Work Text:
Stiles glances at his phone out of the corner of his eye, immensely restless. He catches himself doing it before quickly averting his eyes back to his laptop, disappointed in himself, in his lack of self control.
His phone is laying screen side down on his mahogany work desk. It’s not vibrating, it’s not doing much of anything really, apart from being an upside down phone.
Stiles kind of feels like he’s going to vomit every time he looks at it, hence his self imposed restrictions.
He runs his long fingers through his dark hair and he catches sight of himself in the reflection of his office window, the black night outside turning it into more of a mirror.
He winces at the stranger looking back at him, barely recognising himself.
He looks like he hasn’t slept for an entire week, which is mostly accurate; dark circles stain the skin under his eyes, his skin in general is much paler than usual, and he’s well over due on a hair cut.
He’s seen actual ghosts, but he’s just about one of the most haunted looking things he’s ever laid eyes on.
He leans back, gripping his hair in both of his hands, gritting his teeth together and his desk chair protests the movement with a dangerous groan.
He remembers back when he was new to the FBI, back when he thought that once he became an Agent with an office that he’d at least get a nice chair, with some decent lumbar support.
It was a pipe dream though. He’s still stuck with the same shitty chair that they used in the training suites, back when he started with the academy nearly ten years ago.
He leans forward, touches his fingertips to his desk and he taps it rhythmically.
He glances at his phone again before looking up at the clock on the wall, waiting for the second hand to come around once again.
Tick, tick, tick. Welcome to midnight, bitches.
Scott’s missed their pre agreed checking in point.
“Fuck,” Stiles mutters and he snatches up his phone, double checking it’s not on silent.
It’s not and he’s got a full signal.
He places it back down, screen facing up this time and he contemplates what to do.
He’s got this awful feeling running through him. It feels like poison in his veins, infecting him at the very same time that it’s taking something from him, draining him.
It’s been building all week, since he first spoke to Scott and his best friend had told him he was going back to Beacon Hills, because the Nogitsune was back. It’s getting worse as the night is going on.
For the first time in his FBI career, he feels out of place in his office, lost, like he should be somewhere else. He knows exactly why.
He should have gone back with the others. Back to Beacon Hills with his friends. But when Scott called, he just couldn’t. He fucking couldn’t.
Scott didn’t even ask him to anyway, not out loud, because he already knew that Stiles’ answer was going to be no. Bless his friend for that.
He should have gone though. He knows he should have, but he’d convinced himself his friends had it covered. Lied to himself to relieve himself, more accurately.
He’s regretting it now, he’s not a coward. He’d just forgotten who he is, what’s important.
With every second that passes and his phone doesn’t ring, he feels more and more like banging his head off the desk.
He’s not even getting any work done. He’d stayed late mainly to distract himself, but maybe he should have gone back to his apartment to wait.
Maybe he will go home, wait for Scott to call there instead.
He waits until the clock ticks on to one in the morning before packing up his laptop and standing up, stretching, wincing when his back cracks.
His phone vibrates loudly, jumping up and down on his desk, demanding to be answered, a shrill ring tone joining in seconds later.
His heart in his throat, he startles and fumbles for it, blood running cold when he sees “Dad incoming” on the screen.
He uses every bit of his training to bite off the panicked acidity that’s climbing it’s way up his throat before he forces himself to answer.
Why is Scott not calling? Oh god. Not Scott. No.
“Dad. Who? Who?!” Stiles manages to choke out, when he finally clicks accept.
He knows already anyway. Doesn’t know who. But he knows it’s really fucking bad.
“Son…” his dad’s voice sounds completely gutted and raw, like he’s been crying for a while.
“No.” Stiles whispers.
He already knows that despite whatever comes out of his dad’s mouth next, he’s going to have to carry his choice not to go back to Beacon Hills with him for the rest of his life.
Because someone is dead.
Someone important.
Stiles braces himself for the news that Scott is gone, that he’ll never see his best friend again.
He immediately feels like a piece of shit for being grateful that his dad is alive.
“You need to come home now. I’m so sorry kiddo. It’s Derek. Derek’s dead,” John says softly into the phone, delivery direct but full of pain.
Stiles always wondered what it felt like when the werewolves would get gutted in a fight.
Now he knows.
His dad would have done less damage to him if he’d stuck his hand through Stiles’ chest and ripped out his heart.
As it stands, it’s still inside him but it’s hammering with adrenaline and panic. It feels like it’s going to explode with this instant and crushing weight of grief, the realisation that nothing is going to be the same ever again.
The realisation that Derek is the one who is gone.
Stiles takes the deepest breath he can manage and he closes his eyes against the hot sting of tears. He bites his lip hard to stop the scream threatening to explode from inside him, tasting the coppery tang of blood between his teeth.
He counts to twenty.
Through all the scenarios that went through his mind tonight, he’d never even entertained that they would lose Derek.
Derek was supposed to be staying on the sidelines, because of Eli, that’s what Scott had told him. That was their plan.
Derek always survived, that’s what Derek does. Survives.
Until now apparently. That self sacrificing asshole.
Stiles doesn’t even need any more information to know that Derek’s clearly done something stupid and selfless.
“Stiles?” His dad asks gently. “Everyone else is ok here. I know what Derek meant to you Son. Do you need me to…”
“I’ll be there tomorrow. I’m sorry Dad, I’ve really got to go,” Stiles garbles out the words, cutting him off and he hangs up.
Strangely, it doesn’t even matter to him now if the Nogitsune is still there or not, if the others succeeded.
The fear that kept him away when Scott told him about the shitstorm they were in, the reason they were all going back, that terror is gone from him.
The funny thing is, Stiles always thought that the most awful thing that could ever happen to him was being repossessed by that bastard. It was so horrendous, so traumatising the first time around, something he carries daily. The main reason why he couldn’t go back now.
Turns out, he was wrong about that though.
He’s realises he’s finally free from what he’d mistakenly thought was his ultimate fear.
Because Derek dying is so much fucking worse.
—————
If you ask him in the future, he’ll say the day following that call was a blur.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes, and didn’t Dickinson get that spot on, he thinks.
He’d booked and caught a flight getting him as close to Beacon Hills as possible the next morning. He managed to somehow muddle through sorting out a car rental at the airport and then he’d driven right through the next day until he’d found himself sitting outside his dad’s house around five, hands an iron grip at ten and two on the steering wheel.
He’s there for a good ten minutes before he sees the porch light flick on automatically even though it’s still light out, a dull yellow against the early evening grey light, and the curtain twitches.
His dad opens the door of the house and walks down the driveway, opens the passenger side door of Stiles’ rental and he gets in beside him.
He moves Stiles’ hoody off the seat first, clutches the material in his lap and the Sheriff looks around the tiny car curiously. He pushes a few buttons, leans over and flicks the wipers on and then off again, humming thoughtfully. Stiles lets him do his Dad stuff and he keeps staring out of the front window, still clutching the wheel.
Stiles doesn’t really know what to say.
“This is the smallest car I think I’ve ever seen. What is it? And why the hell is it canary yellow?” His dad mutters, poking at the glovebox now.
“It’s a Chevrolet Spark, Dad. It’s all they had left,” Stiles looks sideways at him, unable to stop the tears from streaming down his face.
The Sheriff’s look of sympathy nearly ruins him.
“Ah. Come here kid,” His dad leans over and grips him into a weird, cramped hug, the best he can manage in the tiny car.
His dad holds onto him hard as he shakes, like he’s afraid to let go of him. It’s grounding, it drags him back and it’s the most present Stiles has felt since the day previous.
Stiles breaks like cheap china at his dad’s firm touch and he sobs into his shoulder, Stiles’ whole body juddering with the force of it. It’s long minutes before Stiles stops shaking long enough to sit back and he wipes at his face with his sleeve.
The pitying look on his dad’s face nearly sets him off again but he rallies and composes himself. He needs to get a grip.
Derek would have banged his head off the steering wheel of this crappy tiny car if he could see him now.
“Do you want to come inside? I made your old room up. I can call Scott and he can tell you what happened, if you want to know?” John asks tentatively.
“Yeah. Ok. I’ll just put the car under the port,” Stiles presses the button to start it and nothing happens. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong with it?” John frowns.
“No clue. I stopped to charge it a few times on the drive down but it’s given up on me,” Stiles huffs.
“Jesus kid. This is Beacon Hills. They don’t even know what an electric car is, let alone have any charging stations. Tell me it’s at least a hybrid?” John chuckles.
“Nope,” Stiles pops the P.
“Of course not. Well. Look on the brightside, you made it down here,” John gets out and encourages Stiles to do the same.
“Is that a joke because it’s yellow?” Stiles chuckles then his stomach drops out, because he remembers Derek’s dead and his laughter feels shameful and sour.
His dad notices the change, but continues regardless, bless him.
“No. I was actually just thinking that Scott can probably pick it up when he gets here. Literally, he can pick it up with his bare hands and he can pop it under the car port for you,” John smiles softly at him.
It’s a great smile, one that says “It’s ok” and “I’m here and I’ve got you”.
“I’m never living this down am I?” Stiles sighs, grabs his bag and follows his father up the steps to the porch.
“Probably not kid,” His dad opens the front door. “Go take a shower and change into something more comfy than that wrinkled suit. I’ll give Scott a call. Let him know you’re here.”
“Ok Pops,” Stiles heads for the stairs, so tired he’s on autopilot.
“Oh, and Son?” John calls after him.
“Yeah?” Stiles turns back, foot paused on the bottom step.
“Just a heads up. Eli’s in the guest room. He’s going to be staying here for a bit,” his dad keeps his own face carefully blank.
“Oh,” Stiles says neutrally, surprised and not at all surprised at the same time.
His dad is the safest haven Stiles has ever known. He’s the embodiment of stability.
Makes sense that he’d brought Eli to their house.
Stiles has never even met the kid but his dad talks about him all the time. It makes sense.
Stiles repeats that like a mantra as he walks past the closed door of their spare room and he shuts himself in the bathroom, breath coming faster and faster.
Makes sense. It all makes sense.
Except it’s not true.
He sits on the floor of the shower and he cries, hot water pounding down on his head until his dad comes in and makes him get out, wrapping him in a towel like he’s a child.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
——————
He falls asleep in his towel after he’s scarfed down a sandwich, face down on his old bed until Scott arrives and wakes him up.
“How long was I out?” Stiles mumbles, pushing himself into a sitting position.
Scott is sat in Stiles’ old desk chair and he looks completely exhausted.
“Your dad said you fell asleep about an hour ago. Sorry I took so long to get here man. Had to take Allison back to Mr. Argent’s house,” Scott explains.
“Wow. Deja vu or what? Ditching me for Allison, uncool bro,” Stiles jokes, but it feels flat. “She’s really back then?”
Scott has kept him updated all week, he’d had numerous video calls with him and Lydia on their progress.
The only thing he’d missed was the last night. The most important night.
“Yeah looks like,” Scott sighs. “It’s going to take some time but she knows who I am. What we were to each other before. I think.”
“That’s really great man,” Stiles nods, mostly means it.
“Do you want me to tell you what happened?” Scott offers.
Stiles nods slowly and Scott starts talking, doesn’t stop until he’s covered it all. He doesn’t make it flowery or pretty, he just gives him the facts and Stiles appreciates that.
Scott doesn’t say that Derek was brave or how he saved them all without even giving it a second thought, how he put himself in harms way as usual, to protect his friends, his son.
Stiles reads all that between the lines anyway.
Stiles pukes into his rubbish bin when Scott finishes and Scott rubs his back sympathetically.
“Can you take me there?” Stiles rubs the back of his hand across his mouth when he’s done.
“I figured you were going to say that,” Scott sighs. “Get dressed then. Brush your teeth, you stink. We’ll take my car and not your babybell on wheels out there.”
“Fuck you dude,” Stiles punches Scott’s arm.
Scott smiles at him, crooked, and it’s half grief, half relief.
————————
Scott leaves him alone only when Lydia arrives at the site of the Nemeton.
The sun is finally just dying on the clearing, blood orange light sprinkled over the patch of dirt and sparse sprouts of grass where Stiles is sitting crossed legged on the ground there.
When he and Scott had got there, he’d sat down before he fell down, when he’d seen the stump of the old tree, the site of Derek’s departure. Scott had just sat with him for a bit, quiet, until Lydia’s car had approached.
“Call me tomorrow bro?” Scott punches his shoulder as he leaves.
Stiles feels a twinge of what he knows is unreasonable anger at his friends fortune, at having Allison back when Derek’s… Well. Yeah. Like he said. He knows it’s unreasonable. It’s the grief talking.
Stiles isn’t sure he’s going to survive tonight, the pain he’s in is unreal, unexpected. He doesn’t reply to Scott, can’t explain what’s going on inside him, just watches him go instead.
Lydia takes Scott’s place beside him and despite her very obvious designer beige pants suit, she sits crossed legged right there in the dirt.
“I always hated that damned tree,” she says after long moments, both of them still staring ahead.
Stiles snorts.
“Me too,” Stiles agrees.
“I didn’t tell the others that we broke up a few months back, just so you know,” Lydia segues, matter of fact. “Thought you could tell them.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?” Truthfully, Stiles doesn’t know if he even has room for this right now.
“I didn’t know what to say to them to be honest,” Lydia offers.
“That we were always fighting? That we quit on each other,” Stiles says, definitely too bluntly. “That we barely could be bothered to have sex anymore?”
“Don’t be a child. I love you Stiles. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. But I know you. I know you. Don’t forget that. I know that it was never meant to be me,” Lydia frowns at the side of his face. “I’m a practical person, but I don’t think love is meant to be that difficult to keep alive. You’re meant to feel it, heating your insides, always. Slow burning fire, or a consuming flame, maybe a mix of both. But either way. You’re meant to fucking feel it. I don’t feel that for you. And I know you don’t feel like that either, never did. Not about me.”
He can’t bring himself to look at her, hating what she’s implying, sick from the truth of it.
He takes her hand, squeezes too tight.
“I’m sorry Lydia. For what it’s worth. I didn’t know that I didn’t have anything to give you,” Stiles says honestly. “I thought I loved you. I do love you. Just not… Fuck it.”
“You gave me plenty. I don’t have any regrets about us,” Lydia tuts then she pauses thoughtfully. “I’m so sorry about Derek, Stiles.”
“I didn’t realise,” Stiles confesses softly. “I didn’t know how I felt. Not until you and I broke up really. Not until this. Until he, you know…”
He trails off, waving a hand in the air, because he can’t even say it.
He doesn’t deserve to. He didn’t have the balls to say it to Derek, why should he get to relieve himself of that burden now.
Lydia stands up, dusts off her butt and kisses the top of his head.
“I know. Look, I’ve got to go. The Sheriff has asked me to sit with Eli while he works tonight. That kid’s a liability, you’re going to really like him. He’s way worse than you, Scott or even Liam ever were,” Lydia huffs.
“I’m sure I will. Scott drove me, but I can walk back in a bit,” Stiles says, looking up at her.
“Not in the state you’re in,” Lydia scolds. “I already text Parrish to pick you up at ten. You’ve got an hour or so. To say what you need here.”
“Tell Parrish I’ll walk. Seriously. I’m not ready to see him,” Stiles says cooly.
Lydia winces.
“That’s not fair Stiles. You know it’s not his fault. He’s really upset about this too,” Lydia scolds. “We all loved Derek.”
Stiles doesn’t really care about fair right now, so he just shrugs, feeling fiercely defensive over his loss.
“Right. I’ll text him, tell him not to come. Do me a favour though? Get your head out of your ass. We were here and we had to make the shit decisions,” Lydia tells him. “You don’t get to punish anyone else for that, not when we’re all hurting too. It was Derek’s choice. Not Parrish’s, not anyone else’s. Derek’s.”
She leaves at that and Stiles is pissed, because Lydia is right. Of course she is. And he knows that her pointing out that they were all there when he wasn’t is meant to remind him to be reasonable, not hurt him, but it still stings.
Because isn’t that the truth of the matter. He should have been there.
It’s quiet when the sound of Lydia’s car leaving recedes, leaving just Stiles and the stump of the Nemeton. Well, Stiles, the stump and the crushing weight of Derek’s absence.
It gets dark quickly.
Stiles finally manages to stand up and he walks to the silent tree stump. He leans on it’s flat top, two palms pressed against the charred wood and he can feel it singing under him, familiar, greeting him. Still alive.
His tears flow easily now, dripping down onto the backs of his hands, soaking into the wood and he’s suddenly furiously angry.
He climbs on the stump and stomps his feet, tantrum worthy of a two year old and he screams.
“FUCKER! Fuck you, you stupid fucking tree!” he yells.
It’s ridiculous. The Nogitsune is the reason Derek is gone, not the Nemeton. But it makes him feel a smidge bit better, just for a second.
The stars shine down cheerily on him, completely disinterested in his performance, night sky clear.
It’s a beautiful night and that makes everything so much worse. He thinks it’s odd how something can matter so much to a single person, like he feels like he’s literally breaking apart, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s irrelevant really. There’s probably millions of people breaking apart under this same sky. It doesn’t bring him any comfort.
His pain doesn’t feel irrelevant to him.
He cries and he shouts for a bit more, until he feels exhausted, wrung out, empty. That’s somehow scarier than the rage.
He hasn’t seen Derek in nearly a year, but now he’s actually gone, it’s like everything’s amplified, everything’s clearer.
What a cruel gift, he thinks.
He jumps down and he slams his palms flat against the tree again. He does it again and again, wanting it to hurt, wanting to feel something, anything other than the emptiness, the meaningless void that’s setting in.
He wonders how much pain Derek felt at the end, when Parrish was forced to burn him up alongside the Nogitsune.
His punches the Nemeton instead when it doesn’t hurt enough, and he can feel small splinters digging into his knuckles as they make contact, small pricks of blood forming, so he does it again.
He stops before he breaks his hand, the little blood stains dark and accusing against the tan of the tree rings, lit up by the bright moon.
Stiles glances up. The full moon, he amends.
He stands back and he knows he’s going to have to head home soon, it’s getting colder.
He looks around once more, feeling absolutely lost, looking for a way to bring closure, finding nothing much.
He sees a patch of purple lupine flowers and he thinks they’re fitting, so he plucks one and goes back to the tree.
He lays it on the stump.
“I should have been here,” he says out loud. “You probably still would have done what you did, you always were a self sacrificing bastard. I’m sorry I wasn’t here though. I just… fuck. Der.”
He’s crying again. Sobbing actually this time.
He braces his hands on the stump for the last time, palms flat against the wood, trying to compose himself, to say what’s important.
What he should have said when Derek was alive.
“I know you needed me Derek. I was too afraid,” Stiles knows he doesn’t just mean at the end either. “I just didn’t know how much I needed you too. You were mine Derek. I didn’t know. I’ll carry that forever. You are mine. Fuck. I wish you were here. I wish I could have you back.”
He feels a little nauseous now, the Nemeton’s hold and power over him still very present, even when it’s dormant, it responds to him, thrums under him.
Stiles hangs his head, defeated, engulfed in the raw grief.
He forces himself to walk away, maybe gets ten metres before the clearing lights up, fire at the back of his neck, driving him to knees.
He spins around, terrified, to see the stump blazing, flames reaching into the sky, angry, full of power.
He hears the almighty crack as the Nemeton splits itself open and he thinks that something has gone wrong and the Nogitsune is back.
A part of him wants it, wants to unleash all that rage he has. Or it can take him too if it wants, then he can be at peace from this suffering. Either way, he’s not afraid now.
Stiles shields his eyes as the fire dies out and he has to squint, but there, clear as anything in the moonlight is a body laying curled up on the half broken stump.
It’s smudged with soot, backlit by smoke. It’s naked, pale and there’s dark hair covering parts of it, and it’s definitely alive judging by the groaning. What in the name of Buffy and Angel is going on now?
Stiles runs over, his body working faster than his mind, his heart threatening to punch out of his chest.
He stops in front of the figure.
“Derek?” Stiles knows his own eyes are wide, terrified. Wonders for a moment if the Nemeton has taken him, because this can’t actually be real.
Derek sits up, blinks, coughs up black soot from his lungs, eyes burning a true Alpha red.
“Stiles?” He chokes out. Then he smiles at him in recognition. Beautiful. Soft. Just for Stiles. “Took your time, you idiot.”
Stiles doesn’t know how he makes his legs move but they do, because now he’s sure this is real.
He scrambles up onto the stump, until he’s got Derek gripped in the tightest hug he’s ever given, one hand palming the back of Derek’s head as he buries his face in Derek’s neck.
Derek strokes his back, consoles him, as if Stiles was the one that had been gone.
Stiles pulls back, grips Derek’s shoulders, eyes roaming him looking for injury, but seeing nothing obvious.
Stiles looks down at his own blood smudges on the broken tree, his own tear stains. He can feel the moon’s energy bearing down on them and maybe all that shit wasn’t so irrelevant after all.
He looks into Derek’s eyes, still burning true Alpha red, feels the power circulating around and between them and he puts it all together.
Fucking Beacon hills.
Stiles throws his head back and laughs, hysterically grateful.
“Thanks,” Stiles taps the tree.
“Don’t thank it. I told Parrish to light us up and next thing I knew, I was stuck under this stupid tree again. Burnt to Peter levels of crispness. Mostly dead. No way out this time. Sealed in,” Derek winces. “Until I heard your voice, I was losing hope.”
“This tree is a fucking asshole,” Stiles frowns. “But it saved you, ultimately.”
“You saved me. The tree let me come back, I suppose,” Derek allows.
“It wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t forced it to. I think your true Alpha power might have also helped things along,” Stiles counters.
“Maybe,” Derek agrees, then his voice gets lighter. “I’m starving. And naked. And you’re still holding my hand.”
“So. Listen. Forget that a minute. I’m sort of in love with you,” Stiles blurts before he can swallow the words back down, like he’s done for the past fourteen years. Ever since he’d laid eyes on Derek, if he’s truthful. “I should have come back when you needed me. I’m so sorry for that. I was scared. Of the Nogitsune and you, and all of it really. But when I thought you’d died… Christ, Derek. I think I just about died too. Yeah, I’m totally in love with you. Tough titties if you don’t like it. Have been forever. Lydia and I broke up months ago and you seriously don’t have to do anything with that, I promise that’s not why I’m telling you this. I just can’t go back knowing I didn’t get a chance to say it. Don’t kill me. I’m finished now. I love you. I’ll stop saying it. Sorry. I’m not sorry actually. Thanks for coming to my Ted talk.”
Derek’s quiet for long, torturous moments, face infuriatingly blank.
“Right. Well this is very humiliating, but not unexpected,” Stiles mutters, cheeks red. “Come on then, I’ll give you my jumper to cover your junk and we can go back to my dad’s and get some dinner.”
Stiles gets up and he starts to walk off. His heart is light. He can live with rejection, as long as Derek’s alive.
“I kept your jeep,” Derek says softly.
Stiles turns back as Derek stands up, fights to keeps his eyes on Derek’s face.
“Eli keeps stealing it because he knows it drives me insane. I kept it running. For when you came back,” Derek continues, walking toward him.
“Oh. So that means…” Stiles is shaking now, and it’s got nothing to do with the cold.
Derek places both hands on his face and leans in slowly, kisses him soft but firm, lets Stiles melt into him. He tastes like ash, salt and life. Stiles is addicted instantly.
Derek pulls back after a long moment but holds onto Stiles’ arms, which is a good thing because his legs are jelly.
Derek puts his forehead against Stiles’.
“It means I kept it running for when you came back to me. It means it’s always been you. It means I love you too,” Derek’s breath tickles his face.
Stiles’ cheeks hurt he’s grinning so hard. Derek rolls his eyes as if he can’t believe how dumb Stiles is, the gesture so familiar it makes Stiles’ blood sing happily.
“But you think I’m an idiot,” Stiles laughs.
“So? You think I’m an asshole. I knew I had feelings for you when I started to think all your flailing about was attractive,” Derek pulls a disgusted face at himself.
“Dick! I don’t flail!” Stiles flails and accidentally headbutts Derek.
“I’m going to go back into the tree,” Derek pretends to turn away but Stiles yanks him back by the wrist, and this time, the kiss isn’t slow.
It’s hot, open mouthed, desperate, apologetic and painfully hopeful all at the same time.
Derek’s growling reverberates from where his lips are pressed against Stiles’ skin, increasing as he moves from his mouth to graze his sharp teeth against the delicate skin on Stiles’ neck, biting him. Stiles groans and he clutches Derek even tighter. Derek gets his hands under Stiles’ shirt, grips Stiles’ skin in his hands like he never wants to let him go. It’s fucking perfect.
“You’re mine,” Stiles finally pulls back to breathe, whispers the important words against Derek’s lips. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realise. I’m sorry you almost died.”
“I could have said something too. I didn’t. You came back,” Derek grumps, with a casual shrug. “That’s the only part that means something Stiles. Forget the rest.”
“You got wise,” Stiles hums, stroking Derek’s hair. “And a little grey at the temples.”
“Shut up. I’m not all that wise. I’m thinking about tackling you to the ground and licking you all over, making you smell like me, rather than going to tell everyone I’m ok,” Derek’s smile drops in sudden realisation. “Eli. Is he ok? I need to see him.”
“He’s with Lydia,” Stiles’ cheeks are burning at how much he wants Derek but it’s going to have to wait. They’ve hopefully got some time. “Come on. Shelve the licking. Let’s go put everyone out of their misery.”
“Everyone’s miserable?” Derek looks smug.
“You can’t possibly be pleased about that, you weirdo. You are! I can tell. I knew you sacrificed yourself for attention. You’re such a dick,” Stiles gives him a playful shove.
Derek laughs loudly and something settles deep inside Stiles, something inside him shifting back into place.
Seeing Derek alive, smile on his face, Stiles feels like he can breathe easy again.
That fire that Lydia was talking about, what love is supposed to feel like?
He’d always simmered for Derek. Now he can feel it racing across his skin, burying in, cementing itself in his very bones, permanent, tattooing his heart.
He knows that he and Derek will have a lot to work out. But that all feels easy now, small sacrifices to make, if Derek’s ok.
Grief is a funny thing. First she gives you blinding pain. Then she gives you startling clarity, all that hurt boiling down, allowing you to see straight through all the bullshit. Yes. She takes something from you, but in it’s place, she leaves you with a consolation gift. You are left with a useless power to identify what’s important in life.
Useless, sadly, because usually it’s too late to do anything with that gift, because the person you want to use it on is gone. You’re left with regret.
Stiles knows he’s damned lucky, because he’s seeing clearer than ever. He’s determined not to have any regrets, not with Derek. This is Beacon hills and it’s a weird fucking place. But it’s his weird fucking place.
Stiles takes Derek’s hand.
“Come on then Sourwolf. Let’s go home.”
————————