Chapter Text
It’s quiet now that the others are gone. Derek tells himself that he doesn’t notice. That he doesn’t care.
He has a routine. Waking up, shower, breakfast, and then running. For hours sometimes, and never the same direction twice. He never sees anyone and Derek is grateful for that. He doesn’t drive anywhere these days, never goes into town, but the thought of running into another person out here is particularly unsettling. Unnatural.
He’ll run until he’s exhausted, and then push a little further just to be sure. Go home and collapse onto the bed. Try to keep his mind turned off. Sleep. Wake up and repeat.
This is Derek’s life now and he can see no end to it.
- - -
It starts as a flicker at the corner of his eye. Full stop, body rigid, he takes in his surroundings. Nothing but the forest and birds and insects and afternoon sun. He doesn’t actually feel anything and isn’t sure what he was expecting, but the… absence of something is disconcerting.
There’s nothing here. He’s certain of that. So he pushes the thought aside, like so many others, and runs even harder.
But then - every few days, and then every day, and now every few hours, when he’s running and his eyes are unfocused, there’s something there, always on the periphery.
The flicker becomes a shadow, and then that shadow takes form, and gets closer and closer. Until one morning Derek recognizes the shape. He doesn’t show surprise, doesn’t betray his emotions, even as his heart clenches and his mind stutters. He keeps running, eyes forward.
- -
He is not chasing shadows.
He catches himself edging off course and immediately corrects himself. His instinct is to follow but he refuses.
Derek tried, for the sake of his sanity more than any real hope, he stretched his senses to their limit only to find nothing. Even stopping and staring, blatant, did nothing; the form was always gone in a moment. So now he ignores it, ignores everything but the pull of his muscles and the gasp of his lungs.
He refuses to look for it because it isn’t really there.
- - -
Everything is simpler since the pack left. Straightforward. Every day exactly like the last. No responsibilities. No more knowing looks.
He was always going to end up like this, Derek knows.
He misses everyone. He doesn’t think of them much, wonder where they are or what they’re doing, but there are moments of passing thought. He’s their Alpha, and the need to worry will never completely pass.
Still, life on his own has come easy. He was prepared for it, but didn’t expect everything to seem effortless. His days are his own, his routine is his own, the tracks in the dirt are his own. He knows that when he goes downstairs he will find a bowl in the sink and muddy shoes by the door. He is the only one making an impact on this house.
Until he isn’t.
It begins with sounds around the house, often when he’s trying to sleep. A single footstep in the hallway, a whisper in the kitchen, the crunch of leaves beyond the porch. There may be sounds in the woods as well, but when he’s running he’s too busy ignoring the other thing to notice much else.
What matters, he tells himself, is that he doesn’t engage. It could be loneliness or isolation or, most likely, guilt. But he will not encourage this.
- - -
Sleep is beyond him this morning. The sun isn’t up yet, the sky is just beginning to turn pink, and usually he wouldn’t be up for another hour but he’s tired of staring at the ceiling.
Frustrated, admitting defeat, he gets up. Doesn’t shower, doesn’t eat. Just changes and goes out to run.
It’s colder than he expected but Derek tries to ignore it. He’s ignoring other things as well, until he’s a few miles from the house and suddenly realizes that there’s nothing there to ignore. He slows, looking left and right, squinting into the dim forest. No, nothing. Not even a flicker.
Derek can’t see him anymore.
He stands uncertainly for a while, no longer needing to run but not ready to face the empty house. He has a routine. He should follow it. This was a phase, probably unavoidable, but it’s over now and he can get back to how he was before.
So he runs. Further than ever, miles and miles away. His clothes were already damp from the morning mist and now his pants are soaked from crossing a river. The sun is high in the sky but offering little warmth. His body has moments of rebellion, trembling hands or clenched jaw. He keeps looking before he means to, gets thoughts into his head that he shouldn’t allow.
But he always catches himself and always stops. Refuses to make this into something it can’t possibly be.
He turns and runs home, determined to keep going. He’s wet and cold and exhausted, as he intended, and when he’s crawling into bed he’s sure that he won’t have the energy to think about anything. Wake up, start a new day, shower, breakfast, run, sleep, repeat.
Derek is actually grateful to get home. He hadn’t realized just how far away he was until he was tired and fed up, and the run home had felt good in a new way, like he was running toward something for a change.
He lets the door swing open with a satisfying bang, leaves muddy prints in the entrance before toeing off his shoes. He’s about to run up the stairs just for the sound of it, enjoying leaving his mark on the house, when a smell from the kitchen catches his attention.
His muscles are tense and his claws are sliding out, full attack mode, as he strides into the kitchen and finds… nothing. Nothing dangerous, anyhow. The light is on, despite him skipping breakfast this morning, the window is open to let the afternoon breeze in, even though he had shut it yesterday. And on the stove is a simmering pot of soup.
Derek glances at the trash can and sees the telltale empty soup can.
Derek looks down at his own clothes, just to be absolutely certain.
Some emotion is curling in his stomach and he can’t even identify it.
Derek did not do this. His own mind is currently unreliable, but he has muddy shoes and wet clothes as proof. He hasn’t been here for hours, hasn’t been in the kitchen since yesterday.
Derek did not do this.
And if he didn’t… His breath is coming quicker now, he has to fight a yearning whine at the back of his throat. There isn’t the scent of another, no sign of an intruder. And his pack has no reason to hide.
Derek has ignored him, has run from him, but now he’s confronted with evidence, with something tangible, and… And that wasn’t something that he had anticipated, that… this wasn’t just in his head.
Derek looks around desperately, starts listening for the slightest sound. But he’s alone. He inspects the entire house, basement to attic, and finds nothing. Not a trace.
He’s alone, and it hurts.
But he can’t give up. Derek owes him that much. So he goes outside and looks around, stands still and hopes for a shadow. Nothing.
He opens his mouth and falters. There’s no one around, nothing to be embarrassed about, but speaking feels like an acknowledgement. Like hope that he can’t afford.
Still… If there’s a chance…
He’s speaking before he realizes it, loud and uncertain. “Stiles?”
Nothing. Of course. But his chest loosens and his nerves tingle and he’s trying, again and again, louder and louder, always kind and never panicked.
And always his name. “Stiles!”
- - -
He hadn’t expected to sleep, he planned to sit on the couch and wait, but it seems that he blinks and suddenly it’s morning. He’s stretched out, a blanket from the hall closet covering him and his face smushed into a pillow from his bed.
Derek pulls the blanket to his nose and takes a cautious sniff, already knowing that there’s no one else to smell. He sighs and stares at the floor instead of getting up. He should be out by now. Maintaining a routine could help, in case he really is losing his mind.
Doesn’t seem like it though. These small gestures feel like Stiles.
Stiles.
Derek thinks of him, and for the first time in a long while, he’s not frowning. He’s biting back a grin.
Stiles is back.
- - -
Derek does return to his routine, but it doesn’t feel necessary anymore. It’s just a schedule he keeps to pass the time and to make himself predictable. Accessible. He will let Stiles come to him in his own time.
Derek sees him sometimes, relishes the details he can now make out - blue hoodie, worn jeans - but keeps going.
And Stiles makes his presence known in other ways. The bed is always made when Derek returns. There is often lunch waiting in the fridge or on the stove. Once, he tracks mud everywhere as he goes upstairs to change - and five minutes later he comes down to a spotless floor, cleaned without a sound.
Once, just once, noise wakes him in the middle of the night. Footsteps downstairs - the steps of two people crossing the living room.
Derek jumps out of bed and races downstairs, uncertain. No one is there, he can’t hear anything, he stands in the dark and tries to focus and only manages to work himself into a mild panic. And he doesn’t know why.
After waiting half an hour for a threat that never shows itself, Derek retreats to his bedroom. Leaves the bedside light on and stares at the ceiling. Slowly rubs the fabric of his sheets and distracts himself with the thought of Stiles. Wonders what he does when Derek isn’t around. Wonders where he is right now.
Maybe it’s best not to know. This won’t end well. Derek understands that.
- - -
It takes weeks, but Derek finally sees Stiles inside the house. Not just a flicker or a blur of movement. It’s Stiles, walking away, down the hallway and toward the stairs, unaware of Derek staring from the bedroom doorway. Derek can’t quite manage to speak, he’s too busy rushing forward to think, but in the moment between Stiles descending the steps and Derek reaching them, Derek loses sight of him and he’s gone. He checks downstairs even though it’s hopeless, he’s used to it now, but checks just the same.
The next morning there’s bacon sizzling in a pan and toast waiting on his plate, the butter still melting. Derek helps himself to three strips of bacon, thinks he’ll keep the rest for a sandwich that afternoon, and starts to eat with enthusiasm. The weirdness of their current lifestyle will not keep Derek from enjoying Stiles’ cooking.
Looking up mid-chew and seeing Stiles standing beside him, though, that’ll do it.
Derek nearly chokes, forces himself to swallow, and keeps looking up at him, won’t even allow himself to blink.
Stiles is here.
“Stiles.”
“Holy shit, you can see me?!”
God, Stiles is speaking.
“Stiles.” He’s stumbling up out of his chair and rushing forward as Stiles does the same with a disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, man, you have no idea--” He sounds relieved. Derek can relate. Stiles reaches out without thinking and tries to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Instead, his entire arm slides through Derek’s chest with a strange crackle. They both look down then back up. “Oh. That’s-- Right. I should’ve expected that.”
Derek knows he should speak but he’s never known the right things to say. And now, when it really matters, he doesn’t want to screw anything up.
Stiles looks embarrassed. Retracts his hand and shakes it a little. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Stiles laughs again. “Yeah, sure.”
“Stiles.”
Stiles grins. “Yeah?”
Oh. Derek didn’t have a point, really. He just wanted to say his name. He stares for a moment and tries to think of something to say. What comes out is: “Stay.”
And they both look like they’ve been punched in the gut. Derek wonders if he’s been alone too long, if all his internal walls have fallen down. Standing here with Stiles, talking with Stiles, he can’t seem to care.
“Derek,” Stiles says gently, “I can’t. It’s… difficult. But I am coming back, okay? I’m impossible to get rid of, you know that.”
Derek manages an insincere smile. “Yeah.”
“You should eat. Your food is getting cold.”
If Stiles thinks that Derek gives a damn about food right now… But he has this look, like it’s important. So Derek just rolls his eyes and grunts in annoyance, unable to hold back a smirk because it’s all so familiar and he missed this, and resumes his breakfast.
The rest of their conversation is small talk. Derek isn’t hungry and doesn’t want to waste their time with breakfast but he’ll do what Stiles asked, even if he can’t seem to stop staring. Stiles asks how the food is, shows strange interest in Derek’s well-stocked fridge, wonders if there are any special dishes he can try next.
“I like chili,” Derek suggests cautiously.
“Yeah? Got any ground beef?”
Derek shrugs. “Probably. In the freezer.”
“Peppers?”
“I have some on the top shelf.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”
“I do know how to cook, Stiles. Who do you think fed me before you showed up?”
“Precisely.” Stiles sounds exasperated. “You cook, but you don’t--”
Derek blinked. That’s all he did, he blinked as Stiles was talking and now Stiles was gone, mid-sentence.
At first he can only stare at the spot where Stiles had been, alarm and dread rising up. He was here, Stiles had been here and now he wasn’t and Derek is sure this is somehow his fault.
He’s also sure that he can’t cope with this. He slams his fist onto the table and watches his fork go flying across the kitchen. He glances at it, at the half-eaten breakfast on his plate, at where Stiles was.
He can’t do this. He can’t get this upset every time, he’ll go nuts. And this will happen again. Stiles had said so.
Derek doesn’t clean his mess. He leaves it as evidence of their talk, of finally having Stiles back, and goes out for his daily run.
When he comes back, the kitchen is spotless. In the fridge is a BLT and a pitcher of lemonade.
- - -
Early the next morning Derek hears someone outside his bedroom door. He looks out but sees no one. He trudges down the hall, uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth, and comes out to find Stiles leaning against the wall.
Derek smiles and runs a hand through his hair, feeling strangely warm and shy. “Morning.”
“…Morning.” There’s something on Stiles’ mind.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Derek nods, scratches his side. “I should change. You, uh, you’ll be downstairs?”
Stiles nods. “Yeah.”
It’s not that Derek doesn’t believe him, it’s just that something feels off and he doesn’t like it. Whatever they’re doing is too new. Too much could go wrong. He grabs the first clothes he finds and hurries downstairs. Stiles is standing next to the table, cereal and milk and a peeled orange already set out.
“Thanks.”
Stiles nods, distracted, smiling faintly but most looking around like he’s trying to sort his thoughts.
“Stiles?”
“Huh?”
“What’s wrong?”
Stiles frowns. “What? Nothing. Why?”
“You just seem…” Derek gestures vaguely.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” This is ridiculous. Derek doesn’t expect much time with Stiles. This is not how he wants to spend it. But pushing any further means bringing up certain topics that he doubts either of them are prepared for.
But, it’s Stiles. And if that’s what Stiles needs-- “We can talk.”
“We are talking.”
Derek huffs and starts pouring milk over his raisin bran. “I meant about the important stuff. If you want--”
“Are you-- Is this--” Stiles interrupts himself with a flail, then suddenly calms and pinches his nose. Derek suspects he’s counting to ten to compose himself. Finally, Stiles sighs and looks at him. “Eat your cereal. Go for your run. I’ll try to be here for lunch, okay?” He walks out of the kitchen and the sound of his steps ends somewhere near the front door.
- - -
Stiles didn’t come back that day. Or the next. Derek knows that Stiles didn’t break a promise, that he had only said he would try, but he has been gone for two days and Derek doesn’t like it. He stays close, changing his run to tight circuits around the house. He tries to eat but doesn’t have much of an appetite for his own cooking. While showering he gets the water as hot and then as cold as it can go, trying to shock his body as a distraction. It doesn’t work. He just crawls into bed feeling tight and wound up and achy.
Derek hadn’t felt much of anything in the months before Stiles reappeared, mostly because he wouldn’t let himself. Now he wonders if that was a mistake, because he feels ill-equipped to handle the stress seeping into his bones.
- - -
At some point he falls asleep, only to be woken by someone pacing the floor downstairs. Derek knows those footsteps but he’s not okay until he races down and into the living room and actually sees Stiles.
Stiles stops mid-pace and turns with a grin that fades at the sight of him. “You just woke up.” A statement, not a question.
“Were you waiting?” Stiles rolls his eyes and it’s such a stupid thing to warm Derek’s heart but he doesn’t care.
“I made cookies to pass the time.”
Surprised, Derek sniffs the air. He can smell them in the kitchen - it’s a little disconcerting to be unaware of his surroundings, but Stiles has long had this effect on him so he shrugs it off and walks to the kitchen, slowly until he’s certain that Stiles is following.
The cookies are piled on a platter, one short of a dozen. Stiles must follow his eyes because he shrugs and says, “One dropped on the floor.”
And he did a very thorough job of cleaning up the crumbs - the kitchen is spotless. Derek didn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like hours that were wasted on sleep. Stiles was here and he didn’t notice.
Make the best of it, he reminds himself. “Thanks for this. These are my favorite.”
“I know,” Stiles smiles.
“You did?” Derek is touched, actually. No one else makes gestures like this, not for him.
“Yep. Well… Eat up.” Stiles is walking past him and suddenly Derek is anxious and floundering internally as he tries to suppress it.
“Where are you going?” He didn’t expect his voice to sound so gruff and demanding.
Stiles raises an eyebrow and gestures at the fridge. “Milk. For the cookies? Problem?”
“I…” Just try, he decides, and manages the words, “I thought you were leaving.”
Stiles stills for a moment before pulling open the refrigerator door and reaching far back for the milk. “Me? Nope. Not yet, anyway.“
“Before--” He wants… something. But Derek’s not even sure what’s possible now, so maybe there’s no point?
“Derek?”
He looks up from his half-eaten cookie and tries to push his thoughts away to focus on Stiles. Stiles, who is standing with the milk carton in hand and clearly trying not to fidget. “Yeah?”
“Look, I know this is… weird. Or whatever a stronger word than weird is. That’s what this is. I know, okay?” Stiles busies himself with taking a glass from the drying rack and pouring the milk. “And weird is…” He shifts uncomfortably and hands the glass to Derek, mostly just looking at the floor.
Derek ducks his head to gets Stiles’ attention and when their eyes meet he turns on his best smirk. “‘Weird’ happens to us all the time.”
Stiles looks startled and a little… well, his skin would have that delicious flush right now if it were possible. Derek wants to build on that, is grateful for the distraction, but Stiles shakes his head to focus and gives him a Look. “Be serious.”
“Always,” Derek promises.
Stiles snorts. “I’m trying to make a point.” He smiles, soft and kind, but his eyes are serious. “And my point is that this is different. Okay? And maybe this isn’t what you need right now.”
“Cookies?” Derek jokes.
“Me,” Stiles responds evenly.
Silence falls between them.
“…Stiles,” Derek says firmly, “no.” He tosses the last of his cookie onto the table and steps close, into Stiles’ personal space. He wants to… This should be so simple, and… He wants to growl with frustration, as Stiles just patiently gazes up at him, and he reaches out to grab Stiles by the shoulders but remembers at the last moment and instead leaves his hands hanging awkwardly on either side of Stiles’ arms.
This moment could be awful in a lot of different ways. But it just feels sad. And there’s something in Stiles’ voice, a little tired and melancholy, as he glances at one hand and then the other and says to himself, “Again? Really?”
But Derek doesn’t know what he means. “I’m sorry,” he says, though he’s not sure why.
Stiles stares at Derek’s hand a moment longer before looking at him and managing a small smile. “Don’t be.“
“Stiles.”
“Just forget it.”
“No.” He steps back to give Stiles some space but keeps their eyes locked. The hush isn’t as tense this time. The sound of crickets filters in from outside. And Stiles is so quiet and composed, the way most people don’t know he can be, just waiting for Derek. So Derek tries to be the same. “I want you here. It helps. When…”
Stiles tilts his head and waits.
“Just don’t leave again. Not without saying goodbye.” He doesn’t want Stiles to go at all, but how can he say that?
Stiles takes the time to consider his words. Derek uses the pause to look at him, really look at him, at his shining eyes and the freckles scattered across his skin. The same blue hoodie and jeans.
Finally Stiles nods. “I’ll say goodbye every time. If I can.“ He grimaces and glances at his own hands, wiggling the fingers. “It’s taking time to get used to. Can’t promise I won’t just disappear in a puff of smoke. But I’ll try.”
The relief that fills Derek is indescribable. “Good.”
They sit at the kitchen table until dawn. Derek eats half the cookies, slow and methodical, his eyes always on Stiles. Stiles keeps the conversation light.
When Derek‘s head begins to swim from exhaustion he ignores it but Stiles sees immediately. “And now, I think… it’s been a long night. And you should get some sleep.”
Derek hesitates.
“Derek,” Stiles prods gently, “it’s okay. I’ll be here a little longer.” He gestures at the platter. “I’ll clean this up. And I’ll try to come back later, maybe this afternoon?” He stands and Derek does the same, and Stiles nods his head towards the stairs. “Rest.”
“Thanks for the cookies.”
“Any time. Goodnight, Derek.”
“Goodnight, Stiles.”
He doesn’t like going upstairs, it feels uncomfortable. But he changes clothes and slips under the blanket and closes his eyes. And from downstairs comes the sound of Stiles walking around, sweeping the floor. It soothes him. And soon, he’s asleep.
- - -
Derek still runs but it’s not like before. The idea of a routine seems unnecessary and long ago. Sometimes Stiles finds him in the woods, sometimes he’s waiting at the house. And every time he stays a little longer, says he’s getting the hang of it.
Is it for the best? Derek can’t be sure. He thinks about the alternative and becomes agitated, has to calm himself with the reminder that Stiles is here. And…
He’s becoming more, not less, not fading away.
- - -
Stiles has something behind his back and he is being so damned smug about it. Derek wants to feign disinterest but he can’t quite manage it. Something unexpected. Something good and unexpected. He figures he may as well savor the experience. But he can’t experience whatever it is until he clears his plate. A massive helping of vegetables and pot roast. And it’s such a ridiculous idea, making a grown man eat his veggies, but Stiles seems dead serious about it. Derek manages to mostly hide his smile as he obediently eats.
Finally the dishes are cleared and Stiles places a large leather-bound book in Derek’s waiting hands. There’s no title, no price tag. Derek carefully opens it and flips through the pages, blinking quickly at the flashes of unexpectedly bright colors streaking by.
He stops at a random page. A full-page picture of a painting, something famous and old and gorgeous and full of vivid blues and violets. He turns the page and it’s a sunburst of oranges and reds. The next page is a stark contrast of black and green scribbles.
“Stiles, this is…” Another page is a woman in a sundress walking through a field of pink tulips.
“It’s good, right?” Stiles sounds a little nervous.
Good doesn’t describe it. He doesn’t know enough about art to recognize any of these artists but the colors and imagery are stirring something in him that only Stiles affected before.
There are no captions, no references. Not even a barcode on the back.
“Thank you,” Derek says sincerely, taking the time to look up and smile widely before turning the page.
Stiles beams and busies his hands by rubbing them on his jeans. “I may or may not have done the whole ghost thing and pilfered it from a bookstore.”
“Theft? For me? I’m touched.”
“Eh, you’re worth it. And I figured you could use something to keep you busy.”
“Busy,” Derek echoes, looking up from his book.
“I’m just saying. You’re out here, alone--”
“I’m not alone. I have you.”
Stiles smiles. “Yeah you do. But I’m not always around, you know? And even a werewolf needs a break from marathon runs.”
- - -
Derek amuses Stiles with a story about Peter’s night in the county drunk tank while a pot of stew boils on the stove. They’re having too much fun, apparently - Stiles can’t stop snorting - because they don’t notice the rattling or hissing. With a sudden boom and clang, the lid flies off the pot. Brown splotches are everywhere and steam is billowing up to the ceiling, and Derek--
Derek is touching Stiles. Clutching him, actually, because he hadn’t thought, only reacted, grabbing Stiles by his hoodie and pushing him down at the sudden blast.
They can touch. Derek doesn’t know what this means. He doesn’t really care. Adrenaline is filling his body, making his breath ragged and his muscles taut but he’s so very careful as his hands loosen and drag along the hoodie to Stiles’ sides, never losing contact, and he lifts Stiles to his feet.
He’s sure. But it doesn’t stop him from checking, rubbing his palms across Stiles’ neck and hands. This is Stiles. His body feels the same. Room temperature and no pulse, but it’s him.
Stiles seems too stunned to comment. His eyes follow Derek’s movements and then glance up. “I, uh… I don’t…”
“Me either,” Derek admits.
“Should… Um…” Stiles licks his lips nervously, distracting Derek. “I mean, should we--” He licks his lips again and Derek unconsciously mimics him. Stiles’ eyes watch his tongue, glance away, look down again, and that’s enough of a sign for Derek. He lunges forward, hands getting a better grasp and pulling Stiles closer, as close as possible, and kisses him, sucking his lips in between his own. There’s no taste but the sensation is overpowering. Derek tilts his head and delves deeper, licking and sucking and biting desperately, and Stiles is giving as good as he gets. Their hands are pushing shirts up and out of the way and Derek scratches and kneads at Stiles’ rib cage as Stiles fumbles in his uncoordinated attempt to unzip Derek’s jeans.
Growling against his lips, Derek pushes until Stiles’ back hits the wall with a bang. Shirts are gone and jeans follow and he moves on instinct. Derek is drowning in pleasure and this is real.
It happens quick and dizzy. Time isn’t really a concept.
- - -
Stiles keeps his word. He always says goodbye before leaving.
Sometimes, he dissipates like mist.
Sometimes, he just disappears.
- - -
There’s something in the woods.
Derek thinks it’s Stiles at first, lets his fangs slip out and his lips split into a wide smile because he thinks that they’re playing a game and it has been too long since he hunted something. But he chases that elusive hint of shadow for a mile and never seems to get nearer, and something is rubbing at his instincts until Stiles appears to his left, hands in his pockets, with a lazy grin. “Hey.”
All the playful enthusiasm drains from him and he looks around with urgency. The shadow is still ahead, at the base of the trees, unmoving.
Stiles isn’t looking, though. He keeps his eyes on Derek.
“I think--”
“Rarely,” Stiles teases. And keeps talking. His face is a little brighter, his words are a little more cheerful, as he steps close and keeps his eyes on Derek. His body, though, is still. No wild gestures or jittery leg. Stiles knows, Derek realizes, he noticed it too and he’s ignoring it.
Derek feels unsure and lost. So he follows Stiles’ lead, smiles and teases him in turn, and they turn their backs to the shadow and walk to the house.
- - -
They stay busy. When Stiles is around he always has a list of ideas. And they find themselves naked and smiling nearly every day.
And when Derek is alone, he has books, ten of them now. More leather-bound art like the first. Some follow a theme; others are a strange collection of random paintings. But the colors are always alluring.
- - -
One day, it’s sunny and warm.
They walk around the yard and Derek points out where all the flower beds and landscaping used to be. Stiles suggests they plant a few bushes to get things started again, but Derek doesn’t show much interest in change.
Stiles just shrugs. “It’s your world. I’m just living in it.”
- - -
One day, it’s overcast and chilly.
They stay in the kitchen, making soup and cornbread, standing side by side as they chop ingredients.
“My mom used to bake when the weather was bad,” Derek says, focusing on his pile of celery. The memory doesn’t hurt like it used to but he’s not used to telling someone this stuff.
“Oh, yeah?” Stiles keeps peeling carrots and tries to sound nonchalant. It isn’t working but Derek appreciates the effort. “What was her specialty?”
“Banana bread. It was amazing. I could eat an entire loaf on my own.”
“Ah, the famous werewolf metabolism.”
“Once I got into junior high, I wasn’t around much. So she would only make banana bread if I was here to help. It was an excuse for us to hang out.”
Stiles smiles but doesn’t say anything else. The only sound is their knives hitting the cutting board. Derek is lost in thought and the rhythm of his chopping, thinking of how many years have passed. Thinking of how he used to be, before the fire.
“You would’ve liked me then,” he says suddenly, without meaning to. It’s not something they ever discussed, the difference in their age. Derek supposes it doesn’t really matter anymore.
“I like you just fine now.”
- - -
One day, it’s cloudy but warm.
They spend the day cleaning. They wash the windows and clear dead leaves from the porch. Mostly they pass the time with small talk.
“Where is everyone?”
Derek shrugs. “They moved into town. Isaac is staying with Scott. The others are renting a place downtown.”
Stiles laughs in disbelief. “Oh, wow. Peter must be driving them crazy.”
Derek hesitates before asking, “What about you - have you seen your dad?”
“…Not for a few days.”
- - -
And one day, it’s hot and dry and bright.
They lay an old quilt out on the grass and lie under the sun all day. Derek brought his books but mostly he closes his eyes and stretches and soaks in the sunlight. Birds are chirping in the trees. Bees are buzzing nearby. It’s peaceful.
Stiles pretends to browse through the newest book but really he’s propped up on one arm and staring at Derek. For nearly an hour. Derek ignores it for a while but eventually caves and looks over, raising an eyebrow in question.
Stiles meets his eyes but doesn’t stop chewing his lip.
Derek raises his eyebrow a little higher for emphasis and prods, “Stiles?”
“Derek.”
Derek rolls his eyes and settles into a comfortable position. If Stiles wants to talk, he can talk. In the meantime, a nap is very tempting.
He’s just starting to doze off when Stiles says, “Derek?”
An amused huff. “Yeah?”
“Derek.” Derek complies by opening his eyes and trying to look alert.
Stiles is giving him this look, and Derek doesn’t know what it is but he doesn’t like it. Stiles scoots closer and crosses his legs. Derek continues to wait and rests his hand on Stiles’ knee, gently massaging absentmindedly.
Stiles covers Derek’s hand with his own but he doesn’t stop him. He glances at their hands and then looks at Derek, resolved.
“Derek? Why do you think I’m dead?”