Work Text:
" Hey, man, you there ?"
Derek's head shoots up, surprised at the noise. The small office where he works has been quiet for the better part of the afternoon-now-evening, especially after Isaac left early, saying something about a date tonight.
Besides, it's not like they get much service in November -- most people don't want to hike when it's pouring buckets outside.
He probably wants directions, Derek thinks to himself, getting up from his post in the back of the small, tour guide office, and approaching the shorter, brown-haired man. He remembers, very briefly, the generic greeting Isaac usually uses, and nods in hello. " Hi, how can I help you ?"
The man's sweater is damp, and it makes Derek cast a wary look to the rain outside, when he shoves his hands into his pockets and leans on his heel. " Hi. You guys do tours, right ? Of the mountain ?"
Derek nods, eyes glancing to where a sign, on the counter separating the two, advertises this exact fact -- complete with an outline of which trails, exactly, the office tours.
The male lowers his own eyes, catches glimpse of the sign, and reaches up to scratch behind his ear.
" Yeah, obvious, uh. Are you guys still open ? I mean, " he adds quickly, hurried under Derek's stare, " For tours. Can I still buy one ?"
This gets Derek frowning. It's raining outside, and the sun should be setting in about an hour and a half -- meaning temperatures will drop exponentially, and why would he want a hike at all, what with everything going against the idea ?
" It's raining, " he points out, eyeing the guy, who seems to roll his own eyes before he can help it.
" No shi -- Sorry. " Well. At least he has the decency to appear a little bashful, Derek raising an eyebrow in counterargument. " It's just, is it too late to take the cliffside tour ? I would take it another day, " he adds, seemingly as a rushed afterthought, " But I'm, er, leaving. So. Today only. "
" Our last guide left an hour and a half ago, " Derek starts, quickly interrupted.
" You're not a guide ?"
" No. "
A frown. " Why do you work here then ? Isn't this for trail guides ?"
Derek sighs softly, shrugging. " I knew the owner. I help with set up and mapping, but I'm not a certified as a guide. "
" But you know the trail, right ?"
Derek's slightly hesitant to nod, because this boy looks like he's onto something, and Derek's really not sure if he wants to find out -- his fingers are trailing absently over the worn map, on the counter, so he nods anyway.
" So you can guide me. "
" I'm not … That's not exactly allowed. "
" I don't care, I'll pay double -- triple. Look, " The other male's tone drops a little, eyes looking slightly pleading at him, " I don't care about the cost, and I, this is just a three hour hike, right ? At most ? It's not that dangerous, my friend Scott took his girlfriend there and even she was able to do it, not that I'm being sexist or anything -- she was just pretty bad when we went camping a few weeks ago, I'm rambling again -- Look. " He takes a deep breath, eyes glancing around the small shop, before they fall back on Derek, who seems to be waiting with barely-hidden annoyance, " I just need to go on this hike. Please ?"
Derek doesn't know what makes him say it. Maybe it's the fact that this kid, with the big brown eyes, looks so helpless, pleading him to go on a fucking walk. Maybe it's because he should be closing up anyway. Maybe, just maybe, it's because his fingers are twitching, legs sort, eager to stretch them. Because he misses the hike, because he wants to be outside -- isn't that how he got cornered into this job in the first place ? Because when the outdoors call, Derek is the first to answer.
Regardless of why, Derek glances back at the male, sighs, and motions over to the equipment rack on the side of the store. " You're going to want to be wearing something warmer than that, there might be some thermals, too. I'll get the packs set up. "
And this is how Derek finds himself, half an hour later, beginning a hike with Stiles Stilinski.
They don't say anything for the first half hour, not a peep. Stiles, with his hands clasping the straps of the small backpack, equipped with water, a few granola bars, and, what Derek suspects is a camera. Derek's own is heavier -- water, snacks, a first aid kit, flashlight, trail map, radio, and a few more miscellaneous items, requirements for the job. It's rainy, wet and windy, but the ground is firm enough, shielded by the overhang of trees. Stiles is in sneakers, which Derek eyes reproachfully, but he seems to be doing alright.
He also seems to be lost in thought.
Derek isn't doing much better -- can't help it. This is a variation of his element, this, hiking in the woods ? With every step he takes deeper into trees, every pull of muscle, as the trail gets steeper and steeper, it washes away the trace of his late-night classes, of his day job, of dealing with people he doesn't want to do. He inhales a lungful of nature and forgets that he has jury duty in a week, forgets that he's running behind on rent, and that his favourite coffeeshop is on the verge of closing down.
He inhales a lungful of trees and dirt, rain, of everything that this trail promises, and Derek wishes he didn't have his backpack, wishes he was able to run the length of the trail until his lungs explode, just because he can. Because he knows it, like the back of his hand, and is getting that familiar itch to be at the top, overlooking the city. To sit, breathe for a while, and smile.
He doesn't know if Stiles is going to want that -- to sit for hours at the overhang of rocks, watching the lights and greying background before them -- hell, he doesn't even know if the other male will make it to the top, and with every step they take, closer to his own personal destination, Derek finds himself wanting to be alone.
If only so he can appreciate it as he wants.
Derek, surprisingly, is the first one to speak.
He sees Stiles glancing around, taking in the environment around them, and idly points out the name of one of the flowers. It's local, he explains, but you can only really see it on this side of the cliff.
Stiles nods, and mentions that they're his mom's favourite.
Derek doesn't ask, so Stiles doesn't say more.
" She tried to grow them in our garden, " Stiles says, ten minutes later. Derek hasn't been paying attention, once the conversation had dwindled, but he jumps back in easily enough -- people-pleasing has never been a particular forté of his, but he's not daft. Then again, he knows they can't grow at lower altitude.
" How'd that go ?" he asks regardless, watching Stiles out of the corner of his eye.
He shrugs, one that gives off a sense of aloofness, and stares straight ahead. " Didn't really work very well. "
They're quiet for about three minutes, before Stiles speaks again.
" This was her favourite hike, actually. I think it's because she liked seeing them. "
" They're pretty, " Derek offers, and Stiles nods in agreement.
Derek trips on an overgrown root, and covers himself half in mud. Stiles laughs so hard, he joins Derek on the floor, and ends up just as messy as he is.
" What happened to being the guide ?" he quips, and Derek thinks he might growl in response. He tries brushing the mud off his jeans, but it's moot point.
Stiles just grins, so Derek shrugs, and they continue on.
Derek spends the next five minutes of silence itching to pick one and hand it over to Stiles, but decides against it -- if he loves them so much, he might get mad at Derek for metaphorically killing one, instead of smiling again.
And loyal customers are good to have, right ?
Even if Stiles is leaving soon.
He fills their silence with little facts about the nature around them, history about the trail. Points out the parts of town they can see, if they step on a rock, or squint between trees. Neither mention the fact that they're soaked, but Stiles seems to be appreciating the jacket he'd rented from the store, so Derek figures they're alright.
" What made you want to be a tour guide ?"
" What ?"
" I mean. You seem like you know most about this stuff, so why aren't you a guide ?"
" I'm not certified. "
" So you gotta pass a test and stuff for it ?"
" Yeah. "
" So why don't you ?"
Pause.
" You know, a shrug isn't a justifiable answer. "
" I'm the guide, and I say it is. "
He grins again, and this time, Derek mirrors it.
Derek finds out that, once he gets Stiles to start talking, there's absolutely no way to get him to stop.
He's not as surprised as he thought he might be.
In ten minutes, Derek learns about Stiles’ friends, his father, his family, his school life. Within the next thirty, they’ve strayed on to conversation about walks in the rain, discussing material significance and the emotional kind, talked about philosophical things Derek usually on gets when he’s listening to stoners speak. They talk about loss, and gain. Chart out the rewards versus consequence, and what they’d rather have. Stiles makes a joke about forget-me-nots, and Derek hums his amusement, behind the weight of the conversation.
It's surprisingly interesting.
The even bigger surprise, he finds, is that he's as eager to speak back as he is to listen.
" I like walking in the rain, " Stiles announces.
" Really ?" Derek asks, and he can't help the drop of sarcasm that litters his tone, with a glance at the gloomy sky around them.
" Shut up. I mean it. I could only ever run in the rain, when I was a kid. "
" So you decided, today, that instead of a run, you wanted to hike for three hours ?"
Stiles shrugs, glancing down at his shoes, where water has started to seep through, and replies, " I don't really run much anymore. And hiking's nice. "
There's a quiet pause, a comfortable one, as they take a few more steps. The rain is getting heavier, and they're blanketed by this tunnel of trees -- making the droplets louder than they should be. Or maybe Derek's just used to having to hear rain over the sound of tires and television.
" Yeah, " he says, after a few beats of listening, " It is. "
They make it to the top, and Stiles stands in silence, staring down at the city.
Derek watches him for a few moments, wanting to reach out and ask the multitude of questions he's accumulated during their conversations. Wants to know if he'd rather be overlooking a city, or part of it, wants to know if he usually does this, or what he's thinking. What does anyone think, when they're drenched from head to toe, possibly shivering, standing on the edge of a cliff that overlooks civilization.
Is he happy to be away ? Is it a bittersweet sort of realization ? Is all of this just to clear his head, or has the walk muddled his thoughts even more ? Is it in a different way, like it's done to Derek ?
Instead, he steps over to where Stiles is standing, and motions to his backpack. " You want me to take a picture of you ? Proof you made it to the top ?"
Stiles shakes his head, but doesn't blink, doesn't break his gaze from the city before them.
" I just take a picture of the start. Stuff like this -- man, it's for me to see, for me to remember in my head. Not to commemorate on a computer screen. "
Derek thinks this is interesting, but it doesn't stop him from reaching over and unzipping Stiles' backpack.
" Hey ! What're you doi -- " Stiles starts, and Derek's glad they're not at the edge of the rock, because he's afraid the shorter male would've fallen off, judging by the way he's flailing, trying to grab the camera.
" Shut up, here. "
Without any more warning, Derek turns around and holds the camera out, pressing down on a button and waiting, before he assumes the picture is done and hands the kodak back to Stiles.
" You know, you should've put a flash on, " the boy response, reproachfully, after a few moments. Derek shrugs.
" Now the real commemoration will be in your mind. "
He doesn't say more, just hops off the trail, climbing his way to the edge of the rock, to his spot, and sits. Stiles follows, because Derek knows he would, and they sit for a few moments, watching the downpour. It's almost too thick for Derek to see the entire valley of where they live, but it's visible enough for him to reach over and point things out to Stiles, like he usually does.
City landmarks, the edge of the national reserve, camping spots.
But he doesn't say these, he doesn't tell the man the usual, work-related items he's supposed to, like a good tour guide. No, Derek finds himself pointing at lights, at the bridge, sharing a story of his own life. Mentioning his old school, or the neighborhood he moved into, years ago. The park where he runs with his dog, where his favourite coffeeshop is ( Stiles makes him repeat this one five times, until he remembers the name ).
" But I guess that's not too important, " he adds, glancing at Stiles, " You said you were leaving soon, right ?"
Stiles seems to pause, before tugging his knees up to his chest, resting his chin down on his arms. " Yeah, " he mumbles, after some silence, eyes trailing over the lights. " Yeah, I guess I am. "
" Pulmonary fibrosis, " Stiles says, as they start making their way back down the trail.
Derek's mind is still mulling over their finished conversation, his ass is tired from sitting for fourty-five minutes, and Stiles seems to just be saying a handful of syllables. So he frowns, raising an eyebrow. " What ?"
" Pulmonary fibrosis, " Stiles repeats, as if it's supposed to mean anything, and he sighs. His arms go up, folding behind his head, and he keeps walking, eyes set before him. " I have it. It's, uh. It's a lung disease. "
Derek stays quiet, because he doesn't know what he should be saying.
" Tissue, it's, uh. It's forming. In my lungs. It's been like that for a few years, which, the doctors say is pretty slow, but it's still happening. When I said I was leaving, I … I'm not, I just stop going on medication tomorrow. There's nothing they can do to stop, and I don't want my dad to keep paying medical bills if it won't even help. " His voice is purposefully even, firm over the sound of the rain, and Derek makes sure to take in every word he can. He doesn't want Stiles to have to ask Stiles to repeat anything.
" It's going to keep forming, " he continues, " In my lungs. Until I suffocate to death. "
For a split second, Derek thinks that even the raindrops have stopped, because the world is utter silence, because nothing is being taken in any more, as he stares at this kid. This lively kid, who's shared with him the most interesting conversation Derek's been a part of for weeks, who ate four oatmeal raisin granola bars in five minutes, who had previously shouted a song into the rain, just because he could. Who hadn't stopped, even when lightning split the sky and thunder roared -- Stiles had just shouted louder.
" I just ... I wanted to do this, her favourite hike. See the flowers. "
This kid, this stranger, who's telling Derek that he's dying.
Stiles finally turns to look at him, and Derek can't look away. His eyes are wide, brows furrowed, and when he finally speaks, it's in a tiny voice, a tiny voice that doesn't fit the larger-than-life persona Derek's just met, just gotten to know.
” I don’t want to suffocate to death. Not like that. ” It’s the declaration, the admittance of someone scared. Someone breakable. Someone who knows a little thing or two about both.
He's at a loss for words, so much, because anger, frustration, annoyance ? All things Derek understands. Happiness ? Maybe. But fear ?
Well.
He understands fear within himself, doesn't mean he knows how to react to it.
Much less when it's someone else.
So instead, Derek does the one thing he can think to do, and starts shouting, the opening verse of The White Stripes' Icky Thump, because Isaac was playing it in the office earlier. Stiles looks frightened for a moment, then pissed, then he laughs.
And laughs, and laughs.
And by the end of it, Derek is shouting to the skies, to the rain, laughing, with Stiles beside him, adding in the correct amount of la-la-la's, which is something Derek always forgets.
" Thanks, " Stiles tells him, when they get back to the store. He reaches into his pocket, to pay for the tour, but Derek shakes his head. He's putting the backpacks up to dry, along with their jackets, and reaches over to hand the money back to Stiles.
" Don't. Really, " he adds, giving the boy a warning look when he looks like he's about to protest.
There's a quiet pause, then Stiles nods in understanding, and shoves his hands back into his pocket. " Well then … Thanks. "
They nod, and Derek watches the red hoodie leave the office, watches it walk down the street, in the gloom of the evening.
He sighs, and hums Icky Thump for the rest of the night.
Epilogue :
Derek thinks there must be something against this, some kind of code, or regulation, but he doesn't really care. He's got a photocopy of Stiles' waiver form in his back pocket, and is knocking on the door to the apartment before he can say anything.
A young guy, black hair, opens the door, and frowns.
" Is Stiles here ?" Derek asks, watching as the frown depends.
" He's occupied. "
" But he's here, " Derek points out, making a move to step into the house. The kid narrows his gaze, shaking his head.
" He's occupied, " he repeats, just as footsteps shuffle into the hallway, and they both look up.
" What is it, Sco -- ?" His voice trails off when he sees Derek, and the frown depends. " Derek ?"
He nods, taking the overall confusion in the room to step in, reach over, and hand Stiles something -- ignoring the fact that he's got a hand attached to a mask, connected to a small, portable machine. He feels two sets of eyeballs look down and land in Stiles' outstretched hand, where three oatmeal granola bars are now being gripped.
" Nobody ever eats the granola bars, " Derek explains, with a small shrug, and watches as the edges of Stiles' lips quirk into a grin.
" Hey, isn't there some kind of customer-work policy against this ? You looking up my address and everything ?"
" Yes. There's one on going hiking by someone not qualified, too. "
" Touché. "
They never do go back to the rock, to the top of the cliff. The weather gets too bad, and Derek doesn't want Stiles to be hiking when his lungs are getting worse. In retrospect, he's worried enough that Stiles managed the first three-hour hike, and isn't about to risk it.
Stiles makes fun of it, but doesn't push.
They do, however, visit the coffeeshop. They visit it a lot, sometimes in the morning, sometimes at night, sometimes with one of them dropping in for pick up, the other staying in the Jeep, but they make their way through the entire menu, plus some.
They make their way through a lot of menus, over the next few weeks.
Derek finally picks the flower. In February. He leaves during his lunch break, and trails his way silently to the top of the cliff. On the way down, he carefully pulls out a handful of colour, and smiles.
He shows up to the funeral with dirt on his hiking boots and the bottom of his dark jeans are dirty, but nobody seems to notice. Nobody notices him, anyway.
Not until he places the flowers next to the smiling picture, Stiles' senior portrait, he thinks, and a man comes over to clamp him on the shoulder, and tug him into a hug.
He tenses first, not one for physical contact, but returns it after a few beats. After all, this must not be the first time Sheriff Stilinski's watching these flowers be lowered onto a loved one's grave.
He leaves after that. Grabs himself a pack of curly fries, and eats them, still in dress shirt, on the top of a rock, overlooking the city. He hums the words to Icky Thump to himself, and messes up the la-la-las.