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Stiles smiled as he hung the phone up, overjoyed that his dad was finally living his life a little now that he officially retired from the force. Part of Stiles wished that his dad could keep solving the crimes and catching the bad guys, but he knew nothing would compare to the comfort and peace of mind that he got from knowing that his father was safe.
Stiles’ thoughts drifted to Derek, thinking about where he could possibly be right now. He never imagined that anything would come of his request when the Mayor picked up the phone all those years ago. He wanted to play detective for a day, and plucking Derek Hale’s strung tight strings was the cherry on top.
But then it all became more than just the thrill he got from solving a case and writing his next best-seller.
It was the look on Derek’s face when he could tell the victim’s family that they could have closure in knowing what happened. It was the way Derek walked easier, as if the whole world wasn’t on his shoulders—even if it was just for the short walk from the elevator back to the bullpen.
That was when the line started to blur for Stiles. All the late nights, the life and death situations, the looks of longing that they never discussed. Every moment continuously built until they couldn’t anymore. There were too many times Stiles caught himself almost leaning in to kiss Derek—the times Stiles clung to Derek a little too long, Derek’s arms remaining for just as long.
And then there was the bullet ripping through Derek’s chest. There was the feeling of Derek’s warm blood pooling beneath his hands as Stiles tried to apply pressure. There was the look Derek gave him as he tried to utter something—the pain making it too unbearable. There were the words ‘I love you, Derek, I love you,’ slipping from Stiles’ lips before he could stop them just as Derek lost consciousness.
Afterwards, when Derek pulled away—lying about not remembering Stiles’ confession—was when their relationship started to rock unsteadily back and forth. Stiles tried to fix it, but as usual, he tried too hard to help and Derek tried too hard to be alone.
Derek had let his sister’s murder consume him, unable to pull back, just like before. Only this time, Stiles had helped him find a target—he had his heart set on taking his uncle down, but couldn’t see the danger Peter was willing to inflict to keep his public image from being besmirched. He was ready to run head first into that danger if it meant that he could get revenge for Laura. He couldn’t see that that wasn’t the justice he once thought he would get. He had thrown Stiles’ confession back at him and forced him to leave, the words of his own love confession so close to tumbling out that Stiles almost stayed and helped him.
Stiles startled at the sound of a knock against his apartment door, quizzically arching his eyebrow. “Dad, you can’t come back, you have to stay the whole weekend,” he partially whined. He knew that it likely wasn’t his father as he grabbed the door handle, swinging it open in order to greet the knocker.
Stiles’ smile dropped when the door revealed none other than Derek.
Derek was standing there in his leather jacket and jeans—his off-duty wardrobe that Stiles so rarely got to see, but loved when it made an appearance. He looked like a drowned cat, his hair completely flattened by the rain as the rivulets of water covered his leathered shoulders. He just stared at Stiles in what looked like initial wonderment—almost as if he convinced himself that Stiles wouldn’t open the door.
“What do you want, Derek?” Stiles sighed in a tired voice, his heart unable to take another argument with Derek. He expected Derek to reply with a witty remark, or to even berate him for meddling in other people’s affairs. He was not, however, expecting the answer he received.
“You,” Derek breathlessly answered. He was suddenly moving forward, not bothering to shut the door behind him as he crowded into Stiles’ space. He reached his hands out, cupping Stiles’ neck in an attempt to keep him close as he placed a kiss against Stiles’ lips.
And Stiles cursed his traitorous feelings, becoming instantly pliant as he moved his hands up to wrap about Derek’s biceps, equally clinging to him in return. He pressed into the kiss, exchanging small movements of their lips.
“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” Derek whispered as he pulled back, resting his forehead against Stiles’. “I’m so sorry,” his voice broke off as his fingertips caressed just behind Stiles’ ears in an attempt to make Stiles physically feel his apology. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated louder than before, leaning in once more to steal another kiss.
Stiles’ eyes were closed, but he knew Derek was leaning in for another kiss. He could feel the warmth of his breath against his lips. He pursed his lips to capture that kiss, before finally forcing himself to make them talk—they had to talk. This was more than three years of knowing each other coming tumbling into a breaking point—into their breaking point.
Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s arms as he forced him back some. He took a breath to clear his mind before opening his eyes, looking at Derek who looked back at Stiles in earnest. “What happened?”
Derek took a breath that mimicked Stiles’, looking down between them as he repeated what happened today. “He got away,” he admitted, an almost bitter amusement in his tone. “He got away and I didn’t care,” he elaborated, looking up at Stiles. “I almost died,” he added, shaking his head as if it didn’t matter—as if the feeling of his heart lodged in his throat as he prepared to fall to his death didn’t matter. Because none of it, at the time, mattered to him. “And all I could think of was you.”
Derek looked at Stiles as if he was looking at the whole world. His eyes were practically twinkling with amazement. His facial features were soft and inviting. His fingertips were weights against Stiles’ body to keep him grounded in the moment.
“I just want you,” Derek repeated, his voice heavy but vulnerable—prepared to break at any moment as he waited for Stiles to hold him together. He leaned in, the tip of his nose grazing across the curve of Stiles’, his mouth opening and closing in an abortive movement caught between speaking and kissing.
Stiles moved faster than he could think. All he knew is that Derek’s fingertips were moving across his lips, the only other encouragement he needed to close the gap between them. He pushed Derek backwards until the sound of the door snapping close echoed throughout the apartment. He pressed his lips to Derek’s, savoring the way they tasted as they opened their mouths to each other, exploring every part they could access.
Derek released a small whine of protest when Stiles pulled his lips away. He gladly arched his head back, however, when Stiles turned his attention towards his neck, peppering it in small kisses and sucking hickeys into the skin just below his jaw.
Their hands roamed each other’s body, fingers pulling against buttons in a desperate fashion. Stiles fumbled out of his shirt, practically falling over himself as he tried to hurry, in need of feeling Derek’s skin against his. They had been stumbling over their feelings for each other for too long, years wasted in stubborn silence and fear of ruining what they had.
Derek didn’t bother with his clothes, allowing Stiles to take the lead. He focused on kissing Stiles, pulling deliciously wanton noises from him as he moved to shower attention on his neck. He felt the sudden hesitation in Stiles’ actions the minute he unfastened last button of Derek’s shirt. And he knew why.
Stiles halted his moves, his fingers tightening around the material of Derek’s shirt as he stared at his bare chest. His eyes were glued to the scar tissue covering the bullet hole that was there not even several months ago. He made a move to run his fingers over the scar, halting as if it was too much for him to comprehend. He held his breath when Derek’s hand wrapped around his.
Derek moved Stiles’ hand to touch the scar over his heart, allowing someone else besides a doctor to feel the marred flesh for the first time. The gentle nature of Stiles’ fingers sent a shiver of anticipation through his body. He flattened his hand over Stiles’, capturing his hand between his own and his chest.
Stiles looked up at Derek, smiling out of pure joy that Derek was still alive—that he was here with him—as he leaned in to share a gentle, unhurried kiss. It was their first of the evening as well of life, but it wouldn’t be their last. He allowed his hand to slip from Derek’s chest in favor of holding onto Derek’s hand, leading him back towards the bedroom.
Derek whole-heartedly followed. Little did Stiles know was just how much power he really had over Derek—he’d follow Stiles anywhere, and almost practically has already. No matter what, Derek was going to strive to be there—for the first time since the fire and Laura’s brutal murder, he felt safe enough to start letting it go. He didn’t need the guilt or anger to drive him anymore. He had Stiles to ground him—to steer him in the direction he needed.
And Derek was okay with that. With Stiles, Derek was always okay.
Always.