm the foreman.”
“Oh,” Derek breathed in. Shit. “Oh, shit. I forgot I -”
“Asked for a meeting,” Mr Mahealani finished for him, smiling. “I guessed that.”
Mr Mahealani waved a hand at him and Derek looked down at his sleep rumpled clothes, wincing as his neck twinged. He realised that he probably had the imprint of his keyboard down one side of his face as well and rain a hand awkwardly through his hair.
“Hey, don't worry about it,” Mr Mahealani said, waving a hand again. “I know that look – it's the same one my son used to wear the night before a big project was due at school.”
“Would you like to come in, Mr Mahealani?” Derek asked, rediscovering the manners his Mom had drummed into his head as a child.
“Call me Keahi,” Mr Mahealani said, walking past Derek and turning straight into the living room. “This is a bit strange, actually, I'm not used to needing permission when I'm only halfway through a job.”
“You'll still be able to come and go freely when you start again,” Derek said, shutting the door and following him. “It'd be better than interrupting me when I'm writing.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” Keahi said, smiling again. There was something warming about the smiles Keahi offered freely and Derek felt himself relaxing. “How are you finding it?”
“I'm very impressed,” Derek said, and he was. The amount of change the contractors had worked on the house in the few months they'd had so far was amazing.
“I've got a hard-working crew,” Keahi said, spreading his hands. “Good men who know what they're doing. I can't see it taking much more than a month when we start again, there's only some small exterior work to do. And the back porch of course.”
“Of course,” Derek said, shifting slightly. He'd discovered the back porch, or lack of it, when he walked out of the back door without looking down last night. At least the huge drifts of leaves fall had left behind were good for cushioning falls.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss or -” Keahi left the sentence hanging, looking inquisitively up at Derek.
“I wanted to put a face to man I've talking to,” Derek admitted, ducking his head. Keahi smiled again.
“I thought so,” Keahi said, nodding to himself. “I've actually got another meeting to get to so if you don't mind -”
“No, of course not,” Derek said, following Keahi again as the headed back to the door. “I'll see you again in the New Year.”
“Yes,” Keahi nodded as he opened the door. “We'll start work on again on the 3rd. It'll take that long to recover from the celebrations.”
“That's fine,” Derek nodded himself, leaning against the doorway. Keahi extended a hand and he shook it, feeling the strength there.
“Listen,” Keahi said, not letting his hand go. “If you don't have any plans for New Year's Eve – we always hold a big party. You're more than welcome.”
“I – I don't really -” Derek started but Keahi let go of his hand and waved him off.
“No worries if you don't,” Keahi said, stepping back. “I'm fulfilling an obligation to my wife – she doesn't like the idea of you out her on your own. She remembers your mother very well.”
Derek tried to hide the way his chest tightened at the mention of his family by smiling. By the slightly sorrowful look in Keahi's eyes he failed.
“We were surprised, you know,” Keahi said, touching a hand against one of the support beams for the porch. “When you bought this place back off the county. Everyone just assumed we'd never see Hales back in Beacon Hills. Wouldn't blame you.”
“I missed it,” Derek said, which was at least half true, but what he missed was something he'd never be able to get back. Keahi nodded like he knew what Derek wasn't saying.
“Well, anyway,” Keahi said, bounding down the steps. “The offer stands – you get lonely up here and my wife will be happy to smother you in more food than you can eat.”
“Thank you,” Derek said, inclining his head and trying another smile. That one must've come out a little more honest because Keahi's answering smile was blinding. “And thank your wife for thinking of me.”
“No problem,” Keahi said. He waved and climbed into the cab of dusty looking truck he'd obviously arrived in.
“Breakfast,” Derek said to himself when he realised he'd been staring after the truck for five minutes too long. He shook himself and headed back inside.
–
There was a Jeep parked on the side of the road by the turn off to the house. Derek frowned at it as he drove past, returning from a second run to the gas station, and wondered. Surely his fans couldn't have found him already? He knew Beacon Hills behaved with a small town sensibility that belied its size and knew that meant that anyone who was someone would have known the moment he bought the property back from the county. What he didn't know was if his books had any measure of popularity here, if it was likely that the residents of Beacon Hills would know to connect him with the Wolf Haven author.
He parked up and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. The property was large, taking in several acres of the woods around it, and the likelihood of finding the person if they weren't hanging around the house was low. He didn't want to have to fence the house in, had always loved being able to run straight into the woods when he was a kid, but if it was too easy to get at he would have to.
Derek walked a circuit around the house, seeing and hearing no-one, before standing and staring up at the trees for a while. He had things to do, about the house, and there were words still itching under his fingers. He didn't have the time for this.
“Damn it,” Derek said, striding into the woods.
–
He found them meandering along an old deer track that ran parallel to the house. There was a guy with shaggy hair and an unfortunate jawline complaining loudly at his companion and Derek couldn't believe it took him half an hour to find them when they were making so much noise. His companion was – Stiles. Of course. This time Stiles was wearing a red hoodie, which made Derek smile briefly (and involuntarily), and he was waving his arms as he talked.
“Just a little further, Scott, I swear,” Stiles said as Derek watched them from behind a convenient tree. “I know the track comes back around to the house.”
“Stiles,” Scott said, clearly exasperated. “This is such a bad idea. And creepy too. Even for you.”
“One,” Stiles said, holding up a finger. “This is an excellent idea if this turns out to be who I think it is and two,” he held up a second finger, “I resent the implication in the phrase 'even for you'. I am not that creepy.”
“You spent weeks hanging around the back of town hall when you thought the Mayor was having secret meetings,” Scott said, the words sounding as tired as the argument apparently was.
“He was having secret meetings!” Stiles protested. “That was totally justified.”
“He was hiding a smoking habit from his wife,” Scott said with an eyeroll.
“Yes, exactly!” Stiles stopped and turned to face Scott, his back to Derek's hiding place. Derek stepped out as silently as possible. “And if he hid one thing what else could he be hiding, huh? The people of Beacon Hills deserve to know.”
“This is private property,” Derek said when he was close enough for Stiles to hear him. The way Scott and Stiles startled was hilarious but Derek hid his smile behind several years worth of not wanting people to know where he lived. Stiles nearly fell over in his effort to turn around.
“Um,” Scott said, proving he wasn't the sharpest out of the two of them. He gripped Stiles' arm and his eyes were wide. That was an expression Derek needed to capture in words; part shitting himself and part justification at being right.
“Sorry,” Stiles blurted, his flailing hands coming to rest in his hoodie's pockets. “We got lost.”
“Lost,” Derek repeated, holding up his unamused front. Stiles seemed to shrink back against Scott.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Lost. Because. We were looking for, um, wildlife.”
“Wildlife,” Derek tried repetition again.
“We were?” Scott shot a confused look at Stiles and Stiles kicked his foot. “Um, yeah. I heard there were, uh, wolves up here?”
Stiles actually brought a palm up to his head and buried his face in it. Derek felt his lip twitch.
“There're no wolves in North California,” Derek said, folding his arms. Stiles rubbed his hand over his face and up through his hair, disordering it.
“We'll just go,” Stiles said, squinting up at Derek as the weak sun broke through some clouds behind him. “Just. Yeah. We'll go. Jesus.”
He muttered the last in Scott's direction and Scott made a face at him as they turned. Derek watched them go then climbed down to the track and slipped into the trees alongside, shadowing them to make sure Stiles wouldn't try to double back to the house. He was remembering these woods now, and the way he and Laura used to know them better than any other place in the world. It felt good. He lengthened his strides to keep Stiles and Scott within his range of hearing.
“Wolves, Scott? Oh my God!” Stiles exclaimed, kicking leaves up as he walked.
“What?” Scott said. “If there's no wolves in California and we'd heard that there were some that's a great excuse!”
“Sometimes I really just don't know what Allison sees in you,” Stiles said and now he sounded clearly exasperated. “You are too dumb to live.”
“That's not fair,” Scott said. “Also I don't think you're supposed to use dumb like that.” Stiles made a noise in return. “Anyway – I didn't hear you coming up with anything.”
“Because, shit, man, you really don't know who that was?” Stiles asked, something in his voice that Derek couldn't place. Derek's breath caught.
“Some guy who lives in a creepy house in the woods?” Scott asked and Derek flinched.
“It's not creepy,” he muttered to himself at the same time as Stiles exclaimed it. He let himself smile that time.
“It's not creepy and, come on Scott, that was Derek Hale,” Stiles said. Damn. “You don't remember him?”
“Weren't the Hales – wasn't there a fire?” Scott asked and Derek stopped just in time, Scott's voice was much closer than he expected. He'd forgotten the way the track cut back.
“Yeah, when we we're ten,” Stiles said. It sounded like they'd stopped too. Which meant Derek had to listen while Stiles probably spilled the entire tragic story. “Only three people survived. Dad said it was really bad.”
“You recognised him because of that?” Scott asked. Stiles made an odd noise. “What?”
“Well, I mean, I maybe also recognised him because he writes these books? And, okay, they're for, you know, young adults but in my defence I had to review the first one and it's not my fault that they're so compelling. They're totally okay for adults to read, it's cool these days, I mean look at the Twimoms and all the people who still dress up as wizards,” Stiles paused for breath and Derek had a sudden a vivid memory of a kid sitting behind the bench at a Beacon Hills High lacrosse game, breathlessly telling his dad the rules.
That was where Jason's verbal diarrhoea had come from. There must've been something about the adult Stiles that pinged the memory in the back of Derek's brain.
“You dressed as a Hufflepuff for Halloween,” Scott said.
“Because I am the best Hufflepuff ever,” Stiles said, proud. They started moving on after that, their conversation straying into what sounded like an old discussion of the best Harry Potter book and from that into what houses all their friends would be in.
Derek figured they were out of the woods, pun intended, when they'd almost reached the road. Stiles suddenly stopped again and this time Derek had to duck behind a tree because he'd gotten much closer than he intended.
“He pretty much never does interviews,” Stiles said, looking back up in the direction of the house.
“Jackson does interviews all the time,” Scott said with some confusion. Stiles made a frustrated noise.
“I mean Derek, Scott, jeez,” Stiles said, waving a hand. In Scott's defence they had been talking about Jackson Whittemore (“Slytherin, he's definitely snakey. Plus: ambitious!), apparently someone they'd gone to school with who was now playing pro lacrosse, before Stiles changed subject.
“Oh no,” Scott said, waving his hands and shaking his head. “I know that look. This going to be creepy and weird. Just like the Mayor.”
“He's like the most famous person to come out of Beacon Hills,” Stiles said, spreading his arms wide. “And I don't think anyone knows.”
“Maybe he doesn't want anyone to know,” Scott said and Derek revised his opinion of him, he liked Scott. Scott was sensible.
“Pfft,” Stiles made an odd shrugging, face twisting movement that looked painful. “He'll talk to me. Everyone does eventually.”
“Yeah,” Scott said to himself as Stiles bounded past him. “Mostly just to make you leave them alone.”
“I heard that,” Stiles called from his Jeep. Scott shook his head and followed him.
Derek leaned against a tree as he listened to the car drive off and took a breath. Great. Trust him to attract the attention of a journalist the same day he moved back to town.
Wait.
Three people survived the fire?