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The summer air is stagnant and sweltering hot, igniting a trail of heat and discomfort with each of his deep and measured inhalations, scalding through his airway, past his lungs, straight to the pit of his stomach and then spreading all along his veins, into his blood, immersing him in the burning heat.
The glare from afternoon sun casts a glimmering sheen of surreality over everything in sight, making it hard to see properly, even with his enhanced senses. Or maybe it’s just the heat getting to his head, blurring his vision and making everything seem like a dream. He doesn’t know, nor does he care. He just keeps on walking, one foot in front the other.
He is tired, so tired and worn; his muscles feel leaden and tense, having been clenched in constant vigilance and anxiety for seemingly ever. He can’t remember the last time he relaxed his defenses, not since he was boy, sixteen and carefree. Since then, everything he has ever known in his life has been shattered. But now, with a new kind of weight settled on his shoulders on top of old ones, new responsibilities, new burdens, new dangers looming in the shadows waiting to strike, it feels as if he won’t ever be able to unhunch his shoulders, to uncurl from his defensive crouch ever again.
He’s constantly on edge, and he’s lost and confused and scared, but he can’t stop, can’t afford to stop. He’s the alpha now, and alphas have responsibilities. He’s responsible for his ragtag pack, so he tries and tries to care for them. He worries for Boyd and Erica who are still missing despite his efforts, for Isaac who spends more time each day helping with his search and looks increasingly haggard and distressed, for Peter, who is still his only remaining family despite how much he distrusted and disliked him, for Jackson, for Scott, for Stiles and Lydia and everyone near him, for this entire deceptively quiet little town that he used to call his hometown.
He can practically hear Laura in his head, voice taunting yet affectionate, “you care too much, baby bro. You’re developing a complex. Stop being so uptight. Kudos for the shirt though! Actual color! I’m impressed.”
At this moment, the streets around him are quiet and almost completely deserted. Most people are choosing to keep to air conditioned indoors. The always present background noises are still present, but they are somewhat subdued. While he might have appreciated some peace and quiet on most days, it now feels stifling, as if his senses are dulled, making his hackles rise.
He still keeps going, though, following a lead which is most likely going to end in nothing, yet again. But he has to. He doesn’t know what else he can do.
-
He filters out the sound of the automatic doors, the footsteps, the crinkle of plastic, but happens to turn and spot the flash of color out of the corner of his eye, familiar, distinctive, obnoxious blue, right before he turns around the street corner. He feels his feet halt in their tracks of their own accord, and is cataloguing everything even before he’s aware he’s doing it.
Stiles’s Jeep is parked on a side street a little ways off the larger road he’s been walking along, right in front of a 7-Eleven. Stiles is alone and leaning on his car, all lithe frame and pale skin in a dark t-shirt and cargo shorts, idly toying with his keys as he jams them, together with some loose change, into his one of his pockets. He has his t-shirt sleeves pushed up so that his biceps and deltoids, both surprisingly well-defined, are on display, and showing his wide shoulders to advantage. The thin material of the shirt is clinging a little to his chest and stomach and stretches a little with his movements, hinting at more toned musculature underneath. Stiles’s hair has grown a little more since last time, still spiky and short but seems a shade darker. (He can still vividly recall the messy, ridiculous, positively indecent way the kid had licked at some chocolaty monstrosity when he ran into him a couple of days back.)
He tries to blame his sudden flare of restlessness on the summer heat burning just under his skin.
By now, Stiles has already leapt on top of the hood of his ridiculous Jeep with practiced ease, and has his long limbs sprawled out lazily over it, the picture of leisurely insouciance. He is lounging with his legs wide apart, calves swinging lazily against his bumper, left hand behind his body supporting his weight while he holds up something—a red popsicle, freshly unwrapped and still oozing coldness—with his right. He licks a long stripe up his frozen treat and hums happily, then licks his lips and sucks nearly half of the popsicle into him mouth with a quiet slurp. His lips are stained cherry red and obscene.
He realizes he’s staring, eyes helplessly drawn to the spectacle before him, feet seemingly rooted to the ground. He knows, objectively, that Stiles is just eating a popsicle, a thing people do in the summertime, and there should be nothing at all seductive about the simple act. The fact that he, Derek Hale, is lurking (like a creeper—Stiles would laugh himself silly if he’s aware) at a street corner, almost hidden from view, staring intently at a ridiculous teenager who happens to be the sheriff’s son is utter madness, not to mention highly suspicious behavior, and he wishes he can make himself stop. He curses his traitorous eyes and their perfect vision under his breath.
Between one blink and the next though, Stiles goes from languid to tense and sit up. Before he can ascertain more than that Stiles’s heart rate is steady and that there’s no trace of terror in the air, merely surprise, Stiles is tilting his head back and shoving the entire popsicle into his mouth, freeing both hands to grope for one of the many pockets of his worn cargo shorts. His mouth is suddenly dry as he watches most of the stupid thing disappear between those plush red lips.
He soon registers a faint buzzing sound and vaguely realizes Stiles is feeling around for his phone, but his attention is still mostly caught by the long, pale arch of bared throat and flexing tendons, the sheen of sweat glistening in the hollow of his neck and between the collarbones peeking out from under the stretched and slightly fraying collar of the t-shirt, the way Stiles’s Adam’s apple bobs as his throat works to try to swallow the mess of the rapidly melting popsicle before any of it can spill over. A dribble still ends up escaping from one corner of his mouth and it winds its way lazily down his chin, his jaw, his neck, leaving a thin, shiny trail of red. He sees Stiles give an involuntarily shiver at the no doubt icy sensation and finds himself shuddering a little too. He hates himself for it, but he still can’t tear his eyes away.
A few garbled curses and some more clumsy scrabbling later, he hears Stiles make a muffled sound of triumph as he finally locates the vibrating device and manages to wrestle it into his hands. He fumbles for a second to accept the call while attempting to wipe his face and neck clean with the back of his free hand. There is a wide grin on his face as he hold the phone up to his ear.
“Hey! Scotty, bro, where are you? I’m by the 7-Eleven, you know the one. Did you know they have Popsicle Sour Patch Kids here? I nearly died laughing when I saw-”
He hears Scott’s tinny voice cut him off, saying something about school work, sounding hesitant and apologetic.
Stiles’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Okay. Uh, yeah, sure.” He can see Stiles biting his lower lip before straightening back up. “It’s cool, man. Have fun studying, I guess, haha. Yeah, yeah. No, it’s okay, really. Maybe next week? I’m free. Yup. Sure, just let me know. Yeah. I’ll talk to you later,” he laughs a little with fake cheer then hangs up, heaving a heavy sigh. He finishes off the last bite of his popsicle without the enthusiasm and enjoyment from before and tosses the stick and the wrapper into a nearby trashcan with perfect aim. He does a half-hearted fist pump at that and then huffs again mirthlessly.
It’s odd to see Stiles like this, so quiet and subdued. He can’t see Stiles’s face with the way his face is downturned, can’t read Stiles’s often exaggerated expressions; only the top of his head is visible, and the sweep of his long eyelashes. His chest feels oddly tight, and he just wants Stiles to stop looking like this. He also wants someone to douse him with ice water, to drill into his head and scrub the unwanted thoughts and feelings away, to tear him apart by the seams and somehow correct everything that is wrong with him.
He does catch a glimpse of Stiles’s profile a few seconds later as Stiles heaves himself off the Jeep and slumps into the driver’s seat, but it’s mostly blank and emotionless, save for the pursed lips and the downcast eyes. There’s still a faint smudge of red on his neck.
He thinks about stepping away from his corner and into Stiles’s line of sight, walking over and talking to Stiles, make him animated and spastic again with their usual snarky insults, and just somehow fix things, fix Stiles. But the thing is, he’s broken too, and he has no idea how to do anything right, let alone fix someone else. So he simply turns as Stiles pulls the door shut behind himself, before Stiles can look up and notice him, and quietly takes two steps further down his street, out of sight of the Jeep.
He can hear the rumble of the Jeep’s engine as it starts and pulls away, making a U-turn then speeding off, its familiar clatter and grind getting fainter and fainter until he can’t hear it anymore, and then he resumes his walk toward his original destination, silence and gloom shrouding him once more.