Work Text:
This can’t be happening.
Stiles chucks his phone onto the empty passenger seat beside him and glares out his windshield. He can only see down the snow-packed road for as far as his headlights can reach. Beyond that is nothing but darkness.
“Damn it.”
Stiles is stuck. Stiles is stuck in the fucking snow in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere at night with a broken down car three days before Christmas, and the nearest tow truck company—over fifty miles away—doesn’t open until morning.
He fucking knew he shouldn't have taken that scenic route through the mountain pass. But the closer he got to Beacon Hills, the more he wanted to prolong his arrival… He just figured it would take actually crossing into Beacon Hills for the bad luck and powers that be to strike.
Yet here he is: stranded two hours upstate in a nothing-town with more ranger outposts than residents.
Maybe it’s actually all of California that’s cursed, not just Beacon Hills.
Or maybe it’s just Stiles.
Maybe this is the universe’s way of punishing him for always running when his life starts to crumble. The irony is too obvious for it not to be. Like come on. Ending up stranded back in the first place he ran from? Obvious much, universe?
Sighing, Stiles slouches in his seat. His head hits back hard against the headrest, eyes flicking over to his discarded phone on the passenger seat. Maybe he should just suck it up and call his dad, even if it’ll ruin the surprise of his visit.
But he recoils from the idea as fast as it comes to him. He can’t have his first call to his dad in months be a cry for help.
The horn gives a short and punchy BEEP as Stiles’ forehead drops down against it. He can see his fuel gauge from this vantage point. He probably won’t have enough gas to keep the heat blowing until morning. Maybe he’ll freeze to death. At least then he won’t have to face all the ways his life has become one gigantic compilation of failures.
Tap-tap-tap.
Stiles jumps so hard he smacks his head on the roof of the car, wide eyes flying out his driver side window.
He audibly chokes when he sees who’s standing on the other side.
“Derek?!’
And Derek—Derek fucking Hale—smiles, soft and slow and a little disbelieving. He’s wearing a bulky Carhartt jacket and matching beanie, his grown-out beard neatly groomed and dusted with snow.
Stiles hasn’t seen Derek since the accident ten years ago.
Like a hot flash his mind races with memories of that night: branches snapping, tires squealing, the three gut-wrenching seconds of free fall—no audible sound but the sick pulse of his heart in his ears—before Roscoe hit the ground.
Derek was apparently the one who found him, who brought him to the hospital, who visited him every day until he woke up—according to his dad, at least, because from the moment Stiles opened his eyes Derek was nowhere to be found. Eventually Stiles chalked up his rescue and frequent hospital visits to Derek’s guilt, because the man wouldn’t be found to tell him otherwise. Making their last conversation the one they had right before Stiles’ accident, wherein he confessed his long-hidden feelings for him, and Derek had shut him down.
Stiles’ heart thunders in his chest.
He can’t unlock his eyes from Derek’s, can’t blink.
He doesn’t think he’s even breathing.
Derek raises an amused eyebrow, then his knuckles to rap against the window a second time.
That jolts Stiles into action. His whole body jerks back into motion, arm feeling wooden as he reaches to roll the window down.
The frigid wind hits his face at the same time Derek’s scent does. The sense memory it invokes causes a sharp inhale in Stiles’ throat that he knows Derek can hear. He hopes he’ll attribute it to the cold.
(Knows he won’t.)
“What are you doing here?” His voice comes out like ground gravel.
Derek’s lips tweak as he looks between his eyes. “That was going to be my question.”
And while Stiles had meant here, on this particular road, he knows that Derek means here, back in California. But there’s no way in hell he’s ready for that conversation—least of all with Derek fucking Hale.
“Ah, you see it’s this new hobby of mine,” Stiles flourishes his hand arbitrarily, “Stranding myself in the dark and the cold for the thrill of it.”
Derek rolls his eyes but doesn’t lose his smirk, as if he’d been expecting the sarcasm.
He rests his forearms on the open window and moves closer into the orange glow of Stiles’ car’s dome light.
His cinnamon-pine and earth-oil scent moves closer, too.
Stiles breathes slowly.
Derek doesn’t break eye contact as he jerks his chin up the road (for a sobering moment he looks entirely wolfish, but it’s probably just the lighting.)
“My house is up the street, if you’d prefer to be stranded in a place with electricity.”
Stiles’ eyebrows twitch up. “You live out here now?”
Derek mhmm’s. “Made the move about five years back.”
The bizarre coincidence isn’t lost on Stiles. What are you up to, universe?
Stiles taps the steering wheel, makes a show of looking up and down the length of the road.
“Where’s your pack?”
Derek shrugs with his lips. “It’s just me now.”
Stiles isn’t expecting that.
It hits him—this moment of surreal hyper-consciousness that emphasizes just how much time has passed, the sheer amount of life that has happened to both of them between their last meeting and now.
He always knew that the others were in Scott’s pack now, had heard from Scott himself in Stiles’ early FBI academy months how Derek had stopped trying, stopped leading. But Stiles had also been in the beginning stages of getting over his unrequited heartbreak for said alpha at that time. He’d asked Scott to change the subject. He hasn’t heard anything about Derek Hale since.
Still. He’d always figured Derek would find or make other pack members eventually.
“Oh,” Stiles says.
It’s all he says.
Derek hums.
Stiles taps the steering wheel again. “So…”
He doesn’t get any farther than that.
It’s not often that Stiles is left at a loss for words, but he doesn’t really know what to do in this situation. He can’t deny that he’s relieved to see Derek as opposed to some, say, mountain roadside murderer, but even still, of all the people that could have found Stiles stranded on the side of the road, Derek Hale is down there with the worst of them.
Because this is dangerous territory.
Uncharted territory.
It had taken years of no-contact for Stiles to finally bury his unrequited feelings for Derek, and there’s a niggling under his skin that warns him it wouldn’t take much for that piled-up dirt to shift and let something sprout back through.
Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself, you aren’t nineteen anymore.
Ten years of radio silence between them has given Stiles plenty of time to build up an immunity to Derek Hale.
Right?
“So?” Derek prompts, “You coming?”
Stiles nibbles on his bottom lip. “Yeah…” then, with more conviction, “Yeah, back up.”
Derek steps back from the window as Stiles rolls it up. He un-clicks his seatbelt and turns the car off, then the dome. He lifts his hips up to shove the keys into his pocket before reaching for his phone to do the same, needing the extra time to be sure his chemo-signals are under control.
Something he hasn’t had to do in years.
When there’s nothing else to turn off or shove into his pockets, Stiles turns to face the six-foot-tall music outside.
Who has turned from the car to look up at the stars.
Stiles’ hand pauses on the door handle.
His eyes trace compulsively over Derek’s side profile; the straight line of his nose, the peak of his lips, the cutting edge of his jaw… He’s still so familiar, even after all these years.
Stiles opens the door.
A gust of bitter wind punches him through the middle, his resulting shiver traveling down his entire body.
Derek notices, and his lips twitch.
“What?” Stiles huffs, teeth chattering as he tucks his arms over his chest to try and insulate some heat. If he hadn’t left DC in a hurry, he probably would have remembered to pack a bigger coat.
Probably.
Derek says, “Shouldn’t you be more acclimated to the cold after living on the east coast all these years?”
For a split second Stiles wonders how Derek knows where he’s been living—then remembers: Derek was the first person he told when the FBI sent him an offer-letter for an internship all those years ago. They used to be that close.
Stiles drops his eyes and heads towards his trunk.
“Sure DC gets snow,” he pops the trunk, “But it isn’t located in the asscrack of a high elevation mountain.”
Derek chuckles, chin dipping, hands coming out of his pockets to up-zip his jacket and offer it to Stiles.
“Here.”
Stiles’ eyes widen. “Uh”—his mouth parts as he stares dumbly down at the offering, grip remaining up on the open trunk door, heart doing a funny thing—“What about you?”
Derek just shrugs. “I don’t really need it.”
Stiles blinks, not sure if he believes him but also not sure how it’ll be interpreted if he refuses. The last thing he wants is to still seem hung up on a ten year old rejection. He’s almost thirty for Christ sake. He can be mature about this.
“Okay,” Stiles says at length, and belatedly takes the jacket. “Thanks.”
He shoves his arms stiffly into the sleeves and zips it up, immediately enveloping himself in the heat and metal-green scent of Derek.
His hands raise—and he quickly busies them with resituating his beanie, because otherwise they might’ve done something incredibly embarrassing like lift the collar to his nose.
Stiles looks back over at Derek. He’s watching him intently.
Stiles’ cheeks heat, and he clears his throat. “Why do you wear it if you don't need it?”
“I won’t die without it,” Derek says, “But it’s still more comfortable than nothing.” He reaches forward to grab Stiles’ duffel bag out of the trunk and tosses it over his shoulder. “Ready?”
Stiles stares at his duffel against Derek’s back. How would it sound to tell him he can carry his own things? Probably not very ‘over it’ at all.
Stiles fills his cheeks with air and blows out as he makes a sweeping gesture towards the road.
“Trek on, mountain man.”
—
The snow starts to fall as soon as they start walking.
Stiles tries to keep the shivering to a minimum, considering he’s the one with the jacket.
Huge, fluffy flakes float past his frame of vision while others smack directly into his face, the wind oddly stagnant.
Stiles never knew a storm could be this quiet. He isn’t used to silence anymore after DC.
“Is it a long walk to your place?”
“It’s a little over a mile,” Derek says, “But I didn’t come on foot.” He points up ahead to a spot just off the road, shrouded by night and falling snow. “I left my snowmobile up there.”
Stiles skews his head to look sidelong at him, “You own a snowmobile?”
“How else would I get around in the winter?”
Stiles shrugs. “I guess I just figured you’d frolic from point a to point b in your wolf skin.”
“Frolic,” Derek deadpans.
Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin. “All this space out here? You can’t convince me you haven’t.”
Instead of denying it Derek just rolls his eyes, which Stiles is going to take as an admission of him being right.
They reach the snowmobile and start down off the road into the ditch, where it’s tucked neatly out of view from the road.
“Wait,” Stiles stops. “Did you park all the way over here just so that you could sneak up on me?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Derek says, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eye that gives him away.
Good to know he still has his creeping tendencies.
Derek sweeps his leg over the snowmobile and pulls Stiles’ duffel bag around onto his lap, then looks expectantly back at Stiles, who is just standing there, unmoving, trying not to shiver, because he’s realizing how close they’ll have to sit to both fit.
“What are you doing?”
Stiles says, “Weighing my options.”
“Snowmobile ride or freezing to death,” Derek says, “I can see the dilemma.”
A white cloud tumbles out of Stiles’ mouth as he laughs. It makes Derek look pleased.
“It isn’t dangerous,” he says, “I promise.”
Great, now Derek thinks he’s too scared to ride the snowmobile.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, “Scooch up.”
Derek does, and Stiles moves to sit behind him, keeping a purposeful buffer of space between them. But Stiles can still feel Derek’s heat.
Derek starts up the snowmobile. The engine rumbles to life beneath them, the hot exhaust puffing against Stiles’ ankle and billowing behind them like their breath in the air, break-lights casting red, oblong ovals over the snow.
Derek grips the handles and twists back only enough for Stiles to see half his face.
“Hold on.”
“I am,” Stiles parries, a bit ridiculously. His hands are palm down behind him; what is he suppose to do? Cling to Derek like some damsel?
Derek lifts an eyebrow. Then hits the gas.
Stiles’ heart hits his ribs and he scrambles forward to wrap his arms around Derek’s middle before he can be thrown onto his ass, chest slamming against Derek's back so hard it knocks an ‘umph’ out of his mouth.
“Dick,” Stiles reprimands, but he’s also kind of laughing, so it comes out more approving than not.
Derek points a finger at himself and corrects, “Rescuer.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles shoves at Derek’s shoulder. He just chuckles, and it makes this whole, ridiculous situation feel like reuniting with a good friend after years and years of not seeing each other.
Which, in a way, it kind of is.
But Stiles had always taken Derek disappearing after his accident as meaning they’d never actually been friends at all.
Snowflakes skim Stiles’ cheekbones as Derek picks up their speed, his body taking the brunt of the wind’s force like it’s nothing. Oh, to be a werewolf with supernaturally overactive body heat. Stiles presses a little closer against Derek to take advantage of this fact, greedily soaking in the warmth radiating off of him.
The tree tops break above.
Stiles’ eyes lift. The moon is almost full and flowing down the jagged black silhouette of the parting canopy, like a ball racing down stream, a floating Christmas ornament Stiles could reach out and touch.
It wouldn’t be the first untouchable thing that has made it within his reach tonight.
—
Derek hadn’t been lying when he’d said his place was nearby.
It isn’t five minutes later that the thick shadow of trees on either side of them part to reveal a slumbering ranch estate beneath a blanket of snow, a landscape of odd shapes and shadows scattered over the hillside.
Derek dips the snowmobile off the road towards a wooden fence and drives through a haphazardly thrown-open gate built into it, stopping just inside to put the snowmobile in park and step off to close it.
Stiles is tracking his eyes across the property, taking in the sheer size of the land. There’s so much wide open space.
Stiles says, “This is your new place?”
“You sound skeptical.”
“I think incredulous is a more accurate word.”
Derek finishes securing the gate and turns back with a curl at the corner of his lips. “Why’s that?”
Stiles scooches back so Derek can retake his seat. “You don’t really strike me as a ranch ownin’ type of guy.”
Derek huffs and takes the snowmobile out of park. “This land used to belong to my grandparents. My mom inherited it when they died, but we stopped coming up here after that. Then I inherited it from her.”
They drive by an enormous sycamore in the front yard with a tire swing hanging off it, and Stiles’ mind reshapes this place into somewhere Derek used to frequent as a kid.
“Why’d you stop coming?”
Derek shrugs, steering them up the driveway, lined in a row on each side by old wagon wheels shoved halfway into the ground, all wearing hats of snow.
“I think it made my mom sad. She was close with her parents. We all were.” He pulls the snowmobile underneath the carport beside the house and parks next to a huge black pick-up truck, warm orange light pouring onto them from a kitchen window.
“I’m sure they’re happy you’re here, now,” Stiles says, tone hushed.
“Yeah,” Derek’s head dips to the side, enough that Stiles can make out his soft smile, “I like to think they are.”
—
Derek leads them up into the house.
He sets down Stiles duffel by the door and moves to stoke the wood burner stove in the corner, grabbing a few blocks of firewood stacked tall beside it.
Stiles’ eyes are everywhere. The exposed, dark wooden beams on the ceiling, the same cut of timber as the walls and floors—except in the kitchen where there is dark stone tiling. Rough stone accents here and there, earth tone rugs underneath hand-woven hemp chairs, garland hanging over every windowsill.
Stiles didn’t know that Derek was the kind of person to decorate for the holidays.
From somewhere out of sight, the sound of thundering footsteps comes heading down the hallway straight towards him.
Stiles only has time to turn and catch a blur of fur and tongue before he’s on his back with a huge dog on top of him, two paws on his chest and a tongue licking his face.
“Echo,” he hears Derek admonish from his position across the room, but Stiles is quick to wave him off.
“It’s fine,” he laughs, the noise bubbling up out of his chest, more than happy to endure his welcome. He manages to maneuver himself up to sitting so that he can return the favor and gets a good look at his welcome party.
A huge Bernese Mountain Dog.
Derek has a dog. He’s really gone full-domestic, hasn’t he?
“She's not used to visitors,” Derek is saying, right before Echo plops herself fully onto Stiles’ lap to expose her tummy for belly rubs.
“Clearly,” Stiles snorts, happily obliging her. Derek leans against the tall bar countertop, watching them with warm amusement. “How long have you had her?”
Derek says, “I found her my first winter up here.”
“You found her?”
Derek hums. “More like she found me, actually. Just wandered onto the property one day.”
“What—how did she end up all the way out here? Was she abandoned?”
“Maybe,” Derek shrugs, “All I know is that when she got here she was hungry and frightened, and soaked from the snow. I lured her inside with some bacon and sat with her in front of the fire while I reported her to the rangers, but I never heard back from them.” He smiles fondly down at her. “She’s been with me ever since.”
Stiles has never seen Derek look so… at ease. It’s kind of freaking him out a little bit. But in a good way. And, regardless of how they left things, Stiles is relieved to hear that Derek hasn’t been alone all these years.
A soft smile spreads across his face as he looks at Echo.
“And so the two lone wolves became a pair.”
Derek snorts, “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Stiles keeps a hand on Echo’s head as he pushes himself back to his feet, “Just that your life is like something out of a storybook now, complete with the Loyal Animal Companion and Scenic Hideaway. I’m just waiting for Echo to reveal she can talk by breaking out into a musical number.”
Derek’s lips twitch, head shaking as he says, “Same old Stiles,” as if it were a reassuring observation.
It makes Stiles’ smile drop, his eyebrows knitting together. “What do you mean?”
Derek shrugs. “I mean, the only thing that’s changed about you since the last time I saw you is your age”-his eyes drop compulsively down then back up-“And your build.”
Stiles flushes, hot with surprise. He can tell Derek had meant it lightheartedly, but the words still come out heavy. Weighted.
And—yeah. Stiles went from being the scrawny, breakable kid who ran with wolves to one that works (worked) eighty hour weeks at the FBI taking down the wolves of the human crime world. It’s enough to make anyone fit. Derek’s observation of this fact probably isn’t anything but that: an observation.
And it isn’t what surprises Stiles the most.
No.
It’s the fact that Stiles’ dad and Scott and Lydia—the only people he’s stayed in contact with since leaving Beacon Hills—have never had anything else to say about his new life except how much he has changed. How unfamiliar he is. How unrecognizable. It’s one of the biggest reasons he doesn’t have a super great relationship with them anymore. Sure, he still calls his dad pretty regularly, but Stiles didn’t invite him out to DC at all this last year. Lila didn’t like the stress of hosting guests. She prefered to be the guest. And, well, Stiles hasn’t been home in almost a decade. He and Scott still text on occasion, but he hasn’t seen him in years. And he can’t remember the last time he got a call from Lydia.
He doesn’t know what it means that Derek still sees the “him” he used to be, before he became someone who doesn’t feel like “him” at all. Doesn’t know how to anticipate this version of Derek.
Who just shoves away from where he’s leaning against the bar counter—laidback in a way Stiles hadn’t known was within Derek Hale’s emotional range—and tosses a thumb over his shoulder towards the kitchen.
“You hungry?”
—
Derek cooks while Stiles watches from the table tucked into the breakfast nook.
It’s an old, sturdy piece hand crafted from reclaimed barn wood, large enough for a family, the charming proof of its history marred by its many imperfections: years-old water rings, hints of copper-colored patina dappled across the surface, edges where the original saw marks are still visible, a toddler-drawn wolf on one of the legs.
He wonders how long it’s been sitting in this exact place, generations of Hale’s all gathered around it.
He can feel the glaring absence of them everywhere and it leaves a wistful film over his tongue. He can only imagine what it must be doing to Derek.
Although, Derek doesn’t look burdened.
His eyes skate over Derek’s side profile, greedily studying all the ways the years have changed him. The splashes of gray woven through his neatly groomed beard, the subtle crows feet at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the ease softening his lips out of the gritted perseverance that used to shape them. He has a dry dish towel thrown over one shoulder, rolled-up sleeves revealing the dark spatter of hair on his forearms, corded and taut from his grip on the pan handle, posture loose as he navigates the kitchen with graceful confidence.
He looks like he belongs.
Derek places Stiles’ plate down in front of him, topped with two pieces of sourdough toast with a runny fried egg and sliced avocado on top. He sits beside Stiles at the head of the table with his own plate while Echo plops herself underneath, laying her chin down on her paws and closing her eyes.
Stiles basically inhales the first piece.
After which Derek says, in a bemused tone, “I’m surprised the FBI gives you time off for the holidays.”
Dread balloons in Stiles’ stomach.
And they’d been doing so good at avoiding the topic of his work life.
“They don’t,” Stiles says around a bite of his second piece of toast. He tries to school his expression into something neutral and nonchalant as he swallows. “I quit on Monday.”
He watches the gears in Derek’s mind work as he factors in the fact that it takes forty five-ish hours of nonstop driving to make it from DC to California, and it’s Thursday.
“I’m surprised this is the first place you came,” he says. “I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”
“Yeah,” Stiles’ eyes drop down to the table as he traces the grooves in the surface, “You and me both.”
A moment passes. “Why now?”
“Oh, you know, just visiting my dad for Christmas.” His voice doesn’t quite manage the airy tone he’d been aiming for.
“Is he still expecting you tonight?” Stiles can hear the implied ‘do you need to let him know?’ Because of course Derek has noticed that Stiles hasn’t been on his phone anytime between finding him on the side of the road and now.
“No, I-” A beat. “He doesn’t know I’m coming.”
For a long moment, the only sound is Echo’s soft breathing and the crackling of the wood burner stove. Stiles looks up to see Derek watching him like he can read everything Stiles isn’t saying, as if it’s written across his face.
He’d forgotten how exposing being around a werewolf can be.
Stiles’ hands come down to grip the edge of the table and pushes back, his chair squeaking against the floor.
“Phew, I’m beat,” he says, hoping Derek will get the hint.
He does.
—
Derek leads him down the hallway and shows him all four spare room options. Each look like they’ve been held in stasis, waiting for their previous owners to return.
In one, there is a jewelry dish of odd trinkets on a nightstand beside a four-poster bed, an enormous patchwork quilt spread atop it with intricate geometric designs resembling points of pine trees and mountain tops. In another is an old bookshelf and record player, vinyls and books strewn over every surface, stacked in piles around a time-worn bean bag chair. Another has bundles of dried flowers and herbs hung on the walls, an electric keyboard positioned underneath a wide, unobstructed window with geodes and quarts scattered across the sill. The last one is the most cluttered. Every wall is covered in handmade oil paintings, each a different landscape, there’s an easel by the window and a half-chiseled deer antler on the floor in front of it, the carving knife left on the desk next to a dozen jars of paint.
“So which one’s yours?” Stiles asks. Derek lifts an eyebrow. His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s leaning one shoulder against the open doorway to the oil painting room. Stiles elaborates, “Don’t wanna choose one that’s already taken.”
Derek gestures further down the hall with a tilt of his head. “Over here.”
Stiles follows him the rest of the way down the hall, past a bathroom and linen closet, until it opens up into a large living room. There are huge windows adorned with garland on every wall, their emerald curtains drawn, a matching couch and pair of loveseats poised around a coffee table that looks like the younger, smaller version of the kitchen table. In one far corner is a real pine Christmas tree with a red, velvet tree skirt detailed with intricate gold embroidery, its branches dangling with red and gold glass tree bulbs. In the other corner are two leather armchairs angled in front of a corner fireplace, sleepy flames flickering in the stone masonry hearth. It’s minor imperfections and slightly asymmetric shape make Stiles wonder if Derek’s grandparents had built it themselves.
Hell, they probably built this whole house.
“I’m up there,” Derek says, turning his back to the living room to look above the archway to the hall.
Stiles turns with him and spots the black spiral staircase on the left, leading to an open-floor loft space above.
“Best seat in the house, huh?” Stiles says. His eyes keep rising as he realizes just how tall the ceiling is in here. When he reaches the roof and it’s made of glass, he whistles lowly.
“Best view,” Derek says, gesturing to the wall behind them. Stiles glances back, seeing that the huge window is positioned directly across from the loft. He imagines when the curtains are open in the morning the whole ranch is visible
“And these?” Stiles jerks his head back down the hallway, towards the four bedroom doors.
“They belonged to my parents and my siblings when we’d come to visit. Which we did a lot.”
Stiles smiles mischievously, suddenly curious which of the rooms belonged to kid & preteen Derek. “So which room used to be yours?”
Derek matches Stiles’ smile tooth for tooth. Then leans in conspiratorially as if to tell Stiles a secret, voice dropping down into a whisper.
“You’ll never guess.” Then he turns and makes his way over to the spiral staircase, Echo right on his heels.
Stiles calls to him, “It’s the painting room, right?” This was something he learned in the FBI: the option that initially seems the most unlikely, is often the answer.
Derek sends one last glance over his shoulder so that Stiles catches the amusement in his eyes.
“Goodnight, Stiles.”
—
Stiles ends up choosing the oil painting room.
He can hear Derek walking around on the loft above and he watches the ceiling until the footsteps eventually stop, knowing Derek has laid down.
He can measure the distance between them through his body’s awareness of Derek alone.
It isn’t much distance at all.
—
When Stiles wakes up it’s to a blunt and repetitive whacking sound.
He forcibly extracts himself from the bed and over to the window to investigate, a hand in his hair and one eye still closed.
He finds Derek a dozen yards away, cutting wood, fogged-over breath hovering in the stream of morning sunlight.
Stiles’ breath thins.
He’s wearing a beanie, but he isn’t wearing a coat. Instead donning a thin, gray Henley that hangs loosely. It still does nothing to hide the impressive swell of Derek’s back and shoulders as he rears the axe back, the extra fabric catching and outlining his bulging biceps as he brings the axe down.
Echo is another dozen yards back from him, nosing along the chicken coop like she’s performing morning roll call for the ladies inside. One paw tucks up against her body as her ear lifts and her head swivels around to spot Stiles in the window. Her other paw comes down in an excited stomp as she howls her good morning to him.
And inadvertently alerts Derek to his ogling position.
His head swings around to lock eyes with Stiles, his mouth slightly parted, his chest rising and falling from exertion, the morning sun haloed behind him. He lifts his non axe wielding hand in the air as a hello, and smiles.
Fucking beams.
And Stiles feels that dirt pile shift inside him.
Oh, no.
—
Derek has moved on from his morning task of chopping wood to feeding the animals when Stiles finally makes it outside. He spots him down the hill, walking towards the stables with a bucket in each hand, finally wearing a jacket. Probably because he isn’t producing heat like he had been while chopping wood.
He reaches the stable doors but stops short when Echo leaves his side to come bounding over.
Stiles kneels to greet her, “Hey pretty girl, whatcha up to, huh?” She immediately starts licking his cheek and chin and Stiles laughs, squeezing his eyes shut. When they reopen and pass down her back over the distance to Derek, he’s watching them with soft intensity, leaning against one of the wooden columns of the stables.
Stiles’ heartbeat stumbles.
He gives Echo one last good rub on the head before rising and tucking his hands into the pockets of the jacket Derek had leant to him yesterday. It’s warmer than anything he had packed so he hadn’t even thought twice before putting it back on this morning, but the way Derek’s eyes linger on it as he makes his way over—lingering on the place the collar is brushing his neck—makes Stiles wonder if he was supposed to give it back.
If he was, Derek doesn’t say anything.
“Hey,” Stiles says, crossing from the sun into shadow under the stable porch. His voice is early morning rough.
“Hey.”
Stiles eyes the two buckets in Derek’s hands. “Need help?”
There must be something on Derek’s mind, something distracting him, because instead of answering right away he blinks, buffering, before actually registering Stiles’ words.
“You don’t need to help me with my chores, Stiles,” he says. “You’re my guest.”
Stiles lifts an eyebrow, right hand coming out of the jacket pocket to reach forward and wrap around one of the bucket handles in Derek’s hands.
“Unfortunately for us both, I was raised right.”
Derek just stares at him. Stiles gently tugs at the handle and he quickly lets go, like he hadn’t even realized he was still holding it.
“Now,” Stiles adjusts the bucket to hold it up with two hands, “Introduce me to the majestic beasts this food is for.”
—
The scent of leather and winter-chilled straw rises up to meet them as they enter the stables. It isn’t a huge building by any means. There are only six stalls in total, pale, icy light streaming in through the windows at the back of each one.
“Saffron has been with me since he was a colt,” Derek is saying as he leads Stiles down the wide aisle, “But this is Sable’s first winter with us.”
They arrive at the pens at the end, housing the two horses in question. A yellow stallion, and a pregnant black mare.
“Mamas!” Stiles coos as soon as he sees her, slowly reaching his hand out for her to inspect before trying to pet her. She sniffles at his hand curiously, ears forward and tail swishing happily behind her. “When is she due?”
“Any day now,” Derek says. His own hand is out of view, passing over Saffron’s side as he watches Stiles and Sable. And he isn’t the only one. Saffron is watching Stiles like he can’t believe he hasn’t been noticed yet.
Stiles’ smile widens over his teeth. He takes his hand back from Sable and offers it to Saffron.
“And you must be the proud father.”
Saffron chuffs as if to say, ‘took you long enough,’ and it makes Stiles laugh, his hand coming to land on the side of his neck, unconsciously mirroring Derek.
After feeding Sable and Saffron, Stiles helps Derek put their blankets on before letting them out into the pen through the back of the stables.
Then it’s time to feed the cows, goats, chickens, and pigs, Stiles attempting to befriend all of them in the process (and succeeding with all but a clinically grumpy billy goat who Derek reassures likes absolutely no one.)
They happen upon a section of the outer fence that the cows must’ve been pressing against and Derek says it’ll need to be fixed. Apparently, one of the bulls is an escape artist.
Stiles offers his help and Derek asks him if he’s ever fixed a fence in his life and Stiles replies that he’s led hostage rescues before, he’s pretty sure he can handle it.
Their route to the supplies shed takes them past a second, bigger shed pressed back out of the way of everything else, pale-blue with the sun gleaming off the metal roof.
“What’s in there?” Stiles asks, jerking his chin in its direction.
But Derek doesn’t even look over. “Nothing. Here, hold this open.”
Stiles holds the supplies shed open for him until everything they need to reinforce the fence has been chucked out, then they split the load between the two of them and carry it all back to the damaged area.
The entire time Stiles is waiting for Derek to say, ‘welp, it’s been fun, but I think it’s about time you get going,’ but he never does. Doesn’t ask anymore questions about why Stiles is here after last night, doesn’t push. Let’s him just. Be.
And speaking of bees, they stop inside a greenhouse to check up on Derek’s hives after the fence is finally fixed, the temperature noticeably warmer the second they step in.
“What”-Stiles pulls to a stop ten feet from the entrance, now closed-“We aren’t putting on suits?!”
Derek looks sidelong at him, undeniably amused. “Werewolves and hostage rescues, no problem, but a couple of bugs is where you draw the line?”
“Ha, ha,” Stiles intones, “A few bees? Sure. A few hives? I’m not confident my current relationship with the universe is simpatico enough to risk it.”
Derek barks out a laugh, head thrown back, crows feet creasing at the corner of his eyes.
Stiles’ feels that same burning satisfaction he always used to get when he’d made Derek laugh—truly laugh—in the past.
“These hives have been with me all their lives,” Derek says, “They’re used to humans. As long as you don’t start swatting at them, they won’t hurt you.”
“Right,” Stiles drawls, “I’m still going to stay back here, thank you very much.”
Derek shrugs and gets to work on inspecting the hives. He checks their covers, tugging here and there to be sure they’re all secure and his fiddling alerts the bees of one hive, a plump one walking out to check Derek out.
Derek smiles down at it, his cheeks dusted red from the cold.
“Hey little guy.” His voice is low, impossibly gentle, a slow finger coming down to invite the bee up onto it. He smiles as he lifts it up at face level. His eyes flick back over to find Stiles watching them, and Stiles realizes just how breathless he feels. “Wanna try?”
Stiles’ exhale comes out shaky. “Yeah, okay.”
He steps forward, and when he’s close enough Derek gently reaches down to grip his hand, making his heart uptick as he pulls it up to line their index fingers together to create a bridge.
“Don’t be nervous,” Derek assures him, clearly sensing his rising heart rate as the bee bumbles over onto Stiles’ finger, “He’ll be able to sense it.”
And maybe it’s the thin atmosphere up here in the mountains or the fact that he’s still in the impulsive spiraling that had him break up with his girlfriend of a year and quit his job of ten, or maybe it’s just that Stiles has never seen anyone treat another living thing as gently as Derek is treating this bee, but, for whatever reason, his filter flicks off, and he doesn’t think before he speaks.
“Yeah,” Stiles wets his lips as he glances up at Derek, “It isn’t the bee making me nervous, now.”
Stiles watches the understanding crest over Derek’s face. He’s still holding Stiles’ hand up. Five burning finger points cradled against his cold skin. The bee stil bumbling around on Stiles’ finger.
Derek says, “You don’t need to feel nervous around me, either.”
Stiles’ lips part, Derek’s eyes flicking down as a laugh that’s more of an exhale brushes through them.
“You’re so different now,” Stiles says, “You know that?”
Derek’s eyes rise back to his and stick.
“Different how?”
Stiles studies him. “The Derek I knew existed solely in survival mode. And now you whisper to bees.”
As if on cue, the bee on Stiles’ finger lifts off into the air to head back to his hive. Derek watches it go.
“I used to be the type of person who helped my grandma tend her bees, before she died, before I became the Derek you knew.” His eyes fall back to Stiles. “And I didn’t let anyone know me then.”
Stiles hears, You knew an unknowable me.
It almost sounds like an apology.
Stiles’ head tilts, “And who are you now?”
Derek shrugs with his mouth. “Someone worth knowing.”
—
The snow starts coming down fast after they’ve finished checking on the hives.
They make a beeline—ha, beeline—up to Derek’s house, Echo bounding over from the pig pen to meet them as they push in through the door. The house is warm inside and swathed in soft, diffused winter light, the snow falling past the windows in fluffy flakes.
Derek unhooks Echo’s snow jacket and slinks out of his coat to hang them both on a rack by the door. Stiles does the same, but moves slower. The air is so calm up here in the mountains it’s hard to move with urgency.
The only sound is the faint whiz of wind brushing against the house as it passes over, Echo’s slow breathing, and the click of the stove as Derek sets a kettle on the burner.
Their eyes meet.
Derek lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Coffee?”
Stiles hums. “Coffee sounds amazing.”
Derek busies himself with the task.
The rich aroma of brewing coffee filling the air as Stiles’ walks over to the bookshelf in the corner to get a closer look.
His fingers brush along the varying spines with reverent curiosity, lingering when he reaches a particularly old novel that’s been returned to frequently, the spine lovingly worn. He pulls it out to find Walden, by Henry David Thoreau.
“That was one of my grandpa’s favorites,” Derek says, close behind him now.
Stiles huffs, turning to see he’s carrying two steaming cups of coffee with cinnamon and cream. “How very meta of him.” He puts the book back and takes the offered cup with both hands. A shiver runs through him as the heat of the ceramic seeps into his palms. He takes a small sip, and makes a pleased noise. It’s just how he likes it.
“How so?” Derek asks, sounding amused.
Stiles gestures to the book, “Have you read it?”
“No,” Derek says, “I’ve always thought it would crumble to pieces if I tried.”
Stiles laughs. “I read it back in high school for some school assignment. It’s about Thoreau's experience living off the land in a cabin in the woods for two years. When he eventually returned to civilized society he believed that it was a person’s true nature to live simplistically, instead of constantly working and agonizing to achieve modern life’s expectations.”
“Sounds like my grandpa,” Derek says fondly.
Stiles leans over to bump his shoulder against his. “Sounds like you.”
“You don’t see the appeal?” Derek asks, grinning.
“Why do you think I left DC?” He doesn’t know why he says this—the words just come out before Stiles can even think. He’s always been better at psychoanalyzing criminals over himself.
Derek meets his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Stiles’ face twists, eyes going out the window. “I can’t really explain it… I just—working at the FBI used to be so rewarding, ya know? It felt like I was doing something that mattered, that made a difference. But somewhere down the line it started feeling like something I had to brace myself to do, like taking a hit. All I did was work. I was only ever home to sleep or shower. I hadn’t minded at the beginning, when the job was new, but recently—I don’t know. I woke up one day, alone in bed because my ex was always gone for work before I’d have to wake up, always already asleep in bed when I’d get home, and I realized it had been weeks since we’d even spoken, and I hadn’t even noticed. I had gotten a day off, which was rare, and was walking around this apartment that I paid for but never got to use, and—none of the stuff was mine. All the decorations, the food, the evidence of life—it was all hers. Like I could’ve disappeared that second and not leave a trace behind that I even existed. And it felt… like there wasn’t any air in the room like—like I was—“
“Suffocating,” Derek says. Stiles turns back to him. He has this look in his eyes like he understands completely, not a hint of judgment or pity.
“Yeah.” Stiles swallows. “I broke up with my ex when she got home that night.” He laughs. “She didn’t even seem surprised. Quit my job the next day. Got in the car, and just started driving. I told myself I wasn’t gonna stop until I found somewhere I could breathe. Didn’t even realize I was coming back to California until I was already halfway here… I thought maybe the universe was trying to tell me to go see my dad”—their eyes meet—“Then my car breaks down a mile from your property.”
A moment passes where nothing is said, gazes moving back and forth between their eyes. Stiles can hear the faint whine of the wind through the window pane, Echo’s soft breathing as she sleeps.
“Do you believe in fate?” Stiles asks.
Derek says, “I believe in second chances.”
—
They make beef stew.
Stiles chops the veggies while Derek prepares the meat. Stiles talks more than Derek, but he cuts in with little quips and comments often enough for it not to matter. At one point, he says something so unintentionally and offhandedly funny that Stiles’ laugh goes silent halfway through.
Echo does her best to convince them to feed her scraps and Stiles almost falls for it, before Derek intervenes and reminds her of her manners. At which point she switches tactics and turns her full attention on Stiles, absolutely destroying his defenses with her big brown puppy-dog eyes.
He sneaks her a carrot when Derek isn’t looking.
They bring hot bowls back to the couch when it’s ready and talk in between bites. Stiles tells Derek the horror stories he has from the FBI Academy. Derek tells him that he and some other guy bet the exact same amount on Saffron at an anonymous auction, and had to arm-wrestle each other to decide the winner.
They’re close enough that Stiles can feel the heat of Derek against his skin, can smell his scent so strongly.
After they clean up and say goodnight, Stiles steps in under the hot spray of the shower and stays there for a long time. Mind replaying the way his and Derek’s knees kept bumping while they ate, the way their eyes keep meeting, this new way that Derek has been looking at him.
He dreams about Echo wandering onto Derek’s property that night, but in the dream Stiles is in Echo’s place.
He comes through the tree line, lost and cold, and spots Derek’s house where he’s waiting in the doorway, a fire crackling behind him, his arm beckoning him inside to get warm.
—
Stiles wakes to the smell of coffee, bacon, and sweet cinnamon.
He rounds the corner into the kitchen just in time to find Derek with Echo, his voice fond but stern as he tells her that the pan of cinnamon rolls, just taken out of the oven and still gripped in his hand, are not for her.
Stiles can’t help but snort.
Derek’s eyes lift and meet his.
“Morning.”
“Good morning,” Stiles says, eyes snagging on something at the corner of Derek’s jaw. He reaches forward unthinkingly, saying, “You have something right—“ and brushes his thumb just above the splatter—it looks like brown paint. Derek’s fingers bump his as he reaches up to wipe it off.
“Must be from when I was working on the fence this morning.” He goes over to the sink to rinse the paint off, then dries his hands and grips two cups of coffee nearby on the counters.
Stiles raises an eyebrow, “How early did you get up this morning?”
Derek hands him one of the cups. “I like to watch the sun rise.”
Stiles smiles into his coffee, making a noise of appreciation in his throat when he takes his first sip.
“When do you sleep?”
“I don’t really need a lot of sleep to feel well rested.”
“Of course you don’t,” Stiles snorts, eyes rolling teasingly. He turns to lean back against the counter and reaches down to run a hand over Echo’s head. “So what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Depends,” Derek says, taking a sip of his own coffee, “Do you know how to ride a horse?”
Stiles raises his eyebrows, looking at Derek over the rim of his coffee cup.
“I mean, I went horseback riding as a kid. Why?”
“There’s a lake a few miles north of here, frozen solid. I was thinking we could make the trip up to see it if you wanted to.”
“What, both of us on Saffron?” Stiles smirks. He can’t imagine Sable is in any condition to be ridden with how pregnant she is.
“You on Saffron,” Derek says, “Me on four legs.”
A pulse of understanding ripples through Stiles. He’s only seen Derek’s wolf form a couple times and only ever in dire situations, never for the sake of fun.
“Okay,” Stiles says, a little hastily, “When?”
—
After breakfast, they pack some food for lunch then head out to the stables.
Stiles gives Sable a few extra pets as compensation for not being able to come while Derek leads Saffron out of his pen to get him saddled up. When he’s finished, he hands Stiles the reins and dips around a stall corner to transform. He says it’s because he doesn’t want to accidentally spook the animals, but Stiles isn’t convinced that’s the real reason.
The thought first came to him years ago, before he left Beacon Hills, during one of the pack's more treacherous battles wherein Derek had been there one second and the next not, only returning into view when he had four legs instead of two. It had been surprising only because Derek had never been shy about being naked around the pack in the past—a fact Stiles suffered through admirably—making him wonder if there was a different reason Derek didn’t want anyone to see him transform. As if the act of it were more intimate than being naked.
Stiles gets a foot in the stirrup and hefts himself up and onto the saddle on Saffron’s back, leaning forward to pat his strong neck—and unintentionally catches sight of Derek through the cracked door of the stall he’d gone into, pulling his shirt over his head with a swift tug. Stiles’ breath catches, swallowing thickly as his eyes track over smooth, pale skin, dark splashes of hair, carved muscle. His heart feels like it’s beating in a vat of thick syrup, heavy and thick in his throat. His eyes fall to Derek’s thumbs as they hook in the waistline of his pants and pull down—
Stiles forces his eyes away, skin burning.
He leads Saffron through the door out into the pen and takes a shuddering breath when the chilled air hits his face. The feelings that are supposed to be buried are instead tangling roots through his insides.
Worked up an immunity, huh? He scoffs at himself. Couldn’t even last two days.
Echo is on the other side of the wooden pen, facing him. She’s been sitting patiently, like she knows they’re about to go exploring, but suddenly leaps up and starts barking excitedly, tail going mad, eyes intent on something behind Stiles.
He turns to watch Derek step out into the snow, fully and magnificently transformed.
Stiles had forgotten how big Derek’s wolf form is, how unreal. All black. Eyes red. Huge paws. The regal line from his chest up to his poised ears is all predator, and when he comes to a stop beside Stiles, he’s only a foot shorter than Saffron. (Who isn’t even phased. Just snorts and shakes out his tail, like he’s seen Derek like this countless times.)
His wolf eyes lift up to Stiles, silent but vibrant.
“Alright wolf man,” Stiles smiles, “Let’s go.”
—
Derek’s leads their assembly through the maze of the forest surrounding his property, and as Stiles watches him he has the thought that, maybe, Derek isn’t so packless after all.
Echo and Saffron follow his every move and Sable is no different, every animal he’d met yesterday showing Derek inviolable loyalty and love (even the clinically grumpy billy goat.)
The barren trees around them are spaced like an ancient fleet of watchmen, the processing eventually parting open to a long stretch of pristine, untouched snow.
Derek’s ears twitch back, and he turns to give Stiles a look that he’s able to translate instantly.
He grins like a match head being struck. “You’re on.”
He digs his heels into Saffron's side, spurring him into a gallop.
Derek is already ten yards ahead.
The four of them race across the clearing, snow erupting into the air under paws and hooves like a hundred tiny explosions.
When they reach the tree line they race right back into the forest and Stiles throws his head back to laugh, wild and uninhibited.
The land curves and they follow the flow of it, follow Derek to another break in the tree line up ahead, clear, unobstructed white sky on the other side.
Derek bursts through first, followed quickly by Stiles and Saffron, then Echo.
The sun pours over a frozen, sprawling lake, reflecting it in every direction like one enormous diamond.
“Oh, wow.”
Stiles pulls on Saffron's reins to bring him to a stop, eyes spanning over the lake surface that’s clear enough for layers and layers of frozen, dark blue water to be visible beneath.
The only sound is the crunch of Echo’s footsteps at the lake edge, and the faint, haunting crackle of the shifting ice growing down.
His eyes skip to Derek, his piercing wolf eyes already watching him. Stiles smiles, and Derek’s tail slowly begins to wag.
Stiles sweeps his leg over and off Saffron to land with both feet in the snow. He pulls their lunch and the waterproof blanket they’d brought out of the saddle pack, laying it down and sitting before spreading their food out on top.
Derek comes and joins him on the blanket, his long body spanning the entire left side as he lays down
Echo comes bounding over eventually, once she’s had her fill of exploring, and pointedly sniffs at the bag of jerky Derek has already eaten half of.
Stiles laughs and offers her a piece, her great big body plopping down on the other side of Stiles to eat it, so that Stiles is sandwiched between her warm fur and Derek’s. Still smiling, Stiles lays back with his hands behind his head, eyes cast up to the sky, warm and content.
—
Stiles doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he’s woken by Saffron’s high-pitched whinnying.
His eyes fly open, a spray of stars covering the now-black sky. He’s suddenly freezing. He sits up quickly and turns to see Echo and Derek tearing across the snow after Saffron as he pistons frantically into the forest.
“Shit,” Stiles hisses, pushing himself to his feet, heart hammering in his chest.
How the fuck is he supposed to find his way back to Derek’s place now?
But before he can worry too much, he hears the sound of approaching footsteps filtering back through the treeline. Another moment, and Echo comes back into view, followed by a very distraught looking Saffron, being lead by a very, very naked Derek.
Stiles tries to swallow his breath when it gets strangled in his throat.
“What’s going on?”
Derek’s features are grave, distracted. “Sable’s in labor.” He pulls Saffron to a stop beside Stiles and hands him the reins. “Let’s go.”
Then he transforms.
Stiles’ brain buffers as he watches–Derek’s silhouette a swirl of white and black shadow, reforming into something new, something powerful.
It feels unreal that someone like Derek could even exist.
But Stiles doesn’t have long to languish in his mesmerization.
Derek makes a low noise in his throat to alert both Echo and Saffron, then takes off at full tilt into the forest.
Saffron tears after him, Stiles’ hands tightening on the reins as they fall into a ferocious gallop. He has to lean forward, pressing into his gait, so that he isn’t knocked off the saddle.
Derek is a blur of shadow in front of them.
They’d gone out a lot farther than Stiles realized. His chest winds a notch tighter with every minute that passes, the tension in his body mirrored by Saffron beneath him.
Until, finally, Stiles sees the orange blocks of light from Derek’s house through the trees ahead.
They blow through the treeline, coming up fast on the fence around Derek’s property. There’s a gate on this end just like the front of the property, but neither Derek nor Saffron slow down to let Stiles leap off to open it like when they’d left, instead gaining speed and momentum to leap straight over it.
“Oh my—god!” Stiles hunkers down, holding on for dear life as Saffron jumps, arching over the fence, a breathless noise punching out of Stiles’ mouth when his hooves reconnect with the ground.
They’re coming up fast on the pen outside the stables and Stiles realizes they’re not going to stop to open that gate, either. But he's not confident that he’ll be able to stay seated if Saffron jumps this time—the pen is almost twice as high as the property fence.
“Whoaaa, stop, stop, stop!” Stiles frantically yanks Saffron’s reigns back, managing to force them into a stop just as Derek leaps effortlessly over the fence into the pen. He heads straight into the stables as Stiles steps down from the saddle.
Echo, probably knowing she isn’t allowed inside, paces the pen beside Stiles, whining lowly. “Shh, it’s okay,” Stiles tells her, then to Saffron when he makes similar noises of worry, “She’s going to be okay.”
Stiles passes his hand over Saffron and Echo until they’re both calm. Then ties Saffron's reins to one of the posts to keep him away from the stables. He’s pretty sure the last thing Sable needs is Saffron storming in while she’s in labor.
He finds Derek in Sable’s stall. He’s dressed now, and talking to her calm and low as he takes her temperature from her position on the ground. His eyes leave her only long enough to flick over and acknowledge Stiles.
“She’s close,” is all he says.
“How can I help?”
Derek looks at him in surprise. “They teach you about foaling in the FBI?”
Stiles snorts. “I must’ve missed that lesson. But I’m a fast learner.”
Sable chooses that moment to shove herself back to her feet—or at least try to. Her legs are so unsteady that she just crashes back down.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Derek soothes, hand passing over her side again and again. There’s a crease in his brow that doesn’t bode well. “Mare’s usually give birth fine on their own,” Derek says, eyes not leaving Sable, tracking her every twitch and shiver, “But something’s wrong. I can sense it. I need to get-“
“Go,” Stiles tells him, resolve hardening, “I’ll stay with her.”
Derek’s lips set in a serious line. He nods once, rising to pass Stiles and round the corner into a supply closet.
Stiles kneels down by Sable’s head and shushes her softly, hand passing over her hair, usually clean and shiny, now dusty from her laying at the bottom of her pen. Her entire body tenses from a contraction, her head straightening up, breath passing through her nostrils in heavy, forceful puffs, before the pressure finally eases and she deflates back down.
Derek returns with a cart full of supplies. “We need to stand her up.”
Stiles isn’t sure they can coerce her into doing anything in this condition, but he helps Derek secure the lead around her nonetheless. When they finally do convince her to stand, it’s more thanks to Derek’s super strength than anything, and Stiles is surprised to see that she’s far enough along for two tiny hooves to be visible.
Stiles thinks it’s a good sign, until the tone of Derek’s voice drops his heart to his toes.
“Oh—fuck.”
“What?” Stiles asks, fear worrying at his brow. “What is it?”
“The foal is misaligned.” He’s pale, eyes panicked.
Now this expression, Stiles recognizes.
It pulls at something inside him, seeing it on Derek here, in this place where it doesn’t belong.
“Derek,” Stiles says. Then, when Derek doesn’t look at him, grips his forearm and tugs, finally pulling his eyes to him. He gives Derek a significant look. “It’s going to be okay. Knowing you, you’ve probably already done all the research on this kinda thing, the huge preparer that you are, so”—Derek’s expression morphs, shifting into something more complex and concrete, grounding back down to the earth—“What do we do?”
Derek exhales shakily. “I need to readjust the foal in the birth canal.”
Stiles was afraid he was going to say that. He learned how not to faint at the sight of blood after the FBI academy, but that doesn’t stop him from having a physical reaction to it.
“Alright”—Stiles clears his throat when his voice comes out an octave too high—“Perfect. And you need me to…?”
Derek rolls his eyes, another layer of weight shedding off his shoulders as he huffs, “Restrain her. Keep her calm.”
Stiles lets out a subtle sigh of relief and says, “On it.”
He guides Sable to the front of the stall like Derek directs, and ties her lead to the stall post there. He passes a calming hand down her neck, watching Derek take a huge breath, visibly straighten, and get to work.
—
The foal turns out to be a filly.
She’s yellow like her dad, but she has black accents that she got from her mom: her snout, mane, tail and legs, which make her look like she’s wearing stockings.
Stiles helps Derek choose a name while they watch her, now from the outside of the stall. They rest their forearms against the door as she stumbles into Sable, who just sniffles and licks her face in return.
“Obviously her name has to start with an S.”
“Why?” Derek asks.
“You know,” Stiles rolls his finger in the air, “To go with the running theme.”
Derek rolls his eyes good humoredly, “That wasn’t on purpose.”
“How is that not on purpose?”
“Saffron was young enough when I got him that he didn’t have a name. But Sable came with hers.”
“Well I think it should be on purpose,” Stiles sniffs, “Oh I know! You can call her Stiles.”
Derek puts his hand over Stiles’ smug grin and pushes his face away. Stiles laughs.
“What about…Socks?”
Derek’s lips twitch as his eyes fall back to the filly.
—
After they’ve ensured that Sable and Socks are healthy and will be warm enough through the night—and after they lead Saffron into the neighboring stall so he can meet his new daughter—they head back up to the house, somehow both exhausted yet too wired from the night’s events to sleep.
“Please tell me you have alcohol,” Stiles says as they hang their coats up and kick off their boots.
Derek snorts. “Doesn’t work on me. Tea?”
“Ugh, fine, but I want extra cinnamon.”
Ten minutes later they’re in the living room armchairs poised in front of the fireplace, tea wafting honey and spice in the air. The fire crackles softly, projecting an orange, dancing glow across the walls, the floor, Derek’s skin.
Stiles’ eyes keep falling to Derek’s lips without his permission. His gaze grows unguarded and bold as he grows more tired, less focused. The urge to look away, to not be obvious, dulling every time Derek makes him laugh.
He keeps looking at Stiles like—here they are, a few feet from the fire, yet Stiles is the brightest point in the room. And it’s making him feel unraveled. Vulnerable.
He finishes his tea and sets the mug down on the small table between them, Derek watching him slide down to lay on the felted shag rug between the chairs and the fire.
His eyes are growing heavy.
He’d fallen asleep at the lake too, which wouldn’t be that surprising if he hadn't also slept well last night, and the night before that. Sure, he had barely slept while driving, three or four hours here and there, but he wasn’t any better back in DC. He’s adapted to no sleep. Can’t remember the last time he slept this much.
Stiles blinks sleepily up at the paneled glass ceiling; there are only a few stars left, the first bursts of dawn have chased the rest away.
He feels so calm. Safe. Like he could fall asleep right here, next to Derek and the fire. Even more so when Derek slides down to settle beside him on the rug. Their shoulders brush and it sets off heat throughout Stiles’ entire body, the roots of those unburied feelings using it to grow deeper like their own personal brand of sunshine.
Stiles lulls his head over to meet Derek’s gaze. Derek is already looking at him. Eyes tracking over his face like he’s mapping it out.
“You were wrong, you know,” Stiles murmurs, tone hushed and earnest. A yawn cracks his face open, and he blinks rapidly to try and keep his eyes open, but loses the battle.
He can still feel Derek’s gaze with his eyes closed, like burning fingertips on his face.
“About what?” His voice is barely a whisper.
“When I asked you who you are now, you said someone worth knowing. But you were worth knowing then,” Stiles reopens his eyes, finding Derek colored by peach morning light, lids low as he watches him and listens, “It was the first version of you that I liked.”
The admission hangs like a beating pulse between their locked eye contact.
Stiles watches Derek’s exhale come out slow and shaky, his hand lifting to gently run the pad of his thumb between Stiles’ eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose. The touch is so soft that it makes Stiles’ eyes flutter closed again, a low, pleased noise rumbling in his chest as he leans into it.
The touch continues over his cheeks, eyelids, jaw…
Stiles feels it last over the bow of his lips, before he’s fast sleep.
—
When Stiles wakes up Derek is gone.
Early afternoon light has flooded the room and there’s a blanket draped over him, the fire whispering in the hearth where it had roared last night.
He can still feel Derek’s phantom touch on his face, his lips…his hand lifting to brush distracted fingers over them as his mind whirls.
Last night feels like a dream, intangible now that the day has come, and Stiles doesn’t quite know how to get a feel for what it means anymore.
What are they doing here, him and Derek?
This thing between them, this push and pull, feels like a boulder teetering on a mountain-peak precipice, one push away from propelling downhill at full speed.
And Stiles is terrified.
He sits up, one elbow propped up on his knee, fingers still fiddling with his lips as his mind goes over the events of the last three days like carefully combing through a file cabinet, taking out the moments with lingering looks and telling body language for careful consideration.
He doesn’t think he’s imagining Derek’s reciprocation, but he hadn’t thought he was imagining it ten years ago, either.
He wants to laugh. How is he here, in this spot, again? He can feel the invisible thread pulling at the base of his spine, tethering him to his nineteen year old self.
Either the universe is giving him and Derek another chance, or it has a seriously cruel sense of humor.
Only one way to find out.
—
After he has showered and thoroughly steeled his nerves, Stiles is ready to talk to Derek.
But he isn’t in the house.
He throws on the borrowed jacket and pulls a beanie down over his ears as he heads out into the snow. Maybe Derek went to check on Sable and Socks to be sure they’re warm enough.
Echo comes bounding over from her favorite spot, the chicken coop, and Stiles scritches behind her ears.
“Hey pretty girl. Where’s Derek, huh?”
She just blinks at him, lolling her tongue happily.
Snorting, Stiles continues to the stables.
But Derek isn’t there, either. Sable and Saffron haven’t finished their breakfast yet though, meaning Derek must’ve stopped by here recently. Stiles gives all three horses some love and attention before moving onto the barn, then pig pen, then chicken coop, then supply shed, before finally reaching the beehives at the edge of the property.
No dice. Derek is nowhere to be found. His mind starts to whisper that he’s been here before, too, but he quickly squashes that thought.
Derek wouldn’t have run away from his own property.
Stiles squints as his gaze tracks over the white landscape, breath fogging the frigid air.
Where could he be?
His eyes finally pass and land on the blue metal shed. He considers it for a minute. Derek had said it was empty, but it’s the only place Stiles hasn’t looked, so makes his way over.
It’s as he gets closer that he spots the boot tracks in the snow, leading right up to the shed entrance.
His eyebrows crease.
Why would Derek be in an empty shed at the edge of his property?
He reaches for the handles on the metal doors and pulls them open—then stops breathing altogether.
The shed is, in fact, not empty.
There are hand-painted oil canvas’ covering every wall, grayscale and monochromatic, but they aren’t what stop him in his tracks.
Parked at the back of the shed with Derek on a creeper underneath it, is Roscoe.
Shiny and in one piece and here.
Stiles’ jaw drops, walking forward unconsciously.
The last time Stiles had seen his jeep, he was getting in it to leave Derek’s house after their last conversation ten years ago.
They’d just narrowly survived a disastrous encounter with a group of tech witches who, for whatever reason, seemed hell bent on killing Stiles in particular. (One of their best party tricks was taking control of machinery and puppetting it from a distance. Stiles had thought he was losing his mind the first time he experienced a gun raising in the air to shoot him with no holder. He quickly learned how to disarm any gun before it had the chance to start shooting, but that first bullet, Derek had taken.)
On this particular night of their conversation Stiles had almost died, again, but this time it had been such a close call that he wasn’t really sure if he’d make it out alive next time. So, once the pack had all gone home, Stiles had driven over to tell Derek’s loft to tell him he loved him.
And Derek had told him to leave Beacon Hills.
It was as he was driving away, tears burning his eyes, that one of the witches took control of Roscoe and drove her off a cliff with Stiles inside. When he woke up, Derek had disappeared, and Stiles took the hint for what it was. He accepted the internship to the FBI, and was gone within the week.
The shed door falls closed as Stiles stands there, frozen, a torrent of different emotions crashing over him.
Derek jerks slightly when the door slams, rolling out from under Roscoe to reveal headphones in his ears. He quickly takes them out when he sees Stiles, eyes widening in surprise.
“Stiles—“
“What is this?” Stiles asks.
Derek slowly stands, looking at a complete loss for words. His shirt is covered in smears of black oil, his usually composed demeanor now tinged with vulnerability.
“After your accident,” Derek starts slowly, “After you left…I went to find her. Brought her back to the loft at the time.” His eyes flick to Roscoe, then back. “Then brought her here.”
Stiles’ eyes slide to Roscoe, old wounds opening that never truly healed. She was meant to be dropped off at the impound after the accident because the damage was too great, and Stiles had been devastated. She’d always been a symbol of home and safety for him, everything that was ripped away from him in the blink of an eye after his accident.
And here she is now, pieced back together under Derek’s hands. He must’ve had to rebuild her completely from scratch.
Derek is searching Stiles’ face when he looks back to him, apprehension clear across his brow and Stiles—Stiles is surprised to realize he’s angry. But he leans into the emotion instead of away.
“Why?” Stiles asks.
Derek says, “I couldn’t let her be destroyed.”
“Why?”
Derek’s gaze flicks down. “Because this, at least, was something I could fix.”
“What are you talking about?” Stiles shakes his head in frustration, “What couldn’t you fix?”
Derek’s eyes lift back to him, and Stiles’ entire body alights with understanding.
It just makes him angrier.
“You told me to leave.” His voice is flat. Blunt. “You told me I was imagining whatever was going on between us back then.”
“I know,” Derek says, eyes closing and reopening with remorse, “I always knew how you felt about me, and I should’ve discouraged you long before that night.”
Stiles flinches, taking those words like a blow. He scoffs, and it’s a mean sound.
“So why didn’t you? Couldn’t deny yourself the ego boost?”
Derek’s eyebrows furrow like he can’t understand why Stiles would think this. “Of course not. Didn’t you ever think that there was a reason those witches targeted you in particular?”
Stiles isn’t expecting the sudden segue. He keeps his arms tight across his chest as Derek steps closer.
“I was an easy target,” he says, “The only human.”
Derek takes another step forward, shaking his head like Stiles couldn’t be more wrong. “They wanted to weaken me, wanted to inflict the largest blow that they could, and knew they could do that by killing you. They may have been technopaths, but all witches deal primarily in emotion. They knew how I felt about you.” His lids lower, expression shuttering around a painful truth. “That's why I told you to leave.”
Stiles can only stand there, unmoving, unblinking as he processes the words, Derek watching him helplessly. He’s never seen Derek uncomfortable with silence before, but it’s obvious that he is now with how quick he is to keep filling it.
“I thought the only way for you to be safe was to get as far away from Beacon Hills as you could. As far away from me. When I found you and pulled you out of this car”—Derek shakes his head, like the memory alone is too much—“I knew I’d been right. You were dying in my arms. Your heartbeat had been so slow. So faint. I never knew you could be so quiet and… I nearly lost my fucking mind. I couldn’t breathe until I heard that you’d woken up. But I wouldn’t let myself go see you. I couldn’t be selfish anymore when it came to you. You had your whole life ahead of you, dozens of available scholarships, the goddamn FBI even wanted you and I was just—me. A broken alpha with a deteriorating pack, death and destruction following me everywhere I went. You deserved better. So I disappeared, hoping it would be the last shove you needed to leave. And even if you ended up hating me, I could live with it, because at least that would mean you were alive.”
Stiles’ mind is spinning. Everything he’s ever thought over the last ten years about what happened between them is dissolving and reforming into this new understanding.
He’d come out to this shed to once again confess his love for Derek, a love that he’s been trying to smother for years because he had thought Derek didn’t want him, and here Derek is, telling him that all that heartache and pain had been a part of his design.
Somehow, it’s worse than Derek not caring about him at all.
He shakes his head and turns away when he feels tears welling up in his eyes.
“Stiles—“
“So why bring me here?” Stiles interrupts, sniffing harshly as he wipes at his eyes and turns back. He can feel the irrationality bubbling up in him, but he doesn’t care. He’s so mad that Derek could make such a huge decision for him. Fucking furious. “Why didn’t you just leave me stranded out in the fucking snow? Why did you let me spill my feelings all over you again? I know you can smell it on me,” Stiles says, “And you just let me go on believing something could come from it after all these years.”
Derek’s hand comes up to cup Stiles’ elbow where his arms are crossed over his chest—Stiles hadn’t even realized how close he’d gotten while Stiles talked—and Stiles rips himself away and turns to walk out of the shed, planning to keep on walking straight out onto the road back to his car, forget his bag, forget this place, but Derek’s hands grip him before he makes it to the door.
He spins Stiles around and forces him to look Derek in the eye.
“Don’t you get it?” Derek says, sounding desperate now, “I brought you here because I’ve spent ten years denying myself the one person I truly want, and I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of pretending I don’t yearn for you.”
Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.
“You haunt my dreams and occupy my every quiet moment,” Derek whispers, tone burning like gasoline set ablaze. If he wanted to he could lean his forehead against Stiles’, they’re so close. “I loved you then, and I love you now.”
It’s the opposite of a heartbreak.
Something that's been misaligned inside of Stiles for too long clicks back into place, and the fight just rushes out of him, his body surrendering into Derek’s hold instead of tensing against it.
“Why didn’t you come find me?” Stiles’ voice is shaking.
Derek shakes his head. “When you never came back, I thought you’d moved on. But I never could.”
Stiles’ hands come up to fist in the front of Derek’s shirt. “I didn’t move on, Derek,” Stiles whispers, “I’ve blown through every relationship I’ve ever had because none of them were you.”
He feels more than hears Derek’s breath catch, white-hot lightning CRACKING through him when Derek’s eyes drop to his lips.
Yes, Stiles thinks, please, kiss me.
“I love you,” Stiles’ voice is like ground gravel, the relief of finally being able to say those words so fierce that it makes him ache. Turns his words desperate. “I love you.”
Derek crashes forward.
A needy noise rips out of Stiles as his back hits the wall, Derek’s lips a magnificent weight against his, warm and soft and finally, finally within reach as their denied desire releases between them like a steam valve opening after ten years of pent-up pressure.
Desperation and fervor wraps around them like molten wire.
They kiss. And kiss. And kiss.
Stiles’ hands hold Derek’s face where he wants him while Derek’s fingers slip beneath his shirt to star out over his back, like he needs the skin on skin contact to breathe.
Which Stiles needs to pull away to do very soon or else he’s definitely going to pass out.
But tasting Derek’s lips after craving them for so long is doing things to short-circuit his brain, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to stop even if the room were on fire.
Hell–maybe it is, the heat in Stiles growing feverish and hungry, making his legs go weak beneath him.
He makes a noise when their lips finally part, sucking in air as Derek uses his grip to pull Stiles fully against him, tucking hot lips against Stiles’ neck to kiss the skin there.
Derek groans, ”God,” and it sends a shock of heat through Stiles’ abdomen to hear how wrecked he sounds.
He presses open lips to Stiles’ neck as he speaks, two precarious points brushing his skin and letting him know Derek’s canines have dropped. When Stiles feels them, his brows cinch together and his mouth drops open on a silent gasp.
“Do you have any idea how good you smell? Fuck—you always have, it used to drive me crazy. I couldn’t concentrate. But you never wore anything of mine then, never wore my scent,” his hands slide down Stiles’ back as his lips skate up his neck to the hinge of his jaw, right under Stiles’ ear. “This fucking jacket,” Derek breathes, “You’ve been swimming in my scent for days. Do you know how much effort it’s taken to be around you but not be able to reach out and touch?”
“You gave it to me,” Stiles gasps, feeling light headed. He’s never heard Derek talk like this, and it’s dizzying to hear. Stiles wonders if he’s this vocal during sex. If he’d lean over behind Stiles so they’re touching from shoulder to toes and whisper filthy praise in his ear as his hips pump brutally forward.
Derek sucks a kiss into Stiles’ skin and it makes the part of his mind still tangled in the fantasy resound with throbbing heat.
He groans gutturally and drops his head back to expose his throat even more, hands sliding into thick black hair to fist and hold Derek close, their bodies pressed completely together.
Derek’s voice comes out a growl, “I want to give you everything.” Stiles wonders if his eyes are red.
He swallows thickly.
“I’m still pissed you took my decision to be with you away from me. I hope you know this doesn’t mean I’m gonna let that one go easily.”
Slowly, Derek pulls away to look at Stiles, eyes pupil-blown and low, forehead coming to rest against his. The years of pain and separation feel like a physical thing passing over them.
“I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Stiles’ head rolls back against the wall, lashes low as he looks down the length of his nose at Derek.
“It’s gonna take some time. You have ten years to make up for.”
“Stay with me,” Derek says, voice burning, “And I’ll give you every year I have left.”
Stiles smiles, stupidly, ridiculously, triumphantly, “Did you just propose to me?”
“Depends on your answer.”
Stiles laughs, Derek pressing forward so their noses touch, then their lips, drinking the sound.
Stiles knows there’s so much more that they need to talk about, but there’s no point in denying that this is what he wants. What they both want. And maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated. Maybe it can be the easiest thing in the world. He’s never struggled to love Derek before, even when he pretended he didn’t.
Stiles is beaming when he leans away from the kiss. The thought occurs to him that it’s Christmas, and this is the best gift he’s ever received.
He says, “Yes,” and drags Derek back with two hands in his shirt.
—
When they make it up to Derek’s loft they only separate when Stiles spots the easel by the window, a nearly-complete portrait in the center.
It’s different from the oil canvases in the spare bedroom downstairs, different from the ones in the garage. It isn’t black and white, and it isn’t a landscape.
“You’re painting me?” Stiles says incredulously.
There’s bursts of color everywhere, from the mountain and trees in the background to the red of Stiles’ cheeks, the different shades of brown in his hair, the gold spill of his eyes. He’s smiling, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“I only paint beautiful things,” Derek murmurs matter of factly, kissing Stiles’ neck, chest to Stiles’ back, hands around his middle.
An infectious grin splits open Stiles’ face.
“I knew the painting room was yours,” he says, and laughs when Derek responds by pulling him down with him onto the bed.
—F I N—