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It was in the Fall of 2023 that he turned up on his doorstep. It was out of a kind of melancholic desperation and something not unlike hope. An internal longing left to fester into action.
His beard was shaggy, his clothes were tattered, his eyes were grey around the edges and his skin had a permanent layer of city dust ground into its pores, but Stiles just stood to one side and motioned him in.
He slung his ratty duffle bag to one side as he was led down the hallway.
A thirty minute hot shower, five disposable razors and a cooked breakfast later he was starting to feel human again.
Stiles was still alone, older, wiser, more reserved, but alone.
Or at least he thought so until a plump tabby wound it’s way between his legs.
There was a row of potted plants along the kitchen window sill.
They watched each other like old dogs, wary, mildly antagonized, but too argute to make the first move. They stayed that way, carefully circling one another for weeks. Stiles disappeared, sometimes for days on end, and Derek would watch Spanish soaps and pet Charles.
The flat progressed slowly but steadily towards tidy.
A month in, he woke in the night with a terrible pain in his chest, an ache like he’d never felt it before. Piercing his skin and tearing though the tissue and fibre underneath. Stiles was with him in moments, pushing him back onto the couch and pressing over the long healed wound. Cursing and muttering as sweat beaded and dripped down his face. After a moment the pain subsided, the ache dissolved.
After the second time, Stiles dragged him down the hallway by his limp tingling hand and pushed him onto the bed. Shoving until he moved to the side and settling with his back turned, sheets pulled up around his chin.
He was gone when he woke, but Charles was twitching his tail across the duvet as he luxuriated in a wandering sun patch.
By silent agreement they shared the bed.
Stiles began to spend his evenings sitting against the headboard, spine curled around a tome, fingers running wildly across the pages. Derek would absently peruse cooking magazines, while Charles half heartedly battled with the wrinkles in the sheets.
When Derek woke, Stiles would be there. Skin colored gold with the morning, dark black ink spiraling across it in patterns he couldn't begin to fathom.
In late July Stiles got up at first light, Derek rousing only slightly as the bed dipped and sprung with his weight.
When he dragged himself from the comfort of their den he found him cross legged on the kitchen floor, the plants on the windowsill spilling over the sink and up the walls. Fruit dragging their verdant tendrils downward at the ends.
They made chutney together in the afternoon.
Charles found a small tomato to chase across the floorboards.
Stiles kissed him as stray juice followed the curve of his arms down to pool by his elbows.
Later they strayed out onto the fire escape in the golden light of the evening and told each other stories of the future.