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“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
--Emily Dickinson
Sometimes Scott thinks about how it used to be, before. Before the bite. Before Allison. Before werewolves and kanimas and wendigos. Before he was an alpha. Before Lydia and Liam and Malia and Kira. Before Derek. In The Before things were different. Stiles was his one and only, his best friend, his brother. Maybe that’s the only thing that hasn’t changed, other than his mom. The two of them were his whole world, the only people he could count on for unconditional love.
Things are different, in The After.
He’s a twenty six year old alpha now, no longer the kid wonder from high school. He’s got his own apartment too, in one of the buildings Derek bought and renovated when he returned like the prodigal son to Beacon Hills a few years ago. There’s still unpacked boxes scattered around the living room and bedrooms, serving as makeshift coffee tables for the beer bottles and soda cans and empty pizza boxes left over from the pack. The apartment feels empty now, lonely, without Malia’s bark like laughter and Stiles’ snide jokes and the quiet puffs of air Derek lets out when he tries not to laugh. Scott already misses the special smiles Lydia saves just for him, all soft and proud without any of the razor sharp edges they usually possess. He misses the warmth of Liam pressed against his side, the comical way Brett and Mason still flit around each other, how Kira looks at Malia like she’s her sun, moon and stars. They’re a mature pack now, at least that’s what Deaton says. They all subconsciously know where they fit, their roles. They’re established. Scott still not sure what to make of it, but right now all he knows is that he’s lonely.
When he was at school he always had roommates, and if he was feeling alone he’d call up Stiles or his mom or Derek. But they were all just here, and he shouldn’t be feeling like this already. It’s strange, to know he’s loved but to feel so alone. He stares at his phone, opened up to his conversation with Derek.
It’s always Derek.
He’s not sure when Derek became more than a tentative ally. Derek’s not his best friend, no, that position will forever and always belong to Stiles. And anyways, whatever this is with Derek is different. He likes spending time with Derek, likes when they go talk to other packs together, likes it when he catches his mom and Derek gossiping over tea and cookies. He likes the way Derek smells, like the forest in the morning and faintly of old spice and just a little bit like worn leather. He likes the way their shoulders bump sometimes, the way Derek will clap him on the back after he’s done well, likes the steady sound of his heart beat in the background of every conversation. He likes the way Derek smiles at the ground almost sheepishly, the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when Stiles does something dumb. He like the way Derek looks half shifted, eyes glowing blue and fangs bared, the sight sending little thrills from his chest right down to his toes. He just really, really likes Derek.
Stiles says it’s an obsession.
Scott wouldn’t go that far. It’s true that he hasn’t dated in two years, hasn’t had a serious relationship since he and Kira ended things (amicably) in sophomore year of college. There were a few hook-ups in the interim, but nothing serious. And as Scott was quick to realize, he only does serious. And for the past two years the only person he’s wanted to get serious with is Derek.
Except…
He remembers what it was like, after The Before but before it was good. The animosity, the lying, the screwed up relationship they had. It’s so close to perfect now, and the last thing Scott wants is to hurt Derek again. He doesn’t want to rock the boat, doesn’t want to lose his friend.
Stiles says he’s just being a chicken shit.
Stiles also says that Derek’s been all ‘heart eyes mother fucker’ for Scott since junior year of high school. Scott thinks that’s bull shit. Yeah, things changed between the two of them that year, but Derek isn’t in love with him. Scott can see Stiles’ dubious look in his head right now, lips pursed, eyebrows raised, annoying as all hell. God. But what if he’s right?
Scott sighs and pushes himself to his feet, slowly gathering up the trash left over from the pack and eating the leftover piece of pepperoni pizza he finds. He wishes Derek were here with him now, watching him with soft eyes from the kitchen, big hands and strong arms embracing him, soft lips and stubble scratching against his cheeks. That’s what he wants, to know what beard burn feels like on the insides of his thighs, and what Derek’s mouth tastes like first thing in the morning. He wants to love Derek, in every way.
“I’m so screwed,” he grumbles under his breath, shaking his head sadly. “So, so screwed.” His cat, Spooky, doesn’t respond, just flicks her tail and stalks off in the direction of his bedroom, probably heading for his pillow. Because she’s a dick. Scott follows her anyway, feeling melancholy as his socks slide across the hardwood floors he helped Derek restore last summer. That’d been when he’d first realized how bad he had it. It had taken them two weeks to do the whole building and it was hotter than hell, temperatures breaking records even for California. It wasn’t the heat that bothered Scott, it was working side by side with Derek, stripped out of his shirt, torso sticky with sweat and sawdust clinging to the dark hair on his chest. It was the tool belt hanging off his hips, the way his biceps bunched and his tattoo rippled on his back when he ran the industrial size sander he’d rented. It was when they’d meet up with the rest of the pack at the lake after, and Derek would shed his jeans and dive into the water. Only Scott was the one gasping for air.
Just as Scott’s about to flick the hall light off, there’s three rapid knocks from the door. He knows it’s Derek immediately, can identify his heartbeat, a little faster than normal, but still familiar. His own heart leaps with anticipation and he has to wrestle it into submission, taking purposefully slow steps towards the door as he attempts to reign in his emotions. He’s sure it’s not working, knows there’s a flush on his cheeks and he’s smiling too wide for it to be normal. Derek’s staring at the floor when he swings open the door, hands shoved in the pockets of his indecently tight jeans, eyelashes like dark smudges across his cheeks.
“You didn’t even ask who it was,” he murmurs, a teasing lilt to his soft voice as he looks up at Scott. He feels breathless, like he just jumped off the swings on the playground and landed flat on his back.
“I knew it was you,” he manages to spit out, the words rolling off his tongue too freely compared to the panicky nature of his thoughts. “I can recognize your heartbeat.” It would be comical, the way Derek’s head tilts and his eyes narrow like a confused puppy, if Scott wasn’t panicking internally. It’s not a big deal, Derek’s isn’t the only heartbeat he recognizes. He can pick Stiles and his mom out of a crowd within seconds, and the rest of the pack after a few moments. But the way Derek’s looking at him makes it a big deal, makes it seem like a declaration of some sort. And it kind of is, but that wasn’t Scott’s intention.
The questions never come though, instead Derek just almost smiles, his eyes a soft green in the dim hall lights. “I forgot my sweatshirt.” He says, a clear lie that Scott doesn’t even need to be a werewolf to detect. It’s visible in the sparkle in Derek’s eyes, the almost mischievous curve to Derek’s entire expression that does nothing except light a flame of hope in Scott’s chest. He let’s him in, closing the door carefully behind him and turning to watch Derek wander through the apartment. There’s a grin on his face for no reason, and it feels like a game, waiting to see what Derek’s going to do. There’s no sweatshirt here, there’s just boxes full of crap and a second hand couch that has a few to many unidentifiable stains on it. There isn’t even a TV in the living room yet, just the one set up in his bedroom. It was the first thing he and Stiles did when they got there that morning.
Derek runs his fingers across the back of the couch, fists his hands in the curtains Lydia hung in the windows. The motions are very deliberate and it takes Scott a minute to realize what he’s doing. When Derek turns back around he finds himself smirking, enjoying the almost guilty look the flickers briefly across his face.
“I think that couch might need a little more aggressive touch if you want it to smell like you,” he teases, stomach flipping when Derek’s ears burn decidedly pink. Scott’s torn between wanting to coo at him and kiss him breathless. Derek opens his mouth like he’s going to explain, but then his scent sours just slightly and he snaps it shut, eyes shuddering. It makes Scott ache to watch him shut down like that, and he just has to fix it. “Derek.” He steps cautiously forward, curling his fingers around Derek’s wrist. It always surprises Scott, how big Derek seems, but his skin and bones always feel so delicate beneath his touch, like he could shatter so easily. “Want to come watch TV with me? I have The X-Files queued up on Netflix?”
Derek’s body loosens by degrees, slowly, until he’s almost smiling at Scott and nodding in agreement. Scott feels warm all over, excitement thrumming in his chest like he’s seventeen again and Kira is coming over to watch a movie. He wants to be embarrassed, but the idea of his bed smelling like Derek for days after this is enough to distract him. Plus he can tell Derek’s excited too, can sense the minor changes in his scent, his heartbeat, and the lines of shoulders.
He leads Derek down the hall, only letting go of his wrist once they step into his bedroom. It’s still a mess, boxes half unpacked and scattered around, stacked precariously on top of his dresser. But his bed is made (he thinks Kira and Liam did it), with more pillows than any one person needs and his favorite quilt that his abuela made him for his thirteenth birthday. The TV is just a tad lopsided on the wall, tilting slightly to the right, but Scott doesn’t mind. It’s distinctively scottandstiles, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.
He can sense Derek hesitating behind him, but he doesn’t turn to check, instead half bouncing onto the bed and squirming his way under the covers. Over the years he’s learned that Derek responds better when he’s given the opportunity to make his own decisions, that pressure and urgency only make him clam up and angry. So he busies himself with turning on his Xbox and pulling up Netflix, watching out of the corner of his eye as Derek slowly toes off his sneakers and hesitantly nears the bed.
“I hope The X-Files is okay with you,” he says after a moment, smiling in what he hopes is an inviting way. “I started it a couple month ago and I’m hooked.” The bed dips, and he fights back a smile, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the TV. “Mulder and Scully are definitely Stiles and Lydia, though.” Derek’s pressed all up against him now, from their shoulders to their thighs, and all Scott wants is to turn and crawl into his lap, wrap his arms around him and bury his face in his chest. Instead he just kind of melts against him, eyes glued to the TV as the familiar intro music plays. They’re not really touching though, not fingers on skin, and it’s all Scott can think about. He has his own show playing in his head, images of him and Derek, holding hands, snuggled up under the blanket, noses brushing followed by lips, the soft drag of skin on skin. He would let Derek roll on top of him, he thinks, would bare his neck in invitation, and wouldn’t let the marks heal either.
“Scott.”
Derek’s looking at him with wide eyes, although there might be amusement dancing around his mouth. He’s beautiful in the soft light from the TV, the hollows of his cheeks and neck in shadow, eyes almost gray in the dark. Scott wants to kiss him, wants to taste his lips and their mingled breaths. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” Derek continues, his brow creasing in the middle. Scott doesn’t like it when he does that, so he reaches up to smooth it with his forefinger, tracing the entire length of his thick brow.
“Nah man, I was thinking about you anyways.”
Derek looks surprised, blinking rapidly as he stares at Scott. He really hadn’t meant to say that, but at this point he’s tired of hiding it, tired of pretending not to want. “I mean…” He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair, shifting slightly on the bed so that he can see Derek better. “You just… I think about you a lot, I guess, is what I’m trying to say.” Derek’s face is carefully blank, and dread curls in his stomach, cold and sour. “I uh, sorry? I don’t want to make things weird or anything ‘cause I really like being your friend dude but sometimes I just… get lost in my thoughts?” Silence follows his not-declaration, and he can’t bring himself to look up at Derek again, fearing the rejection he might find there. But at the same time he knows Derek needs a minute to process this, that he likes to think things through before speaking (the complete opposite of Stiles). Knowing that only makes it worse, the sound of Scully recording an autopsy in the background not exactly settling his nerves. He’s preparing himself to be let down easy when thick fingers curl around his jaw, warm palms cupping his cheeks and tilting his face up.
“Scott,” Derek whispers, the sound sending thrills down his spine, the little flame of hope flickering back to life in his chest. Derek opens his mouth like he wants to say more but can’t, eyes bright and brimming with emotion. He doesn’t need to say anything else, Scott can see it all there on his face, the affection and possibly adoration that transform his often hard expression into something soft and beautiful.
Scott’s gaze drifts down to Derek’s lips and then back up again, unable to stop himself from smirking at Derek’s sharp intake of breath. He takes that as an invitation but moves slowly anyways, giving Derek as much time as he can to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t though, and their first kiss is unbearably gentle, a simple press of lips, sticking slightly when they pull apart. Scott grins when he pulls back, stomach flipping when Derek smiles too, wide and beautiful and live changing. There’s no stopping him now, curling his hand around Derek’s neck and pulling him down into another kiss, this one wetter and longer and dirty. Derek’s hands are under his shirt, curling around his ribs, sliding up his back as he drags him into his lap. They fit together better than Scott imagined they would, Derek all solid strength beneath him. He tastes like Listerine and it makes Scott want to laugh, thinking that maybe Derek had been hoping for this all along. Any laughter is dragged into a moan when Derek’s lips close around his Adam’s apple, their hips rolling together and making Scott ache in the best way.
“I’m in love with you, you know.” He whispers, ridiculously pleased when Derek just whines against his throat, the arousal and want in the air only growing thicker.
In the background Mulder is trying to convince Scully that aliens were somehow involved in their latest case, Derek’s fingers are pressing bruises against Scott’s hips, and he wouldn’t want to change a thing.