Archive of Our Own

art by sparassiss

"We're getting out of here."

Words Stiles has longed to hear. For someone to whisk him away and get him out of this hellhole. It was Derek who said them, this morning when he glided in through Stiles' window and told him to pack, that they're leaving in an hour whether Stiles is ready or not.

They can't leave Beacon Hills for good, not yet — but any break from this place is worth it, and it seems like a weight is being lifted off Stiles' chest already. He says goodbye to his dad, the sheriff already aware and supportive of Derek's plans, blessedly — grabs some plaid and jeans and his hoodie, his phone and wallet and toiletries and a book or two, a Swiss army knife and his old backpack — and then they're off.

Derek has everything else packed, he tells Stiles as he pulls him into the Camaro. Stiles goes easily, melting into the seat and giving himself a greater chance to relax the more time they spend on the road. The subtle vibrations of the car and the highway noises and the scenery passing by fill his senses, and he thinks that this is what it must be like for Derek, to just want to run and run and leave this cursed town, flee and escape and never come back.

"Where are we going?" Stiles finally asks, as soon as it matters, which is later than he's expecting. They've been on the road for half an hour already. The old Stiles would pester Derek every other second for information; the new Stiles is quiet, too quiet, too still. Derek notices, of course he does, but then, that's why they're leaving, isn't it. To try and get the old Stiles back. To give him a fucking break.

"To the coast," Derek says, reaching over to turn on the heat when he notices Stiles curled into himself on the seat, buried in his jacket, arms crossed around his torso. It shouldn't be cold; it's early October, and the air is still warm. Stiles shouldn't be cold, but he shouldn't be alive, either, so he has to take what he can get.

"For how long?" Stiles presses, but there's no urgency in his voice, only idle, lazy interest. Like an afterthought.

"Till you feel better," Derek answers, too honestly, and it only makes Stiles feel sick. There's nothing wrong with him, not really, but he's still recovering from the Nogitsune, from all that was taken from him, forced on him, done to him. Stiles isn't sure he'll ever feel better.

"Hope you like the coast, then," Stiles says, "'cause it might take a while."

"We used to take family trips here all the time," Derek tells him after a beat, and now Stiles sits up a little straighter in his seat, pays a little more attention. Derek lore is rare, and a collectible. "I haven't been back in — it'll be good to be back. So take your time."

Derek's too nice to him. Everyone's too nice to him, now, especially after what he's done, but at least Derek is one of the only ones who can look him in the eye still.

"Where will we stay?" Stiles asks, after a few more minutes. It's unnerving even to himself how slow his brain seems to be working these days, not processing things like usual, paired with the apathy he can't seem to shake for everything going on around him, within him. He tries to be present, but it's hard when the present, frankly, sucks.

"We're going camping," Derek answers. "There's a forest across from the beach. The town is close by. We'll be safe there."

Stiles blinks. Derek's still concerned for his safety. Why now, why still? Why does Stiles deserve this kindness? Why does he deserve a fucking vacation after all that he did?

He's supposed to be full of questions, by now, asking dumb things like what snacks did you pack, how big is the tent, do you know how to start a fire, are you even okay with starting a fire, are you gonna hunt a buck for me? Where did you get hiking boots? What will we do all day? How is my dad alright with this? How did you convince him?

But instead Stiles' brain is tired, blank, dull and a scary place to be. So Stiles makes himself look out the window instead, past the terrible highway sculptures and the giant trees and the turkey vultures on the side of the road. Past the wild apple trees and the clouds that look like faces and the smell of gas from the cars around them.

They wind deeper onto the highway, the road curving this way and that, getting more and more winding and meandering. Cars speed around them but Derek takes his time for once, enjoying the view, one lazy hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He's dressed in a moss green t-shirt that brings out his eyes, but Stiles can never tell him that. He looks focused on the road, but his gaze is soft around the edges, and Stiles is surprised to see his shoulders looking looser than he's used to, his scowl not so intense.

Maybe the trip will be good for Derek, too. If Stiles tries to spin it that way, he doesn't feel quite so guilty.

…Only for a moment, before the guilt returns with a vengeance.

They pass wild elderberry trees with berries of different colors, a bright dangerous red and a dusty white-purple and a dark midnight blue. There's plants with blossoms still clinging on, and gray-green lichen hanging from the tall trees, and the forest grows around them as they drive further into it. It feels like escaping, like running away, and Stiles is uncomfortable with how good it feels. How un-allowed it is. After what he's done.

They stop at a campground for a bathroom break, and when Stiles comes out of the dingy, smelly shelter, shaking his hands off to dry them in the crisp air, he's met with the strangely normal sight of Derek Hale picking blackberries. Stiles stops in his tracks and just watches for a second, before Derek gives him a look, all raised eyebrows and expectancy. Stiles shuffles over and stands there like a doll, gaping slightly as Derek grabs his wrist and opens his palm, dumping a handful of ripe blackberries into it.

The red juice smears onto his skin and Stiles stands there, frozen, the sight of blood burrowing into his brain and taking him back, suffocating him, holding him captive and destroying him all over again, and now there's the scream of a banshee echoing in his brain and Allison is collapsing and there's blood everywhere—

—And Derek is saying his name, over and over, cupping his face with a clean hand, intense look back on his own face as he shakes Stiles like he's trying to wake him up from a nightmare.

But this one, there's no waking up from.

"I'm fine," Stiles chokes out as soon as he resurfaces. He can't meet Derek's eyes; just shoves the blackberries into his mouth and swallows them almost without chewing. He can't tell if the bitterness they exude is from the salty air or his own tears. He finds it doesn't matter.

Stiles stalks away towards the car, wrenching the passenger door open and slumping into the seat. He tries to wipe his hands off on his jeans, but they're stained red from the blackberry juice, and it's all very fitting, isn't it.

When Derek gets back into the car, he sits there for a long moment, silent. Stiles dreads what's coming, and stares at the view out the window of the campsite and the little river next to it and the highway and the trees blowing in the wind and the small spider building a web right outside the window. All moving, living things. Life goes on; until it doesn't.

"It's not your fault, Stiles." Derek's voice is low and Stiles can feel his eyes on the side of his face, but he can't look back at Derek, doesn't want to see the pity there.

"Just drive," he croaks out, still staring out the window, wishing the little stream would sink him in its waters instead of the log it tries to drown instead.

art by sparassiss

They keep driving. Or, Derek keeps driving, and Stiles sits there, feeling like a waste of space. At some point, Derek turns on the radio, and the pop music is too upbeat that Stiles wonders how anyone can even be happy in this kind of world. How they can be singing about love when love is so meaningless in the end. You can't protect the people you love. You can't save them. You just have to go on without them even when it's you who should've taken their place in the ground in the end.

They finally reach the little town Derek mentioned. It's cute and quaint and old, and there's a church and beach signs and a mom and pop store and the air smells like salt. There's sand on the side of the road and coastal pine trees lining the streets. There's an old A&W, and Derek asks Stiles if he's hungry.

"I don't really get hungry anymore," Stiles admits, voice so out of use that it's rough, that it feels like it's filled with the grains of sand he walks over on the way to the restaurant anyway. Derek buys him a burger and fries and a root beer float, and they dine in the car, but the ice cream melts before he can eat it properly because he takes so long to get to it. He picks at his fries, and, with a swelling of mortification, feels a lump building in his throat and the sting of tears in his eyes at the taste of something he's supposed to be enjoying, that he used to love.

But it's just another thing he loved that was taken from him, so he really shouldn't be surprised. If he never gets to enjoy fries again, well, maybe it's the least of what he deserves.

Derek gets out of the car to throw their trash away, letting Stiles nurse the remainder of his root beer, chewing on the straw without thought as he stares unseeingly after Derek. They're on the road again soon enough, and the town gives way to a scenic highway, with railings and hills and heights. The ocean is to the left of them with tall cliffs sloping down on either side, and Stiles gazes, entranced, out of Derek's window at the moving water. It looks so calm, peaceful, unaffected. It feels so foreign, the ease of which the water moves, how serene it is. It's unattainable, like meditation always has been for him, and instead of tranquility, the sharp scent of anger flares from Stiles' skin at the sight.

Derek huffs out through his nose at the smell, and glances over at Stiles.

"Have you ever been to the coast before?" he asks. Stiles appreciates that he tries to make conversation, but he fears he's going to make a terrible camping companion during this trip. He has nothing to say anymore. It's not worth it.

"Yeah," he mumbles out anyway, not wanting to be rude. Derek's taking him on a trip out of the goodness of his heart, after all. "With my parents. When I was younger. Before—" He can't finish the sentence.

Derek only nods like he understands. Which he does.

"Makes a nice change from Beacon Hills," Derek says, and then neither of them say any more for at least another hour.

They pass a lighthouse, a sign promoting a sea lion cave, a large bridge, and a flock of seagulls in the sky. It's all too normal, too serene, and Stiles feels like he doesn't fit in here, like he's trespassing. That in itself should feel familiar, but it doesn't, it just feels bad, and Stiles has the thought that maybe he won't feel like he fits in anywhere ever again, like a piece of his DNA has been changed for good now, and he's not allowed to be a normal human anymore. He's just not allowed. And maybe he shouldn't be.

There's tourists on the side of the highway taking pictures of the ocean, pictures they'll never look at again. There's beach houses in every color and bicyclists and salal bushes and wild yarrow plants with white flowers, and when Derek rolls the window down, a rush of fresh sea air comes floating into the car, and it stings Stiles' eyes, and he wants to cry. But he knows if he starts, then he'll never stop.

Are we there yet? he's supposed to be asking.

Do you hate me? he wants to ask, instead.

In the end, he says nothing.

Finally, they turn onto a tiny forest road. There's lush greenery lining each side, and it's easy to forget they're on the coast for the moment, for the sand turns into grass and moss and bushes, and the ocean turns into trees. There's blackberries growing here, too, and the salal plants have berries now, dark purple and round. Stiles recognizes huckleberry bushes, with their tiny blue berries, and the elderberry plants are back again, towering over the shrubs.

The road is gravel before it changes to dirt somewhere along the way, and Derek drives and drives slowly for what feels like several more miles. He rolls down both their windows so they can breathe in the forest air, and Stiles leans his elbow against the door and pillows his cheek in his palm as he stares at all the green and tries to feel something besides grief, something like awe or interest or gratitude, something like excitement for being in a car with Derek Hale, about to go camping with the man, share a tent and make s'mores and drink instant coffee. But there's a gaping hole inside Stiles' chest instead, and it feels terrifyingly like a void.

And suddenly Stiles is feeling trapped, claustrophobic in this small car, captive in his own body, fidgety but unable to move, and he's had quite enough of that for a lifetime. So he speaks again, finally, clears his throat from disuse and talks.

"Is this even legal to camp here?" he asks Derek, just to make conversation. It's not like he's ever cared about something being illegal before. "Does your family own the land, or something?"

"No, Stiles," Derek answers, slowly, like Stiles is a child. "It's a public forest. You can camp anywhere you want."

Oh. Right. The Hales don't own everything. Even though they could.

"There's miles of it. There's a parking spot a few minutes away and the camping spot is nearby. There's a lake in the middle. You'll like it."

Stiles is touched by Derek's apparent knowledge of what he'll like, but he isn't allowed to be touched, Derek isn't allowed to know this stuff about him. So, stubbornly, he deflects.

"What, a lake with mosquitoes? Sounds perfect," he snarks. He watches silently as the corner of Derek's mouth twitches up, replays what he just said and notices his old sarcasm underneath the rudeness, the defense mechanism. The good thing about Derek is that he understands, doesn't scold him for acting like a brat. They're too similar, and Derek gets him, and Stiles should really feel lucky, but that's the last word he would use to describe his life right now. Although, in a way, he is lucky. Lucky for surviving when others didn't.

There was a time when all Stiles wanted was to be lucky, to have something go well for him.

This is not the way he expected it to go, however.

"Don't worry," Derek snarks right back, easily, "they won't want your blood. It's too cold even for them. Besides, you smell too miserable for them to want to go near. You're safe."

Ha, Stiles wants to laugh. Safe. But he shivers anyway, despite his warm hoodie, and reaches to turn up the heat before realizing it's already cranked up to the highest level. Derek must be sweating.

"Looks like we're both safe, then," Stiles says. "I'm pretty sure that if there's anyone who's miserable, it's you, Sourwolf."

That gets a real smile out of Derek, this time, and Stiles looks over just at the right moment to see it overtaking Derek's face, crinkling up his eyes and broadening his mouth. It's a good look on him, and it's funny that Derek's smiling at a dig on him, of all things. But Stiles has a hunch that it's just because he's joking around again, and Derek is just glad he's not lost to the dementors.

"It runs in the family," Derek tells him as they drive closer to the trailhead, "Cora had an emo phase."

Stiles almost laughs at that, but manages a small huff of air out of his nose instead, a quick uptick of his lips. Cora, with straightened dark hair and an emo fringe and blasting My Chemical Romance in her room. Back when her preteen angst was all she had to be upset about, before the fire, before her entire family's deaths.

"'Teenagers scare the living shit out of me,'" Stiles says in response, and is shocked by Derek's sudden burst of laughter, how he actually gets the joke. Cora really must have had an emo phase after all.

"'Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me,'" Derek recites, and Stiles huffs again, amazed at the whole conversation they're having.

Perhaps this trip won't be so bad, after all.

He's missing school for this, but Stiles couldn't care less. He stumbles out of the car when Derek parks it at last, stretching his legs and silently rejoicing in being free of the vehicle for the first time in too long. Derek stretches, too, and Stiles watches as Derek's arms go up over his head and expose a patch of tan skin and hair on his stomach where his shirt rides up. Past-Stiles' dick would be stirring in his pants right now, but this Stiles barely has a reaction beyond generic appreciation.

"There's a camping spot a few minutes down the trail," Derek tells him as he moves around to the trunk. Stiles peeks in behind him and sees a backpack, fabric duffle bags and plastic bags of snacks, a cooler and a stack of paperbacks and a lantern.

The last time Stiles went camping, he was small and optimistic and happy, and his mother was alive. Derek's mother was, too.

"We won't go too far in so we can access the car more easily. And I don't want you getting lost," Derek says with a smirk, to Stiles' scoff.

"I have a great sense of direction, thank you," Stiles shoots back as he grabs his backpack from the back seat and shuts the door behind him.

Derek raises his eyebrows. "I can tell when you're lying, you know."

"Hey, it's not a lie if you believe it," Stiles slips out, a quote straight from Seinfeld. But it does the job of getting Derek to smile wider, and if he happens to look beautiful, Stiles doesn't acknowledge it. Outwardly, at least.

"Take this," Derek tells him then, changing the subject, hanging him a plastic bag while he shoves a few bags onto each arm, showing off his stupid werewolf strength. "And watch where you're going — you're going to step on the puffballs."

Then Stiles feels a hand on his arm, pulling him back from where he was indeed about to step on a puffy white round mushroom. Honestly, he didn't know Derek even had any hands still free to stop him with all the luggage in his arms.

But Stiles recognizes these ones. From somewhere deep in his mind, beyond the trauma and the fear and the tragedy, Stiles remembers. He went camping and hiking as a kid and his mother was always one with nature. She knew about all this stuff: plants, mushrooms, soil, birds, animals. And Stiles, being curious, asked every question he could and learned it all from his very patient mother. She taught him all this, the edible and the poisonous mushrooms and where they grew, the medicinal and edible plants, which ones to use on scrapes and bruises and which ones to cook up. Claudia left him her knowledge, and though Stiles hasn't thought about a non-wolfsbane plant in what feels like years, he still remembers it all.

"Edible," Stiles recites under his breath as his gaze locks on the first mushrooms he's noticed in too long. "Do you have a bag?"

Derek is silent behind him, but when Stiles turns around, it's to Derek's raised eyebrow, his jaw jutting out to motion at the many bags he's already carrying.

"No, dumbass, an empty one." Stiles rolls his eyes. Maybe they can build a campfire and cook the mushrooms for dinner. It won't be much, but Stiles will have contributed to the trip at least.

"There's some in the front of my backpack," Derek says with his head tilted towards the pack slung over his shoulder. It's nothing fancy, not a real backpacking pack, but it looks heavy enough. Stiles sets the duffel he's carrying down on the dirt and digs a reusable mesh bag out of Derek's backpack. It looks like one from the farmer's market, and Stiles zips the pack back up idly, now imagining Derek heading to the market first thing Saturday morning, talking to the vendors and picking out fresh fruits and vegetables. It's oddly domestic, and it doesn't really fit Derek at all. Yet somehow, Stiles can still picture it. And it's nice.

With the mesh bag in hand, Stiles then rummages around in his own school backpack, the one he's filled with clothes and books. He finds his pocket knife and opens the biggest blade from it, bending down to the mushrooms and cutting the largest one from the dirt.

"You know you don't actually have to cut them," Derek corrects him, like a know-it-all.

"I know," Stiles insists, glaring at him over his shoulder as Derek just stands there with his too-many bags, effortlessly holding them like they weigh nothing. "It's tradition. My mom said it was more respectful to the forest than just pulling them up."

"Alright," Derek says, "but you're making more work for yourself."

Stiles just grumbles under his breath and places the mushrooms carefully one by one in the net bag. "You know you don't need a mesh bag, right?" he bites back. "They don't need help spreading spores. There's already a mycological network underground—"

"—that helps the fungi fruit without human interference, I know," Derek finishes in a bored voice. "It was the only bag I had. It's from the farmer's market."

I knew it, Stiles thinks, proud for a second, before he remembers he shouldn't be proud of anything anymore. He's done picking the puffballs by now, anyway, and he wipes the blade off on his jeans before folding it and shoving it into his pocket. He got a handful of mushrooms, and they're small, like a golf ball. They're the mushroom version of tofu, soaking up whatever flavors they're cooked in, their texture light and spongy. But he can't wait to taste them again, to be brought back to his childhood, when everything was happy and safe. It hurts to remember, to know he can never go back.

So Stiles sighs as he lifts himself off the ground at last, picking up his bags again as he nods to Derek that he's done. Derek takes the lead now, walking over to a little pathway Stiles hadn't even noticed before, a few feet from the car.

"How do you know all this stuff, anyway?" he asks as they walk.

"Werewolf," Derek gives in answer. "Our life is nature. We're raised to appreciate and understand it."

Of course. So now Stiles is thinking of a young Derek learning mushroom facts from his own mother, and he can't help but get sad all over again for what they've lost, independently, yet together. How they ended up knowing so many of the same things but grew up living different lives. Still intertwined in the end.

So Stiles follows behind Derek now, down the narrow trail, putting one foot in front of the other. And, uh, pointedly avoiding looking at his ass, even though it's right there.

He instead turns his focus to the forest around them as they walk, taking it all in, noticing how it's so much different than the preserve back home — the trees are evergreens and maples, warm greens with the sun shining through the leaves, different types of ferns growing from the ground, some curly and some straight. The air is cool and refreshing, and no longer smells like salt water, but something richer, deeper, earthier.

The trees are huge, towering over them as they walk, and Stiles brushes past spiky blackberry bushes along the way. They snag on his hoodie and he tears himself free more than once. The trail is overgrown, but Derek makes it easier for him, clearing the stray branches and spiderwebs as he walks ahead of Stiles.

The same types of berries are here, just like the ones along the road, the salal and huckleberries, and even a few salmonberries, light orange like gold-colored blackberries. Stiles spots curly dock, a plant he remembers to be edible, along with more yarrow flowers, and occasionally stinging nettle. That one he stays away from for the time being.

The forest floor is a carpet of moss. It's golden-green, looking soft and fluffy, and Stiles kind of wants to roll in it like a cat. Threads of yarn-like lichen drapes over tree branches, making the forest look magical and enchanted, like a whole other world. This is where fairytale creatures live, the good kind, like elves and fairies. It's funny, then, that a werewolf is about to walk into their home.

Soon enough, they get to a clearing. It's a wide patch of moss, almost in a circle, with trees surrounding it and stray sticks and leaves cluttering it up. It looks like the perfect camping spot, and Stiles is so distracted by it that he nearly bumps into Derek's back as the wolf stops short on the little trail.

"Warn a guy," Stiles grumps, but Derek just smirks as he sets his bags down. "Why do you have so many bags, anyway?" It's really excessive for a guy who looks like a minimalist.

"Because you're a teenage boy, and you eat a lot, and so do I," is Derek's explanation. "And I have a cooler for the meat."

"Oh, please don't tell me you're gonna go catch bunny rabbits and innocent deer. I don't think I can handle it," Stiles admits as he sets his bags down as well.

"You vegan now?" Derek teases, rummaging around for the bag with the tent.

"No," Stiles scoffs. Just because he's trying to get his dad to eat more vegetables doesn't mean he can't appreciate a burger himself. Case in point, their lunch today. "I just… I don't want anyone else dying because of me, okay?" It's a reasonable explanation, even if it does make him feel rather weak. His face colors, but he busies himself by helping Derek unfold the tent. See, he can be a good person. He can help. He can.

To his surprise, Derek nods. "I get it," he says, and that's the end of their conversation for now.

The tent is set up, with Derek doing most of the work, and the first thing Stiles does is dive into it, curl up in the sleeping bag Derek brought for him, and delve into his book. It's easy to tune out the sounds of Derek shuffling around him, pulling things out of his various bags and setting up. It sounds like he's starting a fire, and sure enough Stiles can hear the crackling of flames after a while, the smell of campfire smoke wafting through the thin tent fabric.

He pokes his head out, content with taking a break from reading for a bit and watching Derek putter around. It occurs to Stiles after a moment that he's never seen Derek around fire before. The man has never lit a candle or even a tea light. Especially here in the middle of the woods, surrounded by flammable trees and brush, Stiles wonders how he's doing.

"You doin' okay, big guy?" Stiles calls out softly, watching the fire. It burns on a pile of twigs and logs, with a wide circle of dirt and stones around it, the flammable moss pushed far away for safety. Derek looks over, somehow able to parse out Stiles' hidden meaning, and only nods in response. There's no serene look painted on his face, but there's not fear there, either. It's something like quiet acceptance and determination, and that's what sparks something in Stiles' heart, something like respect and awe and maybe a bit of pride, so Stiles can't help but abandon his book completely and crawl out of the cozy tent at last, shuffling over to sit next to Derek on the small log.

It's getting chillier, this late in the evening, but the sun isn't down completely. Still, Stiles shivers in his hoodie, unconsciously shifting closer to Derek who's still clad in only a thin t-shirt and jeans. The wolf is radiating warmth, and it's not just because of the fire burning in front of them.

"Didn't you pack more layers?" Derek asks, giving Stiles a once-over, observing the way his arms are crossed over each other, the way he hunches in on himself.

"I left in a bit of a rush, in case you couldn't tell," Stiles snarks. But there are a few long-sleeved shirts in his bag, along with some plaid. It's just that Derek is right here, and warmer than anything he packed, and Stiles is tired, okay. Derek is convenient, that's all.

He's expecting Derek to push him away, tell him to go bundle up again, but Derek does the most surprising thing instead and pulls him closer. Suddenly there's a heavy arm around Stiles' shoulder and he's nestled into the side of a very big, very hot werewolf. Hot like — warmth, not like — he's just hot, alright, the man runs warm, jeez.

It would be easy for Stiles to slip away, slide out from under Derek's bulk. He doesn't need people babying him. He doesn't need Derek taking care of him; god knows he doesn't deserve it. But Stiles has been so cold the last few months, shivering in the sun and shaking in the frost. Now is no exception, so Stiles leans into his instinct and into Derek, pressing himself against his side, scooting as close as he can and pressing their thighs together, letting Derek's arm envelop him completely. Stiles' head is almost resting on Derek's chest, but Stiles doesn't go that far yet, doesn't let himself. That would be invading Derek's personal space even more, and everyone knows Derek likes his personal space.

"Better?" Derek hums into his ear, and Stiles jumps, before Derek tugs him even closer. If Stiles dares to close his eyes, he'd be able to breathe Derek in, pretend they're actually friends, or more. Pretend everything's okay, that Stiles deserves to be comforted like this. He'd wrap his arms around Derek's waist in return, and cling on tight, and never let go. But that — that's too good to be true. So Stiles takes one more deep breath, before shuffling slightly away, clearing his throat and avoiding Derek's eyes, keeping them trained on the fire in front of them.

"Yeah," he croaks out, face flaming, easy to blame on the heat of the fire. "Thanks."

There's a piercing gaze on the side of his face, and he knows Derek's watching him. But he doesn't meet his eyes, though Derek's arm is still loosely around him.

"Hungry?" Derek asks after a moment, voice warm and soft.

"I told you, I don't get hungry," Stiles says, like an instinct. But he looks around the campfire and notices some food spread out anyway, a can of beans here and a bag of tortillas there. The mushrooms from before are in a bag on the ground, and Stiles eyes them with a type of sudden longing, like tasting them will bring back his childhood again, if only for a few moments.

He clears his throat again. "I can cook up the mushrooms, though. If you want."

Derek nods and finally lets go of Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles misses the heat immediately. He's cold again in an instant, like a blanket falling off his shoulders that smelled like home and safety. But he makes himself stand up again on shaky legs, putting a pin in the thought for now, shaking it off like a dog, and goes to pick up the bag.

Derek brings out a small cutting board from one of his bags, and a frying pan and spatula, and starts to cook his own ingredients for burritos while Stiles uses his pocket knife to cut the dirt off the puffball mushrooms and slice them into rounds. There's a deadly lookalike for these, so he makes sure to check inside after he cuts them — if it looks like the shape of another mushroom is growing inside these, it's an amanita. But these ones are pure white inside, slightly spiky on the outside with a pillowy texture. Besides, with Derek's nose, he'd be able to sniff out the poisonous ones immediately.

When Derek's done using the pan, Stiles slides the mushrooms into it with the leftover oil coating the iron. Derek hands him a little packet of salt, and they cook alongside each other quietly, but the silence is comfortable. It always is with them. This version of Stiles isn't one to fill it with talking, anymore. Stiles doesn't know if that's permanent for him, if that's something that will come back to him. He finds he doesn't care one way or the other.

The mushrooms are done cooking, and they look nicely browned in the pan. He can't help but pop one in his mouth, the warmth spreading on his tongue, and is taken back to his childhood immediately. To his mother. The fluffy texture of the mushrooms, the simple but earthy flavor of them, eaten amongst the loaminess of the forest, the fresh air and the pine resin floating towards him in the breeze. It all feels familiar, like it's ten years ago and he's camping with his parents, and suddenly there are tears in his eyes that have nothing to do with him burning his tongue.

He looks away from Derek who can obviously sense what's going on, but is nice enough not to comment. The wolf just finishes wrapping their burritos, setting them on reusable plastic plates and piling the dirty kitchen tools in a stack to wash later with the jug of water he brought. They can get more from town, or from the nearby river — not the lake — after they filter it.

Derek gives Stiles a moment, and slides his plate over to him eventually, after Stiles can bear to look at him again.

"Thanks," he gets out. He holds the pan out to Derek, and the wolf grabs a bit less than half the mushrooms in his hand, dumping them onto his plate and eating them separately like chips. They could work in the burrito, but the flavor would get lost.

"They're good," Derek compliments, giving him a nod of his own thanks. Stiles nods back and tilts the rest onto his own plate, but he can't quite eat any more just yet over the lump in his throat.

They eat their meals in silence, with the nighttime birds chirping around them, the sun going down the longer they sit there and the air turning chillier. The burritos are great, even if Stiles is stuffed by the end of it. It doesn't taste like camping food at all; it tastes gourmet, and Derek seasoned the beef and beans and everything, brought cheese from home in the cooler and even some vegetables. Stiles hadn't realized he was such a chef.

Derek offers to make tea, but Stiles is too full, so Derek hands him a reusable bottle of water instead to sip at.

The whole day, Stiles has half-expected Derek to ask him. To make him talk about the Nogitsune and the trauma and his feelings. He's been on the edge of his seat, almost, though he knows Derek is too respectful to make him talk about anything he doesn't want to, but the worry doesn't quell. Derek doesn't bring it up, though. Not around the campfire, not in the silence, not when they're washing dishes in the dark with their headlamps and mosquitoes — which do indeed bite Stiles, and he yelps and curses about it, and swears he sees Derek laughing about it in the dim light.

They brush their teeth side by side, and it's kind of domestic, and cozy, something past-Stiles would have craved, this normal, simple act with Derek. It's still rare to get this, now, despite everything, some semblance of regularity and peace in their messed up lives, and with Derek of all people. But really, who else did he expect to go camping with? Lydia?

"Did you bring lip balm? Mints?" he hears Derek asking him when he's spitting out his toothpaste, lost in thought. His first instinct is to think about kissing, and he wonders if this is Derek's way of asking him if he wants to. His brain is stuck on a loading screen, and he blanks for a second.

"For the bear bag. All the food and scented products have to go in it, or in the cooler," Derek explains, which answers Stiles' dumb, unspoken question. Of course Derek doesn't want to kiss him. Derek would never want to kiss him. Did the Nogitsune take some of Stiles' brains when it left, too?

"Uh," Stiles says smartly. "No. I— no."

"Good," Derek says, and just collects their toothpastes and packs up the rest of the food into a scent-proof canvas bag. He swings it up and over a tree branch, so if any bears come by, they won't be able to reach it, and no food product will go in the tent with them, either. Derek's a werewolf, but it's better safe than sorry, especially if Stiles is hanging out by himself with only his pocket knife for protection. It's a lot of work to pack up their food and all traces of smell, but Stiles realizes it's for the best. Besides, Derek's doing all the work, anyway.

"Ready for bed?" Derek guides, when he's done. There's ice in the cooler, but it can only last for so long, so they only have a few days to eat the fresh food before they have to go back into town for more ice, or live off dried goods and foraged food. That, Stiles can do.

"Sure," Stiles says, "you gonna sing me a lullaby?" He crawls in the tent and toes off his sneakers. His sleeping bag is warm and smells like Derek, and he's glad that he didn't forget his pillow for once, because now it smells like home, too. And maybe Derek is part of that.

"What do you think," Derek says flatly, who then proceeds to strip off his shirt and pants. Stiles' internal loading bar buffers again as he stares, open-mouthed, at the werewolf getting naked in their shared tent.

Or, not completely naked, for he keeps on his underwear. Thank god for the little blessings in life. Stiles can only take so much.

Stiles himself wriggles around in his sleeping bag, trying to yank off his jeans without giving Derek an embarrassing show, but keeps his own t-shirt and hoodie on, thank you. He's packed pajama pants somewhere, and digs in his backpack for the flannel pants he knows are there. He lets out an aha as he finds them, hears Derek snort in the near-darkness, and shimmies them onto his legs in the confines of the sleeping bag, which is perhaps his greatest win of the day.

But as he's pulling out the pants, his fingers knock against something hard in his bag. His phone. There's no cell reception way out here, of course, but Stiles checks anyway. No service.

He misses his dad already, and sighs to himself as he stares up at the mesh top of the tent. The stars are out, and Dad's probably on a shift right now, taking care of Beacon Hills the same way he's taken care of Stiles all his life. Stiles hopes Dad will be alright without him for the week, or however long Stiles will be gone for. He sends a silent prayer for the man to not find the ice cream in the back of the freezer, or eat too many burgers, but in this moment, Stiles' heart isn't in it. It's hard enough taking care of himself; easier taking care of his dad, but even that's a lot of work, and Stiles has been growing more exhausted by the day, for months now. Even after the Nogitsune, something's missing from within him — his passion, his energy, his drive. Maybe part of his heart.

Goodnight, Dad, he silently sends out into the universe, thinking of his dad coming home from work safe and sound to a blissfully quiet house. Maybe he's better off without Stiles. Maybe everyone is.

A light flicks on from beside Stiles now in the tent, and he sees that Derek clicked on his headlamp, laying back on his pillow to read his own book. He holds it open with one hand, the veins in his strong arm prominent, the book looking small in his large palm. Stiles swallows; now is not the time. So he copies the wolf, turning on his own light and digging his book out from wherever he threw it before — somehow under his butt, that's what that feeling was — and they have cute quiet domestic reading time for a bit.

Derek must hear Stiles' heart slowing down, falling into sleep. "Goodnight, Stiles," he murmurs, and his voice is soothing and quiet and nice, and Stiles feels safe and warm for once.

"Night, Der," he whispers, before falling asleep after what may be one of the strangest days he's had in months, and he runs with werewolves and fights monsters, so that's really saying something. The stars twinkle above them, and Derek watches over him, and Stiles drifts into unconsciousness at last.

It seems the nightmares follow Stiles around like an entity. He can't escape them even here in the middle of nowhere. He hasn't had a nightmare in front of anyone but his dad in months, but here he is embarrassing himself in front of Derek, of all people, by waking up screaming in their little tent in the forest.

Stiles shoots up from the ground, writhing around in his sleeping bag that feels like a straitjacket. He's stuck in it, yelling, sobbing, and there's an aura of darkness around his mind, something about a firefly and a man encased in gauze and a girl dying and blood, so much blood, and it's all Stiles' fault—

"Stiles!" a voice is saying to him, as warm palms wrap around him and unzip the sleeping bag, "Stiles! Wake up! It's okay, Stiles, you're okay."

Stiles' eyes shoot open but he can't see in the dark. It's still pitch black, the middle of the night, but there's a bulky warm body next to him, gripping him firmly but carefully, and Stiles is still sobbing, and he doesn't recognize the hoarse screams coming out of his own mouth.

"Shh, shh, it's alright," Derek is cooing to him, hands sliding up and down Stiles' arms, soothing him. Derek's voice is tired but present, and Stiles has no choice but to melt into him, collapse into his firm body, bare and warm and real and alive. He's so distraught that he hardly reacts as Derek's fingers find their way into his hair, twisting into the locks and scratching at his scalp lightly. "It's okay," he's still saying, "you're okay. You're awake, you're here, you're safe."

"Ally," Stiles sobs, mourning his friend, mourning the lives that were shattered, including his own, a mere few months ago. "It's my fault, I did it, kill me instead, Der, kill me—"

"No, shh, Stiles, it's not your fault," Derek soothes urgently, holding Stiles firmly to him now, cradling him tightly. Moisture collects on Derek's bare chest, and it's all Stiles' fault, everything is. "It wasn't you. I swear, it wasn't you."

Stiles continues to weep. "I can't do it anymore, it should've been me, just let me go," he chokes out around hiccups and gasped breaths. "Please. Please, Der." Derek knows what he's asking for, but only holds him tighter.

"It's not your fault," Derek repeats, and he sounds convincing, and Stiles wants to believe him, but he can't. There's no point counting his fingers now; Stiles knows he's awake, because the pain is too strong. "It'll get easier, I promise."

Stiles wants to ask how he knows, but then he remembers about the fire, and how Derek is still here and breathing in spite of it, isn't going crazy in Eichen with trauma. If Derek can manage despite all he's been through — Stiles has to, too. He must.

"I can't," he whimpers anyway. "I can't."

"One day at a time," Derek whispers right in his ear, so Stiles can hear him over his sobs. "You're doing so well."

The words are helpful, as are Derek's arms around him, his gentle strokes and his calming presence, and Untraumatized-Stiles would be leaping at the touch. But now all Stiles can do is hold on for dear life, and breathe against his skin, one breath at a time, one day at a time, like Derek told him.

Derek doesn't let go, not for the whole night, and Stiles drifts back into a troubled sleep with Derek's arms still around him, both their heads on the same pillow and the sleeping bag loosely around them. Derek must be cold, Stiles idly thinks as the darkness pulls him under again, but Derek is also a self-sacrificing idiot, and a werewolf, and is the one who took him on this whole camping trip in the first place, so he must have known what he was getting into.

Stiles is grateful, and there's another feeling underneath that he's refusing to acknowledge too, because now's really not the time. But Stiles feels it anyway, somewhere in the background, when Derek brushes his tears away with his thumb and strokes his hair and clutches him close, warms up his shivering body and keeps him safe and protected even through sleep.

"I'll be here," Derek whispers to him as Stiles is finally, finally drifting off, nauseous from his sobbing and shivering. "Sleep. You're safe."

And Stiles believes him. He half-wishes he won't wake up, but when have his wishes ever come true?

So his mind fades to black once more and he swears he feels a press of lips upon his forehead just before he drifts off. It's nice, and Derek's nice, and Stiles thinks he loves—

Stiles wakes up alone the next morning. There's no firm line of heat behind him, no arm wrapped tight around his waist, but still Stiles feels safe and comfortable for once, with the aura of security Derek left behind.

The campfire smell wafts into his nose again, along with the scent of pancakes. His stomach should be rumbling, but instead it's still, sensationless. He makes himself get up anyway, unzipping the sleeping bag that Derek had tucked tight around him sometime during the night. Stiles' hair is a mess, sticking up all over the place, and his breath is rank and his eyes are crusty and his head sort of still hurts from crying. His hoodie is twisted up around him and he has to pee, but he's alive.

It's kind of a shame.

He unzips the tent, shoving his socked feet into his sneakers that he left right outside, without doing up the laces. He nods good morning to Derek and then makes his way into the brush, just far enough so that he won't be seen doing his business. Derek yells at him to not get lost, and Stiles rolls his eyes. But he takes note of his general location, anyway, and only trips over a log once. Okay, twice.

Somehow, he makes it back to camp safe and sound, and Derek tosses him the hand sanitizer.

"What time is it?" Stiles croaks out, like the time really matters.

"Nine a.m.," Derek informs him, where he's crouched over the firepit and indeed cooking actual pancakes in the cast iron pan. They're golden brown and diner-worthy, and Stiles' mouth waters in spite of his lack of hunger.

He's surprised at how long he slept, usually not making it past five a.m. these days. But then, he was up for too long in the middle of the night, and maybe the warm comfy werewolf wrapped around him also had something to do with it.

Stiles forgoes the log this time and sits down right on the ground next to Derek, crosslegged and leaning into him. He figures it's allowed, now, and besides, it's still a little cold this early. Derek doesn't seem to mind. He leans back against the log with his legs outstretched, and moves the pan off the metal grid over the flames when the pancakes are done. He serves them to Stiles on their plastic plates, digs some metal utensils out from somewhere, and just as Stiles is about to dig in, hands him a camping mug of coffee. Stiles sips it, and it's already sweetened and milky with cream, somehow. Just how he likes it.

"Didn't realize I booked a five-star Air B&B," Stiles jokes. "I'll be sure to leave a good review."

"Sign the guestbook on your way out," Derek says, and Stiles thinks he's kidding until he looks up, and Derek's pointing at something. There's a tree a few feet away, with a large trunk and carvings in the bark. D.H., L.H., C.H., and other inscriptions. Derek's family. They were here when Derek was young, there's a whole history in this place after all, and oh god, Stiles is intruding, it's like being in a graveyard, he's tainting the memory—

Derek can evidently smell his panic, his remorse, and then there's a heavy palm wrapping around the nape of his neck, grounding him.

"Breathe, Stiles," Derek says, like it's easy. "It's okay. I'm the one who brought you here; it's alright."

Stiles says nothing, but tears his eyes away from the tree, from Derek's childhood. He stares down at the pancakes, overcome with a feeling of grief and mourning for the lives they both lost, the memories and experiences they'll never get back. The people they're missing that they can never see again.

"Doesn't it hurt?" Stiles asks, lifting his eyes to meet Derek's at last.

"All the time," is Derek's response, matter-of-fact and simple. He gives nothing more, but digs into his own pancakes with an air of finality. He produces a glass bottle of maple syrup from somewhere, and it's small, but the good kind. He's heavy-handed with the way he pours it over his pancakes, the syrup flowing freely, drenching the breakfast.

When he hands it to Stiles, the boy is much more hesitant, not wanting to use it up, too familiar with being frugal. He drizzles it extremely lightly over his own breakfast, moving to hand it back, before Derek rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle himself, dumping a large blob of it over Stiles' pancakes.

Okay, an extra good Air B&B review, then. Maybe a tip, as well. A great recommendation, for sure.

The pancakes end up being delicious, obviously, and apparently Stiles has a personal chef, now. They're fluffy and moist and sweet and oh my god there's berries in here, the little blue ones from all around them, the huckleberries, Stiles realizes. They're somewhat tart and complement the sweetness perfectly.

"Thanks," Stiles manages when his plate is empty at last. It takes him much longer to eat than Derek, the man already finished, uh, wolfing down the meal and wiping the pan clean by now.

"No problem," Derek says easily. He's already dressed for the day, in hiking boots and jeans and a maroon henley that makes his biceps bulge and his shoulders look huge. His hair is perfectly coiffed as well, somehow, and idly Stiles wonders if the man brought hair gel all the way out into the middle of the woods. Stiles wouldn't put it past him.

"You wanna hike today?" Derek asks him, breaking Stiles out of his inappropriate reverie and bringing him back to the present.

"Sure," Stiles agrees, scratching a stray itch on his arm — damn mosquitoes — "Are there trails around here?"

"Nope," Derek answers succinctly, "But we can make some."

"Of course we can," Stiles rolls his eyes. "Should we leave a trail of breadcrumbs, too?"

"Yeah, if you want to attract the bears."

"Somehow I don't think they'd get along with a werewolf very well," Stiles figures, lifting himself up from the ground at last and dusting off the seat of his pajama pants.

"We're not best friends, that's for sure."

Stiles can't help but grin, thinking of Derek wolfed out and nuzzling a black bear. It's the cutest, most unrealistic picture, and he wishes he could send it to Derek in his mind just to taunt him.

They wash off their dishes with the water they brought, running out now, so they'll have to filter some more later. They walk down to the stream and splash water on their faces, and Stiles changes by himself in the tent, applying deodorant and running his fingers through his hair in a poor attempt to tame it. He wriggles into his chinos and a fresh t-shirt, a blue and yellow plaid on top with his red hoodie as a final layer. He's still so cold. Maybe the hike will warm him up.

He brushes his teeth outside the tent before Derek swings the bear bag up in the tree again. Derek pulls on his backpack which looks heavy with snacks, and tells Stiles to bring his phone, headlamp, and pocket knife just in case. It doesn't matter if there's no service out here; the SOS app that flashes on his phone is still helpful, as is the compass and satellite GPS app.

Stiles watches as Derek dumps a bucket of river water over the fire. Then another bucket, and another. Derek stands there, staring at it for what feels like long minutes, sniffing the air and scanning the firepit for any stray embers. Another bucket, for safety, and another long few minutes of making sure it's out completely. This is how it's going to be every time they cook something, but Stiles understands. Of course he does. They could have brought a small camping stove instead, less open flame, but this way is warmer, and Stiles needs all the warmth he can get. He purposely doesn't think about Derek sacrificing his comfort for Stiles'. He can't.

"Stick close," Derek grunts to him as they head off on their hike. Derek clears the way through the bushes, holding some branches away from Stiles' face, but it's not as difficult as Stiles was expecting — there's no official trails, but there are small paths all over, tons of them. Deer trails. They haven't seen any wildlife except for a few birds, but he's sure Derek can smell the deer for miles.

So Stiles obeys, for once, and sticks close behind Derek as they wander. There's still berry bushes everywhere, and sometimes Stiles yelps and jumps away from the poison oak, and sees Derek smirking at him from the corner of his eye. Derek grabs handfuls of berries and pops them in his mouth, and Stiles picks one or two, still full from the pancakes.

"Don't you think you should save some for the bears?" Stiles says with raised eyebrows, with the sun right over them in the sky now and the Douglas fir trees towering up above.

"We're not friends, remember?" Derek sasses back. "I don't think they'll miss a handful of berries. They might like you, though. I hear humans taste good."

"Ha ha," Stiles laughs sarcastically. Hopefully it'd be a short death, at least. Maybe Stiles wouldn't mind it.

They continue walking, the forest beautiful and serene and warm and bright around them. There's logs to cross and rocks to stumble over, and Derek helps Stiles over the giant fallen tree trunks blocking the trail more times than Stiles can count. He'd usually climb over them no problem, but ever since— for a while, anyway, his legs have been shaky like a newborn deer. It's all he can do not to trip over nothing as it is.

So Derek either grips his hand and hauls him over, or lifts him over the log by his waist, or guides him with a hand on his back. Sometimes Derek doesn't let go for a moment, pushing Stiles in front of him gently on the trail, and the warmth is nice. He missed it. He's still bundled up in all his layers, but it's starting to heat up from the sun. The weather is pleasant, and he bets Derek is feeling very one with nature now, as this forest is so much more untouched and natural than the preserve back home. It smells rich and earthy and resinous, and there's birds chirping happily and slugs Stiles almost steps over and spiderwebs he almost walks into. It's nature, and it's real and alive, and so is Stiles, so he supposes he has to make the best of it.

Bits of memories about the plants surrounding him come back to him as if from another life. He vaguely remembers his mother teaching him about it all, the edible greenery and mushrooms and fruit. If he tries, he can still recall the Latin names, and a pang of pain bursts in his heart as he pictures his mother being proud of him for the amount of Latin he knows now, how he's putting it to use with spells and decipherings. How it all started with her.

There's clover-looking plants on the forest floor in between the moss, bright lime green with heart-shaped leaves. He crouches down to pick one, popping it in his mouth when his memory tells him it's edible. It's sour on his tongue, the taste exploding like lemonade and making his mouth pucker up. It's wood sorrel, oxalis, and it quells his nausea instantly.

He picks a few more and stands back up, feeling only slightly dizzy. Knocking the back of his knuckles against Derek's bicep, he gets the man to turn around and then hands him his little bouquet of plants.

Derek gives him a soft look in response, his eyes crinkling and mouth tilting up slightly as he accepts the sorrel. His face is impassive as he eats it but it makes Stiles feel… something inside to have provided a thing for Derek in return for all that Derek is giving him.

Derek digs out a Gatorade from his backpack and hands it to Stiles, something about dehydration, and Stiles takes it greedily. Sometimes he forgets to check in on himself, how thirsty he is, especially since he rarely gets thirst or hunger cues anymore. He just starts shaking, even more than usual, gets even grumpier than usual, too, and can't figure out why until someone forces food onto him. If they even notice.

It's still a couple hours away from lunch so they keep walking, picking berries here and there and putting them in a little collapsible bowl Derek probably bought from REI along with the backpack. There's wild dock plants lining the edges of the path, and he follows Derek's lead as the wolf bends down to pick some, setting them carefully in his pack as well. They'll cook them up for dinner later. The greens are astringent but good in soup, and Stiles remembers his mother cooking them up as well in a stew with lemon and rice.

There's something about foraging for his own food that Stiles loves, how it makes him feel self-sufficient, able to provide for himself and those he loves. The satisfying feeling that comes with cooking up something he's picked just hours earlier, how he knows all about the species and pulled it from the ground himself, how he learned something and knows how to apply the knowledge. It makes him feel capable, and he missed that feeling.

Stiles remembers bringing a bouquet to his mother in the hospital, all plants and flowers she taught him, his little self able to name all the different kinds. Wild roses and daisies and poppies and hyacinths and rhododendrons. It took him an hour to collect it all, but he made his mother smile in the end. So it was worth it.

Now, he and Derek pass a field of miner's lettuce hidden amongst the grass, small lilypad-looking leaves that taste like spinach and blossom tiny white flowers before they go to seed. They'll shrink down when cooked as well, so they grab a few handfuls. It's a wild weed, and where there's claytonia perfoliata there's usually chickweed as well, stellaria media, a small, stringy-looking weed that's also edible. Stiles snacks on them raw and they're so light they don't hurt his stomach, so he's relieved.

By noon Derek is weighed down by a reusable canvas bag full of various greens, and really, Stiles should make his dad come with them next time if all they'll eat is salad. They keep stopping here and there to pick more, because the more Stiles walks the more he recognizes from his childhood, and evidently Derek recognizes them too or else sniffs out that they're edible.

There's innocent daisy-like flowers growing under the blackberry bushes, oxeye daisy, with sweet, licorice-tasting leaves. Dandelions grow everywhere, even with their yellow blossoms giving way to summer wish-heads instead. Their leaves are edible, too, and if they're still young then they're not too bitter.

There's a nettle patch in the distance, but Stiles shouldn't be trusted around anything painful or spiky on a normal day, so they save that for the way back. But there's still moss everywhere, lichen drooping from trees and various types of ferns surrounding them like a sea of green, and it's like Stiles can breathe again after what felt like years of oxygen deprivation.

Derek's pace is not too slow, not too fast, and he keeps it easy for Stiles who still struggles with exhaustion. Derek must be able to sense it, and Stiles is just glad he never brings it up. The man must be longing to run by now, prance around in the forest like the big puppy he is, and Stiles feels guilty for preventing him, but Stiles is used to guilt.

"Over here," Derek calls, startling Stiles from his thoughts. They haven't talked much aloud to each other today.

Derek's pointing to something on the side of the trail, amongst a patch of vibrant green moss and twigs and ferns. Orange somethings are growing from the ground, and Stiles recognizes them instantly, like a core memory, like something he hasn't seen in years and years; from another life.

"Lobster mushrooms," he croaks out, thinking immediately of his mother, how excited she'd get to find the fungi, how Stiles as a small child would wrinkle his nose at the fishy smell of them, living up to their name.

"Do you like them?" Derek asks, bending down and slicing his hand through the air to bring out his claws.

"They're alright," Stiles says, crouching down next to Derek and examining the fiery fungi. They peek up out of the moss like lumps of something rare, the vibrancy of them looking wild against the complementary shade of green they're buried under. "Chanterelles were always my favorite. Those, and porcini."

"My father loved these the most," Derek tells him as he slices through the bottom of one to pick it from the ground, brushing the dirt away. He could pull it up easily without claws, but this way is cleaner. "He loved seafood. My mother loved porcini, though; she said they made her feel rich, like she was eating something special."

Stiles soaks up every tidbit of Derek's past like a sponge. "I thought you, uh, were rich," he says awkwardly, pulling up a mushroom of his own.

Derek rolls his eyes. "She meant rich like happy. Treasuring and celebrating the earth and the beauty it created."

Somehow, Stiles understands.

They carefully collect the mushrooms, hypomyces lactifluorum, settling them gently into another tote bag Derek brings out from his pack. Stiles would make fun of how many he has, but they're actually pretty useful. They're staining the bag with dirt, but it seems Derek doesn't care. There's an ease about him now, when he's touching the earth and the moss, and the fruits of the forest. How his hands sink into the cool dirt and touch the roots of trees and plants, how connected he is in a way he's never been back home. Stiles tries it too, out of curiosity. But the dirt just feels like dirt and now his hands are filthy, so he sticks to admiring the way this type of peace looks on Derek, how Stiles has never seen him in this specific way before.

Eventually, when they can't spot any more mushrooms, already having traveled a quarter mile or so off the deer trail in their search, they move on. Derek admits he can smell where they are, but it's more fun to use his other senses instead, and it's more fair to Stiles, too. Stiles just nods his thanks, and he hopes Derek understands.

It never feels like Derek's pitying him or controlling him or treating him like a kid; it's the opposite, and perhaps Derek treats him more normally than anyone does now. He takes care of him, and everyone else is too afraid of him, it seems, of upsetting him or touching him or even talking to him. It's not that Stiles deserves this type of care from Derek, too full of mixed feelings about it, but the softness Derek exudes towards him is acknowledged and remembered and goes to sit somewhere in the direction of Stiles' heart. It lives there and he doesn't look at it often, but when he does, it feels like glowing warmth.

"Oh my god," Stiles exclaims after a few more minutes of meandering on the trail. They scan their eyes back and forth on the ground, taking in all the inedible mushrooms and tangle of constant blackberry bushes, the bright yellow sulfur fungi and the tiny slime molds that look like pink bubbles.

There, sitting innocently in another patch of bright moss, is a chanterelle.

Cantharellus sp. These ones used to go in every soup his mom made. They'd freeze them to have them year-round, they'd star in Thanksgiving stuffing, they'd fit right into casseroles and on top of pizza. They're the true gold of the forest, little mounds of treasure sticking up from the dirt. They're literally golden-yellow, smelling of soil and a hint of apricot. (So all the books say. Stiles has never even gotten a whiff of apricot.)

He hasn't seen them in years. They're not even as rare as lobster mushrooms, but they're more palatable, easier to use, expensive to buy and sell, and when there's one, there's tons. Stiles points to a large one he sees growing right off the path, and sinks down on his knees immediately next to it, digging out his pocket knife from his back pocket and cutting off the base.

"Good eye," Derek praises, and Stiles has to turn his head so Derek won't see him blush. "There's more over here."

Derek crouches nearby, and soon both their arms are full, and they have little piles of chanterelles on the ground near them as well, ready to go in one of Derek's many bags. The wolf is nothing if not prepared. And usually, that's Stiles' job. But now Stiles is grateful for the lack of responsibility. It almost feels like something is taken from him, something he was known for, good at, having all the answers and tools and plans, but now it's simply a relief. He's glad to hand it over to Derek, someone who can be trusted more than Stiles right now. Even if it's only with something as silly and small as carrying too many bags.

They dump them gently into the tote, finding more and more just when they think they're ready to move on from this area. It's exhilarating, exciting, and Stiles is actually having fun for once in many, many months. Something is going right for him, and it's an unfamiliar feeling.

Sometimes, amongst the chanterelles, there's other mushrooms, too. Shrimp mushrooms, russula xerampelina, which also smell and taste fishy. They have a pinkish hue on their stem, and Derek breaks off a piece of the cap to chew and spit out. If it tastes peppery, it's inedible. If it's fishy, it's what they're looking for. They don't pick too many of these; some are older and already rotting, and plus, they're in the brittlegills family of fungi, and true to their name, they break easily and tend to crumble instead of making it home in one piece.

It's a lot of adventure and excitement packed into a few hours, and along with all the up and down movements and scanning the area back and forth with his eyes, not to mention the hike in general, Stiles is tired. He's sure Derek could keep going for hours, but part of his own exhaustion might be from hunger. So finally, he plants his ass down on a patch of moss, and looks up at Derek expectantly.

"Snacks?" he asks, batting his doe eyes up at Derek, and Derek only smirks, swinging his pack off his back and setting it on the ground in front of Stiles.

"I was waiting for you to ask," Derek says. "Took you long enough."

"Hey, I have trauma, okay, the last thing on my mind is food these days." It's meant to be a joke, but it doesn't land.

"I know," Derek tells him seriously. "It's alright." Now it's a bit awkward between them, so Derek busies himself with unzipping the pack and pulling out a snack bag of Kettle chips and a PB&J sandwich in a Ziploc. Stiles didn't know that Derek Hale even owned Ziplocs.

"Thanks," he says as he takes the food. Derek passes him his Gatorade again, too. The sandwich is good, reminding him of elementary school, and Derek isn't stingy on the peanut butter or jelly, because the bread is slathered in it. It's some whole wheat crap, but for once Stiles doesn't mind it.

Derek scarfs his down in a few quick bites, before starting on the second one he packed for himself. Just before he takes a bite, he offers to share it with Stiles, but Stiles shakes his head no. He'll be full from just this. Derek gives him a look, like that's not the Stiles he remembers, but Stiles has changed a lot in the last few months, and not for the better.

It's mostly quiet between them again at first as they eat, but then they share bits of their childhood again, remembering what their parents used to cook with the ingredients. It's no surprise that their mothers used to have lunch with each other occasionally, how they both appreciated that the other respected the earth like this. The conversation shifts to school and the pack when the mood gets too depressing, even though Stiles feels like Eeyore right now with his ability to make everything depressing if he tries hard enough. Which is to say, he doesn't have to try very hard at all.

They pack up their trash into the backpack and Derek reaches a hand down to help Stiles up. It's very gentlemanly of him, and Stiles almost expects him to give a bow afterwards, and is grateful that he doesn't. Derek's hand is warm in his, and strong, and he's suddenly glad Derek's the one he's on this trip with. He's always felt safe with the wolf, and he can't say that about everyone.

"Hey," he starts, as they hit the deer trail again, winding through the brambles and ferns and spotting more mushrooms here and there as they go. It's almost too easy, but they must be in the right place at the right time. It's autumn, and that's the fungi's favorite season. "Thanks for this. For everything. It's… nice," Stiles says, genuine.

"Sure," Derek responds, a little awkwardly, like he's not used to getting thanks. "Thought it'd be a good break."

"It is. I — yeah. Thanks."

"You said that already," Derek points out, like an ass.

"You're an ass," Stiles tells him, and Derek grins, and they keep walking.

They head back to camp eventually, turning around with Stiles in front now, and Stiles can't help but savor the feeling of Derek's hands on him as he helps him over the same logs as before. Stiles doesn't even have the capacity to feel like he's weak anymore, too busy obsessing over the warm palms around his waist or interlaced with his own hand.

They unload the mushrooms and wild greens into the cooler, the contents of it still suspiciously cold and fresh. Stiles narrows his eyes at it, suspecting magic, but Derek just snorts and tells him he bought the best camping cooler on the market these days; it apparently keeps things cold for up to five days. He did his research and everything. Nerd.

The sun is high overhead now so Stiles strips off his hoodie at last, throwing it into the tent and chugging the rest of his Gatorade when he suddenly realizes how thirsty he is. Derek offers him some beef jerky as he eats his own, but Stiles is still full, so he declines.

"You wanna head down to the lake?" Derek offers, motioning through the forest towards a way they've never gone before. A swim actually sounds like a nice idea right now, or at least putting his feet in. Stiles isn't sure he's ready for Derek to see… him. Especially not this version of him. He's refused to look in the mirror for months, but he's sure it isn't a pretty sight.

So they grab a beach towel each and head down to this mysterious lake, Stiles trailing after Derek again. He trips over a stray rock at one point, and has to grab onto the back of Derek's shirt, swearing and sweating with embarrassment. But Derek only hauls him back upright by his arm and doesn't even smirk at him, like he so easily could. He's being too much of a gentleman, and it's weird. Stiles can feel his face flushing anyway.

The lake is beautiful. It's large and clear and there are light spots dancing on it from the sun overhead. A set of huge mountains and a bundle of trees are settled on the opposite side of the lake, and there are pines and firs and alder trees all around. Cattails and nettles and a few cottonwoods, bare of leaves by now but still towering over the ground just the same.

art by sparassiss

"It's beautiful," Stiles says under his breath, taking in the incredible view. He's never seen anything like it, has barely been out of Beacon Hills since his childhood. It makes him feel small and inconsequential in the world, like his problems are meaningless in the scope of things, but it's not a relief like he'd expect. Instead it just makes him want to camp out right here, and never return to town, never go back to his usual life. It's safer here, fewer thoughts and feelings and threats. They wouldn't miss him back home, anyway.

From beside him, Derek's gazing similarly out at the water, eyes sparkling, face at ease and serene as Stiles has ever seen him. He's clearly at home here, too.

The water isn't murky nor full of algae, so Stiles watches with interest as Derek doesn't hesitate to strip out of his clothes and head towards the lake. He thinks Derek will just dive in, but suddenly Derek is shifting right before his eyes, bones rearranging and snapping until a massive black wolf is standing in front of Stiles, tongue lolling out of his grinning mouth.

"There you are," Stiles murmurs, awed still after all this time. Derek's wolf is incredible, and he can never get enough of him. Derek barks, once, short and insistent, and tilts his head towards the water as he walks into it and pointedly tells Stiles to join him.

"Alright, alright," Stiles laughs, "but don't look." He begins to strip tentatively, removing his plaid and then his shirt, undoing his pants while Derek's back indeed stays turned respectfully. Their towels are dropped onto the rocks by the lakeside, and soon a pile of Stiles' clothes begins to grow there next to Derek's. He leaves his boxers on, not that confident yet, his face reddening, and not just because of the sun.

He walks towards the water with his heart pounding, but the breath is suddenly knocked out of him as his feet sink into the freezing water. Derek turns around, then, bounding up to him through the water and splashing it onto him, and Stiles laughs in surprise, gasping at the icy droplets landing on him.

Derek gives a short bark again, a gleam in his eye, and before Stiles knows it, Derek's teeth are placed ever so gently around his forearm, pulling carefully, leading him further into the water.

Come on, he'd be saying if he were in his human form, you'll get used to the temperature. You can do it.

Stiles squints against the sun and smiles in spite of himself. It's still warm out, and the water just feels colder because of the contrast in temperatures. He can never stand to seem like a baby, a scaredy cat, no matter how encouraging and non-judgemental Derek is. So he takes a deep breath, gazing into Derek's earnest eyes, and moves further into the water, sinking underneath its frigid surface as soon as he's deep enough.

It's crushing, pressing into him on all sides as his head goes under and his body is frozen. He comes back up immediately, gasping, sputtering, shivering, and there Derek is, up to his wolfy neck in water with a giant grin on his face, his long tail moving through the surface of the water rapidly. Someone's having a good time, at least.

"Happy now?" Stiles asks, brushing his hair out of his face with a hand that's only slightly numb. He is getting used to the water already, it seems, the longer he sits in it with the sun beating down on him. He should've grabbed sunscreen at camp, but it slipped both their minds.

Derek gives a yip in response, before he splashes closer and licks a broad stripe up the side of Stiles' cheek. Stiles bursts out laughing at the shock of it, how affectionate Derek lets himself be in this form, and shoves Derek away playfully, his soft fur dark and drenched.

The water is blue but Stiles can't see below the surface besides odd shadows here and there, and he hopes this isn't one of those lakes with leeches. Derek's doggy paddling now, treading water and swimming away effortlessly, sliding gracefully through the water, sniffing the air with his wet snout as he goes. Stiles wonders what he's smelling.

The afternoon is gorgeous, and makes Stiles feel more like himself again the longer they hang out there. A hawk flies overhead and Derek's ears perk up at its call. A dragonfly skims the surface of the water, and a fish moves here and there, leaping up and out like something from a movie. Stiles can't remember the last time he felt this at ease, and it's strange.

He hides his body below the water where the sun (and Derek) can't see him, but he can feel the tips of his ears turning pink and the top of his head warming anyway. His wet hair is plastered down onto his forehead from all his dips underneath the water, but he can't bring himself to brush it away anymore. His cheeks hurt from smiling as he and Derek splash each other, shoving each other in their own ways and playing around, and Stiles is surprised at both himself and the wolf, at how light and fun things can be when there's not a threat of danger. He wishes it could be like this always.

At some point, Derek's stomach audibly rumbles, and Stiles laughs at him and splashes him with more water. Derek growls playfully and tries to bite it out of the air, just for the fun of it, and Stiles can hardly breathe from laughing so hard. Who is this wolf and what did he do with Derek Hale?

Stiles continues to tread water, not hungry himself yet, and he also knows that as soon as he leaves the water he won't want to get back in, because then his skin won't be used to it anymore and it will go back to feeling frigid and unbearable. So he watches with glee as Derek makes his way towards the shore, paddling and looking way too cute for such an intimidating creature, his tail whipping back and forth like he can't help himself.

The wolf doesn't leave the water completely, but stands in it so it's touching his belly, and Stiles observes curiously as Derek stares down at the water in front of him intently. He's watching something, his ears flickering and his eyes moving back and forth.

Suddenly, a fish jumps out of the water, and Derek snatches it in his mouth immediately, knowing it was there the whole time. So this is the cure to Derek's hunger.

Stiles is both impressed and nervous at once. It's true, he didn't suddenly go vegan overnight, but something about blood these days, whether it's on his hands or others', brings up the exact emotions he's been trying to escape. No one deserves to die if they're innocent, especially if there's other options. He's aware he sounds like Scott, but he suddenly understands, now. After what he went through, after what he did — no one else can die because of him, or on his watch. Not even an innocent little fish.

He suspects it's a phase, and it's much easier to guilt his dad into vegetarianism when his own morals have shifted to back it up. But either way, it's how he is right now, the intensity of discomfort that death makes him feel, so he only hesitates a moment before calling out to Derek.

"Der," he says from his place in the water a few feet from Derek. "Come on, dude, we can't eat the fishies. Look at their little faces!"

Derek snorts around the fish in his mouth, its tail flapping against his snout, and he huffs, annoyed. His teeth are hardly digging into it, and if he let it go now it'd be essentially free and unharmed, and he must be able to smell something in Stiles' scent, discomfort and warning and nausea.

Derek whines, paws dancing in the water as he hesitates, battling his hunger versus Stiles' anxiety. Something shifts on his face then, though, because Stiles is pack, and pack comes first and foremost. Derek lives his life trying to keep others safe and comfortable, and Stiles of course is no exception.

So Derek just growls slightly, winces at the tail still flapping against him in fear, and now Stiles can't help but laugh a little where he treads water and watches the great big wolf get essentially slapped in the face by a little fish. It's a funny picture, and Stiles wishes he had his phone with him in the water.

"You look ridiculous, just so you know," he tells Derek with a broad grin, and now Derek lets the fish go and growls even louder, this time directed at Stiles. But it's all a joke, even when Derek dives in after Stiles and tries to pounce on him, and now Stiles is giggling and cackling and trying to get away, and he just feels so happy.

They play-fight for another few minutes, until Derek really has to eat something before the rumbling in his stomach gets any louder. And now that Stiles thinks about it, part of the rumbling could be that purring thing he's observed Derek do, when he's also secretly happy but doesn't want anyone to know. Derek, the intimidating, scary wolf, is purring like a giant puppy, and Stiles just lov—

He dunks his own head underwater to clear it from that train of thought.

When he resurfaces, Derek is paddling away again, towards the shore once more. When he gets out at last, he shakes himself off, water droplets going everywhere a safe distance from Stiles. He meets Stiles' eyes, motioning with his head to the woods, signaling that he's going to go search for some food for himself out of sight from Stiles, and that, Stiles is okay with.

"See ya later, big guy," Stiles acknowledges, "Be safe."

Derek yips in response before turning around and prancing through the woods like he belongs there. And maybe, Stiles thinks, he does.

Half an hour later and Stiles' face and head are baking in the sun. He knows about heat stroke, and sunburns, of course, and he hasn't drunk water in ages, so he knows it's time to get out. He sighs, soaking up the last bits of warm sun before he starts to swim over to the shore.

The lake is dappled in various light spots and shadows depending on where the trees cover it, and the part near the shore is drenched in shade. It's colder here, and Stiles' eyes have to adjust from being in the sunlight to this sudden darkness. He squints, feeling blind for a moment, treading water still, as the lake is still fairly deep here.

It's then that he feels something brush against his leg. He's felt it before, today, stray fish and probably lake seaweed? Is that a thing? Stiles thinks it's a thing. Lake-weed. Sure. He swims away slightly, before he feels it brush against his other leg. He yelps aloud for a second, but the tickling feeling passes after a moment, and his heart rate starts to come back down.

Stiles takes a deep breath before ducking underwater and swimming towards the land properly this time. But it's then that something brushes against him again this time, but now there's a weight to it, and suddenly Stiles jumps as his body is yanked straight down into the dark water.

Something slimy wraps around both his legs as Stiles is forced down, down, down, the light shining through the surface of the water disappearing before his very eyes. He struggles, wasting his precious air as he screams ineffectively, silently, writhing and desperately trying to untangle himself from the beast that's captured him. He knows in his heart it's supernatural; there are no octopuses or squid in this lake, and monsters follow Stiles around like shadows.

His air is already running out with the strength of his exertion, and soon there's a weight pressing against his chest now that might be the pressure of the deepening water itself, or his own lack of oxygen, or the creature wrapping around his torso to suffocate him further.

He fights and fights, kicking and thrashing around, but it's no use.

He's so, so cold. The water is frigid around him again, and he's nauseous with it, feeling it soak into his veins and turn them frostbitten and frozen. He pleads for Derek in his mind, but the pressure is moving into his head now and it's getting hard to think. He thinks he might pass out soon. Derek, his brain begs, Derek, help. Derek, please. Derek, I'm sorry.

Suddenly there's a sharp stinging sensation on the bottom of Stiles' foot, but when he tries to look down at it, he realizes his eyes are glued shut. It's no use. The only thing left to do is float, succumb to the beast that's captured him. Let himself go, let himself die. This is what he wanted, isn't it?

His air has run out now. His chest hurts; everything hurts. But the more he allows the water to fill his lungs and encourage him to drift where he continues sinking, the easier it is to let go. It's nice, almost, not to have to fight anymore. To let someone else win for once. This is an opportunity, he thinks, in what are probably his last moments, the one he's been secretly hoping for in the back of his mind. He will cease to exist after this. His dad will be sad, sure, but maybe he'll be relieved in the end to not have to deal with a broken child anymore.

And Derek— Derek— well, the wolf will deal. It's a shame, though, that Stiles never got to tell him he lov—

The slow return to consciousness is disappointing.

Stiles had just gotten himself to a place of contentedness, before all went black. Acceptance. Now here he is, with a spotlight shining onto his closed eyelids, and his body heavy and numb. Someone's touching his face, he thinks, there's pressure there, and a muffled voice beyond the drumming in his ears.

He tries to sink back into the darkness, where it was comfortable, where it was safe. But there's a frantic energy around him that he can pick up even in his half-conscious state. The longer he lays there, the more he can feel his body, the return of sensations, and with them, pain. There's a sickening sharpness in the bottom of his foot, and his chest is heavy and tight, and he's so very cold. It's hard to even remember where he is, or who he is; just that he hurts, and he was torn out of somewhere— not nice, per say, but restful. He'd like to go back.

The murmuring is getting louder, clearer. His body is being moved, prodded, and it only makes him more nauseous. This can't be death.

"Stiles," he hears a voice calling to him. Is it his father? "Stiles!"

He recognizes the voice after a moment; would recognize it anywhere.

Derek.

"Wake the hell up, Stiles, come on," the wolf is saying intently, his voice strained and worried. Stiles wonders what he's so upset about. He's never cared that much before.

Stiles doesn't move; he doesn't even think he's breathing.

"Stiles," Derek hisses. "Please. Please."

It's not worth it. He can feel the pressure building in his lungs and head again, but it's like his subconscious is still clinging on to life, looking down on his body like a ghost while his sorry sack of bones fights to live. But it doesn't seem like he's even fighting very hard at all.

Then there's something that sounds like a sob, and Stiles wonders if Derek's okay. Maybe the sea creature got him, too. Poor guy, hasn't he been through enough?

There's suddenly a larger amount of pressure on his chest, what feels like pumping, and oh, Derek's doing CPR. There's a warm mouth on his own but it doesn't feel good, it doesn't feel like anything. Stiles wants to go back to sleep.

"I need you, Stiles, please."

Derek's words rush through Stiles' mind, wherever it is, whatever plane of existence it's on, and something is triggered. Someone needs Stiles? And it's Derek? Derek?

Derek presses on his chest again a few more times, blowing air into his mouth, and he's still muttering under his breath. Stiles is frozen, stuck between worlds, and now he must make a decision.

The darkness here is so comforting, so simple, so easy. It would be nice to stay here for a while longer, maybe forever. It's just that Derek apparently needs him, and his voice sounds so broken, and the man has been through so much, lost so many people, and Stiles doesn't want to cause any more grief for him. Besides, there's what feels like a whole pool of water sitting in his lungs, and it's getting really uncomfortable the longer Stiles hovers between his body and the air. The more present he is, the more he feels, and his chest hurts, and so does his foot, and actually the entire rest of his body, and it's just going to hurt more the longer he lays here in between realities.

So Stiles thinks a second more, and chooses something. Chooses Derek, chooses life. Chooses hope and a future and perseverance all in the span of a single moment, and suddenly he is coughing up water and spewing it onto the hard rocks underneath him and all over himself, and Derek is turning him over and rubbing his bare back and Stiles is crying and Derek is crying, but somehow Stiles still knows he made the right decision. In being alive.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks dumbly, as he strokes Stiles' hair and pulls him up to a half-sit once he's done puking all the water and lake grime out of his lungs. There's snot dripping down his face, he's sure of it, but when he glances up at Derek, the man has blood all over his own face, so Stiles thinks that maybe Derek is in an even worse state than he is. Then again, Derek's not the one who almost died.

"You have something on your face," Stiles croaks out around his burning throat. Derek really is covered in it, and maybe some of it has washed off from the lake but it's still dripping steadily onto Derek's body. Oh, there's an open wound on his chest. Cool.

"Stiles," is all Derek manages before he tugs Stiles into his bloody chest and holds on for dear life. Derek's wide, warm palm cups the back of Stiles' head, and he's gentle where he holds him, his other hand scooping his back, the hotness of his skin almost sizzling against Stiles' frigid body.

"Don't ever do that again," Derek demands, his voice all together wet and angry and shaky.

"Why are you crying?" Stiles asks, brain still a little slow. He did just almost die. That's a valid excuse, right?

"Because you almost died," Derek tells him harshly, gripping him closer still. Derek is so warm, and Stiles is so cold, and he just wants to curl up in Derek's lap and be held.

"Sorry," Stiles says feebly, nestling into Derek's neck. It's safe here, maybe as safe as where he just was, and Stiles really does lo—

"Hey," he mumbles out after a moment. His body is too still, unable to even shiver yet, still getting his energy back. He just continues to melt into Derek, trusting him to hold him up and keep him warm. "I gotta tell you something."

Derek just shakes his head minutely against Stiles' hair. "It can wait."

"No," Stiles slurs, "nope." He moves his hands, albeit weakly, to wrap around Derek's waist as much as he can, holding on there, trying to ground himself. His defenses are long since down and he has nothing to lose now. Besides maybe his life again, but Derek wouldn't kill him just for admitting his feelings. Not after he just rescued him. Really, it's for the best that it happened. It gives Stiles the upper hand. Huh, he should try almost dying some more. It seems to serve him occasionally.

"I love you," he tells Derek, voice crackling and raw, but it's the most honest thing he's ever said. Derek jerks against him, and pulls back to look in Stiles' eyes.

"Are you concussed, too?" He narrows his own eyes, peering at Stiles and scanning his face like it will hold all the answers.

"I don't think so," Stiles shrugs. His body still feels cold like a corpse, and the shivering starts up again in three, two, one. "I've just felt like that for a while. Figured you should know, like, if something happens to me again."

Derek just scowls at him. "Nothing's gonna happen to you again. I killed the lake creature, you're safe now."

"You didn't answer my question," Stiles says, tongue still feeling heavy and drugged. Why is Derek being so dense about this? Where is his response? Stiles didn't expect him to admit his undying love for Stiles in return, but at least a thanks would be nice.

"You didn't ask a question," Derek hisses at him. People don't usually look mad in movies when someone tells them they love them. Maybe something different slipped out in response, instead of Stiles' feelings. Or maybe he accidentally said I hate you instead. He's definitely said that to Derek before, as well.

"I love you," Stiles repeats, just to make sure. He thinks there's still water in his ears, so maybe that's affecting how he's hearing himself.

"I heard you the first time," Derek mutters. "I love you too, now will you promise to shut up and stop dying?"

Oh.

"Hey, I didn't die on purpose," Stiles mumbles. Derek's face is really close now, and there are water droplets in his long eyelashes and blood still smeared on his face, but his hazel eyes are really pretty and Stiles wonders if wanting to kiss him is a side effect of almost dying.

"You need to be more careful," Derek frowns. "I turned my back for five minutes and you disappeared underwater. Do you have a death wish or something?"

Stiles doesn't answer. The truth would hurt Derek, and Stiles isn't cruel.

"Will you kiss me?" he asks. He's feeling vulnerable and woozy and not quite there, and he loves Derek, and Derek loves him back apparently, and now seems as good a time as ever.

Derek stares at him with his calculating, beautiful gaze, before nodding slowly, scanning his face to double-check Stiles' coherency. Stiles gives what he hopes is a non-demented-looking half-smile, and meets Derek's eyes.

Derek raises his palm to Stiles' frigid cheek, stroking there a bit with his palm before leaning in slowly, and meeting Stiles' lips.

The wolf's mouth is hot against Stiles' own, warming his freezing lips, but Derek's touch is so, so gentle, and it does feel like love soaking into Stiles. He can feel that Derek loves him, that Derek wasn't just making shit up or telling him what he wanted to hear. Their mouths move against each other slowly, because Stiles still feels drugged and out of it, but Derek is soft with him, and it's the sweetest kiss in the world.

When they break away, their foreheads meet before Derek tugs Stiles close to his body again, tucking his face back into his warm neck and wrapping his big arms around Stiles' torso.

"I love you," Derek repeats softly, "but I will kill you if you ever do anything like that again."

"Mm, love you too, big guy," Stiles slurs, before he promptly passes out in Derek's arms.

When Stiles wakes up again, he's still not dead. He's shivering and back in their tent with socks on and dry underwear, and pointedly not thinking about how that happened, and he then realizes that Derek's bare arms are around him and the wolf is cuddled up to his back. He's being held tightly and securely and comfortingly, and Stiles sighs serenely, eyes heavy-lidded.

Stiles scans his body mentally, taking in the tightness of his foot, rubbing his feet together and realizing there's a bandage there. He's encased in a sleeping bag, zipped all the way up to his neck, and his body is in a shocking lack of pain. He peels his eyes open and peeks down at himself, and sees the black veins running up Derek's forearms, just like Stiles expected.

"Didn't think you were the kidnapping-and-drugging kind of guy," Stiles mumbles, feeling lazy and sleepy and relaxed. Side effect of the werewolf mojo.

"What?" Derek mutters behind him, and Stiles can feel his mouth moving against the nape of his neck. It's kind of nice, even if it tickles a little.

"You know, first you kidnap me to take me camping and then you drug me with your werewolfiness. Your werewolf juice. Y'know?"

"Don't say 'werewolf juice,'" Derek barks. (Ha.) "It's gross."

"Mmkay, buddy. Night night."

"Night," Derek says softly into his skin. Then Stiles falls asleep again, but it's not a relief this time, it's not an escape. It just is.

"Derek?" Stiles grunts, shifting and stirring as he wakes up again. Derek's arms are still around him, his bare leg tucked between both of Stiles'.

"I'm here," Derek whispers. There's a loud cacophony of noise making its way to Stiles' ears, and it's scary in his half-asleep state.

"Wha's going on?" he slurs.

"Thunderstorm," Derek answers quietly. "You slept for hours; it's nighttime now. The rain started a little bit ago."

"Oh," says Stiles, smartly. "Are we safe?"

"Yes," Derek promises, his voice suddenly too intense for the conversation, his tone emphatic. "I'll keep you safe."

"I know you will," Stiles sighs out into the darkness. "You're a good alpha, you know that?"

"I'm not an alpha anymore, Stiles," Derek reminds him, and Stiles imagines his eyes to be glowing blue in the pitch black behind him, now, even though Stiles is too tired to turn around and see.

"You are to me," Stiles says honestly, with conviction despite his feeble state of recovering. At least he's getting warmer now. "You're my alpha. Mine."

Then he feels something prickling at his skin, and realizes Derek's claws have come out, poking him gently, and oh, there's fangs at his neck, too.

"Sorry," Derek apologizes, slurring around his mouthful of fangs, "couldn't help it." Then he licks the area gently, to soothe any sting his fangs have left, and Stiles shivers.

And then Stiles wonders just how significant this conversation is, to make Derek lose control all of a sudden like this.

Derek's speaking again now into the back of his shoulder. "You're mine, too."

"Good," Stiles agrees, before he slips off into sleep once more.

Stiles has always hated thunderstorms, and rain. They remind him of the days leading up to his mother's death. They remind him of the Nogitsune, of stabbing Scott in the stomach and being drenched and cold with moisture, coldness he could hardly feel through the spirit possessing him, but he remembers it nonetheless. They remind him of being scared as a little kid, of hiding under the bed and cowering when the thunder sounded like gunshots, and how he told himself he wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything, but he was, anyway. How weak he felt then, how weak he feels now.

Derek's outside the tent now, getting all their stuff together and piling it under a tree so it doesn't get drenched. The rain cover's over the tent, and Derek moved the entire tent with Stiles in it under another canopy of trees, but there are heavy droplets still pitter-pattering over the fabric, and Stiles doesn't like it. He's cold again, shivering by himself in the sleeping bag, and he selfishly wishes Derek would come back soon.

His body hurts again, too, without Derek taking his pain, and Stiles supposes it's a side effect of drowning. He's all too familiar with near-death experiences, and they always hurt like this, but somehow this is the worst, because he had the option to be free of this body at last, and all it strangles him with. And now here he is again, sad and alive and cold and scared, and he misses how easy it was before, when the blackness was overtaking him and there was the beginning of peace at last.

Being in Derek's arms was distracting and nice for the time being, giving him a new appreciation for living, as long as he had to (it was his choice, his brain reminds him), but now Derek is not here, and he won't be with Stiles every second for the rest of his life, and some things Stiles will continue to have to face by himself, and he doesn't want to. He wants the comfort, the security of knowing someone has got him, loves him, is keeping him safe, no matter if he feels he deserves it or not.

Living is a bitch sometimes, and Stiles idly wonders, as he lies there in a cold tent in the middle of a thunderstorm, if he made the right decision.

There's a whole life ahead of him now, or at least until the next near-or-proper-death experience, and Stiles is just so tired already. The adrenaline of, uh, coming back to life again like some sort of teen Jesus has worn off now, and Stiles wants to cry even if he's not quite sure why.

When they get back to Beacon Hills, he'll have to continue on like usual, suffer through his nightmares like usual, keep doing his stupid homework and planning for his stupid future, and he doesn't want to, okay, hasn't he been through enough already? He wants to rest, he wants this camping trip to go on forever. He doesn't want to go back to the real world, he doesn't want to be a real boy. He wants to be with Derek, hidden away here where no one can touch them except apparently evil lake creatures and thunderstorms. He wants to be free of his anxious mind and painful body; he wants a fucking break.

As if Derek can smell his distress, which he likely can, even over the fresh, clear scent of the rain and the citrus aroma of fir needles blowing around in the wind, the man pads over to the tent and unzips it, poking his head inside. It's still pitch black, and Stiles isn't sleeping again anytime soon, so he rolls over onto his back and props his head up on his pillow.

"You okay?" Derek asks him, gently, and it makes Stiles feel too many things, some good and some bad and some weak and some special.

"'M'cold," is all Stiles says in response, grumpy and pouty now, wishing he had a blanket or something, purely for the comfort.

"I made you some hot chocolate," Derek says, shuffling through the tent now and zipping it behind him immediately. He tugs his drenched shoes off with one hand before he crawls over to Stiles and hands him a camping mug of something hot and sweet-smelling.

"How?" Stiles stutters, taking the mug gratefully, wrapping his frigid fingers around it and bringing it to rest against his chest. It's not bare, this time — he's drowning in a large henley, one of Derek's, it must be, and his pajama pants and wool socks.

"Magic," Derek snarks, moving to sit beside Stiles, who he can probably see perfectly clearly despite the utter darkness. Occasionally, lightning lights up the sky and flashes through the tent, and Stiles jumps, and he prays it doesn't happen while he's holding the hot chocolate. Hypothermia and burns in the same evening is too much whiplash even for someone used to weird shit like that, someone from Beacon Hills.

"No, really," Stiles presses, as he takes a sip after he blows on it. There's even mini marshmallows, and Stiles nearly melts where he sits, overcome by a sudden feeling for Derek, something like lo—

Oh wait, he can say that now.

"I love you," he blurts out, now that he's allowed. He wishes he could meet Derek's eyes in the darkness, see his face, how Derek really feels about these words Stiles cannot stop saying for the life of him.

"I had a thermos of hot water left over from earlier," Derek tells him. Such a Cub Scout at heart. "And I love you too."

There's that euphoric feeling in Stiles' chest again. It's fluttering somewhere around his heart, right where the darkness overtook him before.

"Good," is all he manages to say, before taking a massive sip of the hot chocolate and nearly choking on it. It's a wonder how he survived this far in life, and Derek has to pat him on the back to help clear his airway. Then he slides a hand up to bury it in the back of Stiles' hair, and pets a little there, and it gives Stiles the courage to get out what he says next.

"I don't think you should have saved me."

Derek's movements cease at once, and Stiles misses them immediately.

"I kind of wish you hadn't," Stiles continues. It's a lot easier to speak about this when he doesn't have to meet Derek's gaze, see his face and the pain that's probably there. "Shit like this is gonna keep happening. I'm gonna keep almost dying, and you're gonna keep saving me, or vice versa, and one day I'll be dead, or you will, and then the other one might die of heartbreak, and that's just a lot to handle. It'd be easier if you had just left me and gotten it over with early."

He clears his throat against the lump there, and sips his drink awkwardly, and the tent is silent for a moment until Derek fills it.

"I could never leave you, Stiles, what are you talking about?" His voice is wounded, strained, and sad, and Stiles feels guilty, but he's used to guilt. "This is life. Life is pain. And happiness. You suffer, but then there's good parts, and they don't make up for the pain, but they help make it easier to handle. What's this really about?" He lays a heavy hand on Stiles' thigh where Stiles sits cross-legged, and their knees bump against each other.

There's a heavy beat before Stiles speaks again. "I'm so fucking tired, man," he sighs out, closing his eyes, though he doesn't have to, because he still can't see an inch in front of his face. The storm continues to rage around them, and it should be cozy, but he keeps flinching every few minutes. It kind of hurts that the one day that's supposed to be amazing for him, the one where someone — Derek(!) — just told him he loved him, is the day that's full of near-death and pain and fear and misery, and he still can't escape these damn thoughts, how he's been feeling for months, the ideation that never quite seems to leave him.

"So am I," Derek agrees, "but we have to keep going. There's no other option."

"There was one," Stiles whispers, feeling like this conversation shouldn't even be allowed. He holds the warm mug to him like a plushie, and it's still comforting against his chest. Derek's hand grips his thigh harder, like his touch will keep Stiles here even if he doesn't want to be.

"When we go home," Stiles continues, quietly, knowing Derek can hear him over the racket of the storm, "it'll be shit again. No one will touch me and they'll all keep being scared of me or secretly not wanting me around, because I'm a burden and annoying, I know I am, and I'll have to go to fucking therapy, and lie about what really happened to me, and I'll have to go back to school and do math and make my dad eat healthy so he doesn't die, and then I'll have to pick a college, and a major, and a job, and I don't want to, Derek, I'm tired. I'm so, so tired."

It's quiet for a long moment, and Stiles thinks he's really done it this time. But then Derek speaks again, and his hand still hasn't left Stiles' thigh. It's a grounding weight, and it's the only thing keeping him stable right now.

"You're not a burden. And I thought you liked math," Derek says, and then Stiles is snorting into his hot chocolate, and Derek is taking it out of his hands so he doesn't spill it everywhere, and setting it down on the ground far away from him. "Come here," Derek murmurs, and that's how Stiles ends up in Derek's lap for the first time, cozy and safe with Derek's arms wrapped around him and Stiles' own arms around Derek's neck, his cold nose buried against his warm throat, giving him butterfly kisses with his long eyelashes, and frowning against his skin.

"I do," Stiles admits quietly, when they're settled. "It's the rest that sucks."

"I know," is all Derek says for another long moment. "I'm sorry," he whispers into Stiles' hair after a beat, holding him close. "I think, though — I think you just have to take it one day at a time."

Stiles sighs into Derek's skin, knowing the words are true, but they're annoying to hear anyway. He wants all the answers now, he wants things to be better. To erase the past, though he knows that's not possible.

"One day it will get better," Derek continues, like he's reading Stiles' thoughts. "When you think it won't. There will be good things. And you just have to focus on those instead of the rest."

"And you'll be a good thing?" Stiles murmurs, a bit sleepily, because he's getting warm again in Derek's arms, and it's nice. It's a good thing, too.

"As much as I can," Derek promises, his voice soft and low and gentle. "I won't leave you, if that's what you're worried about."

Stiles is about to answer, before Derek speaks again. "You just have to promise not to leave me, either."

Stiles thinks about it for a minute. His hand slides down to clutch into Derek's shirt, and Derek moves his own hand to cover Stiles', and then they're holding hands, and Stiles thinks he can maybe do this, after all. If he gets to have Derek.

"I promise," he whispers, just before he falls asleep. He doesn't look forward to waking up in the morning to the cold tent and the harsh reality of consciousness, not really, but he is looking forward to Derek, and that's more than he had before. It's everything, really. Derek is everything. And Stiles lo—

"I love you," he says once more, for what feels like the thousandth time that day. But he's never been allowed to say it before, all these months of secretly pining for the man, pushing the feelings down somewhere they can't see the light of day. So he has to keep saying it until Derek finally tells him to shut up. But somehow, he doesn't think Derek will.

"Love you too," he hears, just before there's a warm pair of lips pressing against his forehead, and his mind goes as dark as the midnight-black tent, and he's asleep, and maybe, finally, on his way to being happy, or at least content.

But he thinks happy is what he might end up with, if Derek has anything to do with it.

Stiles wakes up the next morning alone again, in his sleeping bag, with droplets of rain spattered on the outside of the tent. It's a bit uncomfortable, and not very cozy, and it's cold and damp and smells like mildew. But it's not Beacon Hills, so it's okay.

He's not alone for long, however, because soon Derek is unzipping the tent and handing him a mug of coffee and a bowl of instant oatmeal with a spoon. There's brown sugar sprinkled on top, and berries they collected just yesterday, the morning's hike feeling so long ago now. It's still sprinkling a little outside, so Derek crawls in the tent with Stiles and sits next to him while he eats as well. They don't talk much, but Stiles leans into Derek and steals his body heat, and Derek comes to eat one-handed while his free arm wraps around Stiles' shoulders.

"Is everything soaked?" Stiles asks, thinking of all their gear and food amongst the storm.

"No," Derek supplies, "it's all safe under the trees. You, though, still look like a drowned rat."

"Hey!" Stiles furrows his brow and pouts a little, just to see the grin spread across Derek's face. "I'll have you know I look like a very respectable rat. No drowning here." Okay, so he's still woozy with sleep. So what.

He's sure his own bangs are still clinging to his forehead, making him look younger than he is, but Derek doesn't seem to mind. He brushes Stiles' hair away from his skin occasionally, when he feels like it, and presses a kiss there as well, and it only makes Stiles' cheeks color. It's something he'll have to get used to.

"I don't feel like doing anything today," Stiles says after a while, mumbling into his coffee mug as though he hopes Derek won't catch his words, or be disappointed with him.

"That's okay," is what Derek says instead, and Stiles stares at him over the rim of the cup. "Everything's wet outside, anyway. No one likes hiking in the rain. We'll stay inside; I brought a card game."

"Of course you did," Stiles mutters, smiling in spite of himself.

They'd usually go bathe in the river by now, but yesterday's plunge in the water took a lot out of them both and Stiles assumes it washed away the worst of his ripeness as well. So they spend the day inside the tent, reading and playing card games and talking and kissing softly here and there. Derek stays true to his word and doesn't pressure Stiles to come outside, except to go to the bathroom, obviously. Stiles doesn't even feel like brushing his teeth. It's like Derek is saying, I know how you feel, and I accept you. He just stays inside with Stiles, heating up their little tent with his natural warmth, because if Stiles isn't going anywhere, then neither is Derek.

Derek only slips outside for food, making some kind of stew with some of their mushrooms and greens. He boils some tea for them both, with pine needles, wild mint, and pineapple weed, which is reminiscent of wild chamomile and smells like… well, pineapples. Stiles makes a joke about it affecting their, uh, bodily fluids, and Derek just rolls his eyes and tells him it doesn't work that way. Too bad.

All around it's kind of nice, like being stuck in a cabin with Derek, but instead of a cabin it's a cold tent with no heating. Still, it's cozy and feels like their own little world.

At some point Derek remembers that he'd stuffed a blanket into the trunk of the Camaro for emergencies. So he hikes back to grab it, beating himself up for not remembering it last night when Stiles was literally freezing. But, Stiles reminds him, grabbing the collar of his shirt to haul him in for a soft kiss, Stiles is still here and alive, isn't he? Hasn't even lost any toes or anything. It's fine. Derek looks skeptical at that, because only he and the sheriff know that when Stiles says he's fine, he's usually the complete opposite of it.

But this time, Stiles tells him, he really means it. He's okay. He's alright.

So now Stiles is bundled up in a strange outfit of Derek's shirt, his own pajama pants, a plaid, and his red hoodie, along with the gray blanket from the car and his sleeping bag. He complains slyly that he's still cold, though he's not remotely shivering anymore, even though his fingers are slightly icy. It's really a ploy to get Derek to cuddle him again, and it works — Derek moves closer right away, abandoning his own book and shifting to hold Stiles against his warm body. It's just like last night, but without the angst and immediate distress of nearly drowning, so obviously it's much, much better.

Stiles hasn't had much of a libido in months, since even before the Nogitsune. Since the Alpha Pack, really, and all the fear that came with it. He wonders how he even got it up in the year before that, with all they went through. So he's conflicted now, lying so close to Derek in the tent, out in the middle of the woods by themselves. He wants Derek, but he also doesn't feel ready. He's scared, like going all the way will make the relationship too good to be true, and it already is, really.

So they stick to softly making out, Derek lying over him on the sleeping bag and camping pad, kissing his lips gently and making his way down his neck. Derek is so tender with him, holding him like he's precious, like he can't believe Stiles is here in his arms. The way Derek looks at him sometimes, as if he's not real, like he doesn't know how he's allowed to have this, comes through in his expression and mirrors Stiles' feelings exactly.

Derek stays so respectful of him, not even grinding down on him or pressing their hips together. He nuzzles against Stiles' throat and kisses behind his ear and his jaw and all over his face when he's feeling sappy, and Stiles just soaks it up and grins and moans when Derek mouths against a really good spot. He's sure his pheromones are going crazy, and Derek just continues to hold him reverently and kiss him carefully and brush their noses together like he can't help it. Werewolves. (Stiles loves it.)

The rain has cleared enough when it's time for dinner, so Derek lures Stiles out of the tent with the promise of sitting around a warm fire and eating homemade chili with chanterelles and dock greens. He digs out a package of store-bought chocolate cupcakes from somewhere, and though Stiles is full, he stuffs one in his mouth anyway, always a sucker for chocolate. And cake. And sweets, and dessert in general, really.

Derek kisses the chocolate off his mouth and somehow Stiles ends up in Derek's lap where he sits on their log in front of the fire, and Stiles thinks that this is the closest thing to happiness he's felt in a long, long time.

They stay there in their little clearing in the forest for a few more days. The sun comes out eventually, and Derek looks at him pointedly when it does, like it's a message. Stiles rolls his eyes, but gets the point.

Their cooler is going to konk out on them any day now, because it's been five days total and it can only do so much. It's still full of mushrooms, all the greens eaten by now, and the other random food Derek stashed in it before they came out here. Stiles can admit that he's getting a bit restless by now as well; there's only so many books they brought with them, even if they traded with each other over the days. And there's only so many hikes they can go on, and things they can do, though Stiles' foot has healed quickly due to Derek's pain-drain — and Stiles really doesn't want to visit the lake again, and Derek doesn't either.

They could go explore the little coastal town, before heading back to Beacon Hills, and Stiles nods vehemently when Derek brings up the idea to him. Anything to avoid going back home, and anything to fill his time and distract from his betrayer of a brain.

It's sad packing up. Stiles knows he'll remember this place for a long time. His phone has died by now, but there's a few photos saved on it that he took of the forest around them and the little stream and the set-up camp. They had taken turns bathing in the stream to avoid seeing each other naked, because Stiles wasn't ready for that and Derek didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

Their bags are significantly lighter now than when they arrived, most of the food eaten except for some stray snacks, and they're many pounds richer with mushrooms. Stiles remembers seeing a quaint little Air B&B when they were driving in, and it's right next to the beach and painted a bright red, so it seems like it's calling to them, and Stiles looks forward to a hot shower and some reception so he can call his father.

Stiles is gathering the last of his things and shoving them into his bag when Derek comes up to him, laying a warm hand on his shoulder where he crouches by the now-disassembled campfire pit. He turns around, still easily spookable but getting less so by the day, and looks up at Derek, squinting against the sun. Derek's holding his hand out to Stiles wordlessly, and there's something in his palm.

Stiles makes a sound of intrigue before lifting himself up so he can see it properly. He grabs Derek's wrist to peer into his hand, and there is a little Douglas fir cone, with tons of tiny mushrooms sticking out of it every which way. They're white and slender and remind Stiles of fairies, and he gasps and smiles with sudden joy at the sight.

"Life finds a way," Derek tells him, face serious instead of smirking at what could be a great Jurassic Park quote, and Stiles understands.

Right before they leave, Stiles carves his initials with his pocket knife below Derek's in the large tree trunk. He runs his fingers over Cora and Laura's inscriptions, and intertwines his fingers with Derek's when he sees the wolf gazing forlornly at the tree. Stiles leans his head against Derek's shoulder and they both say goodbye to Laura all over again, and Derek's parents who have not marked the tree but have somehow left their magic in the area nevertheless.

The drive back to the coast on the little forest road they came in on is peaceful and sunny. The fir cone with the mushrooms is settled safely on the dashboard on Stiles' side of the car, and all their stuff is in the trunk, and they made sure not to leave a trace at their campsite. Stiles is sad to say goodbye to it; that's near where he and Derek had their first kiss, where they cuddled for the first time, where he suddenly had hope for his life for the first time in forever.

But they'll come back soon, Derek promises. Every few months, if Stiles wants to. It will be just for them, their little place.

Staring out the passenger window of the car, Stiles nearly yelps at one point when he spots something white growing out of a downed log.

"Stop!" he shouts to Derek, and Derek startles for once, slamming the car to a halt in the middle of the dusty road and looking bewilderingly over at Stiles.

"There's mushrooms!" Stiles cries, slamming open the door and piling out of the car at once. "Oysters!"

These ones are beige and nearly translucent in parts. Some are big and some small, and they look like seashells where they grow out of a mossy log on the side of the road. Their scent is potent and overwhelming even to Stiles as he nears them, and Derek wrinkles his nose, but all Stiles can think about is the oyster mushroom chowder his mother used to make.

So they grab a spare paper lunch bag from the trunk and peel off the oyster mushrooms from the log, saving the droopy, yellowing old ones for the bugs and taking the freshest specimens. Derek observes Stiles' excitement with a small smile on his face, both of them crouching down in the roadside grass to pick their haul.

The car now smells fishy and slightly overwhelming when they clamber back into it, throwing the mushrooms in the cooler immediately, but not soon enough. Stiles laughs at the look of disgust on Derek's face as he rolls down the passenger window and leans his elbow against the ledge.

"Aw, Sourwolf, is the smell too strong for your sensitive little nose?" he mocks, and Derek just growls playfully at him, baring his teeth for a moment, and continues to drive.

Stiles beams.

When they're almost to the intersection they turned in on that leads to the main coastal highway, Stiles spots another mushroom. It's inevitable to spot mushrooms on the way back that you've missed before, and plus, Stiles is on the other side of the road now, watching different scenery passing by. One time he spots a deer way up on the hill, eating salal vegetation, and gazes at its beauty in awe.

"It's you," Derek points, "it's Bambi." Stiles bats his doe eyes at him and grins until Derek kisses his cheek and makes him blush.

"Holy shit," Stiles breathes now when he spots the innocent mushroom nearly hidden under a fern on the right side of the road. "Is that what I think it is?"

Derek stops the car again, and they slide out, and Stiles literally runs over to the mushroom. It's beautiful, growing all alone, with a large stem and a pristine cap that looks like a golden-brown baked bun. Its nickname is penny bun for a reason, but Stiles says, "Porcini!" out loud, grinning from ear to ear and wishing his phone was charged so he could take a picture. It's literally the king bolete mushroom, the ruler of them all, rare and gourmet and as pretty as a mushroom can be. There's fine webbing on the white stalk called reticulation, and the whole thing is as tall as Stiles' forearm. It's magnificent.

Stiles doesn't hesitate to twist it carefully out of the ground, letting its spores fly everywhere and spread through the wind to hopefully let more porcinis grow in the coming months. Derek watches with a fond expression, and his phone isn't dead, because he's smart and charged it as soon as they climbed in the car and hit the road. So he takes the opportunity to snap a picture of Stiles grinning like a lunatic while he holds the giant mushroom up to show off, and sets it as his lock screen while he's at it.

"You really love me, don't you?" Stiles hums when he walks back to the car next to Derek and spots his new wallpaper.

"Unfortunately." Derek nudges their shoulders together, and Stiles just didn't realize he could feel this at ease, that the feeling was even available to him anymore.

He doesn't want to give Derek all the credit, lest it go to his wolfy head, but he can't deny that the man had a big part to play in Stiles' newfound happiness. It seems to have occurred overnight, his baseline more stable and upbeat now, though he still has frequent moments of distress and fear, hopelessness and frustration. But as the days go on, and the longer he's away from Beacon Hills, the lighter his chest feels and the less intimidating his future looks. He hardly lets himself go there in his mind, but when he does, it always, always includes Derek now, and the feeling is still somewhat incredulous.

The porcini goes in their newly titled mushroom cooler, and they're on the road again, this time leaving the forest completely and heading towards the beach. It's nearing evening, and Stiles slips on his hoodie again, watching the pink clouds shift through the dashboard window and the waves come closer and closer.

Derek packed them grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner before they left, filled with mushrooms (of course) and the last of their greens. They find a public beach with a parking lot, Derek parking effortlessly, and sliding out of the car gracefully. He grabs the sandwiches from the backseat and moves around to Stiles' side, interlacing their fingers like it's second nature now. Stiles clings to him as they make their way down to the beach, the sand getting in their shoes immediately and sinking in between their toes, but it doesn't bother Stiles as much as it should. Not now, with Derek next to him and his hand in his own.

There's hardly anyone else on the beach, surprisingly, so they walk a few minutes through the sand until a spot jumps out at them to stop at. A large piece of driftwood sits near the water, so they drop their sandwiches onto it and claim it as theirs.

Stiles observes silently as Derek strips off his shoes and socks, and then rolls up his jeans so his feet are bare and exposed to the cool sand. He walks straight into the icy water, the sun setting overhead, the clouds parting to let the light through. Stiles grins to himself at the ease and clear serenity displayed by the wolf, and hurries to slip off his own shoes and socks and follow right behind Derek. The water is indeed freezing, and he swears, gripping onto Derek's arm with both his hands as Derek laughs in his face, his hazel eyes crinkling at the edges.

Derek peers into the clear, frothy water, the soothing waves lapping at his feet and the seagulls squawking overhead. The atmosphere is, in a word, perfect, and Stiles is overcome with emotion for a second as he watches Derek gaze out at the ocean looking as free as Stiles has ever seen him.

There's stray seaweed floating in the water, and it catches Derek's eye. He reaches down and fishes it out, slimy and bright green, and Stiles' mouth falls open as Derek shoves it in his mouth and chews like it's no big deal.

"What are you doing," Stiles asks without inflection, true Derek style.

"Eating," Derek responds, brows furrowed like it's obvious. "You've never had seaweed?"

"Um, yes I have, you've seen me pack away, like, trays of sushi, dude. But straight from the ocean? Really?"

"It's edible. The water here is safe. Quit whining and try some." Derek's such a romantic.

Stiles rolls his eyes along with his entire head, but tentatively reaches down into the water to pick one out. It's dark green and thicker, like kelp.

"Not that one," Derek exclaims almost urgently, face serious, and Stiles startles, dropping it back into the water instantly.

"Why?!" he yelps, "Is it poisonous?"

"Nope," Derek grins, still chewing on his stupid seaweed. "It's just tough to chew. Your teeth will squeak. Try this one." He holds out another piece that he collects, brighter green like emerald cellophane.

"Asshole," Stiles huffs, embarrassed, taking the offered piece and shoving it in his mouth like a challenge. "Why are we dating again?"

The seaweed actually isn't bad. It's salty and a little hard to chew anyway, but it tastes like the seaweed salad he gets from the store when he's feeling adventurous and fancy, with the soy sauce and sesame seeds.

"I'm not sure," Derek muses to the water, but his hand locks with Stiles' anyway, and he brushes their shoulders together with intent, keeping Stiles close. "Something about true love, I guess."

"Ugh, you're so sappy," Stiles whines. "Sappywolf."

"Yep, that never gets old," Derek says sarcastically, sick of the constant wolf jokes, but it's kind of all a front. Stiles can imagine it reminds him of his sisters teasing him nonstop, and that he's missed it. He and Derek are so comfortable with each other, can go for hours without talking or by filling the silence with jokes and ribbing instead. They're good together, Stiles thinks.

"Come sit down with me," Stiles demands, after another moment of just standing in the water and holding hands, staring out at the glowing horizon. "I'm cold."

"You're always cold," Derek mutters, but his voice is warm and fond, and Stiles has only ever heard that tone directed towards him, so he feels special.

They clomp through the water back to the beach, the bottom of their pants soaked despite rolling them up, but it doesn't even matter, because when they go to sit down on their driftwood log, Derek pulls him close again and Stiles feels warm all over.

He curls into Derek, his cheek finding the wolf's shoulder, and Derek leans his own head onto Stiles'. "You ready to go home soon?"

They don't have to leave for a few more days, there's still the coastal rental house to come, but each day draws them closer to the end of their trip, when Stiles has to go back to school and catch up on all his classes and be sleep-deprived and cranky because of it, and continue to fight the monsters of the week and get sore and bloody and—

So no, he's not ready to go home anytime soon. If he didn't miss his dad so much, he'd be content staying here with Derek for a long while. Possibly forever, if he lets himself think that far ahead.

"No," he answers under his breath. "I don't wanna go back."

"I know," Derek acknowledges softly, his thumb stroking against Stiles' side. "It'll be okay, though. When you do. You'll be alright."

"I'll be with you," Stiles rushes out. Unable to stop himself, he continues, "You're not gonna dump me when we get home, right? 'Cause I can't eat all these mushrooms by myself." It's a poor excuse, but Derek can read between the lines. He's a Smartywolf.

"Yeah, when we drive back, I'm gonna drag your skinny little ass into the middle of the road, and leave you for dead," Derek grins against Stiles' hair, and Stiles gapes at him, pretending to be offended, brows furrowed and mouth open, letting in all the salty air from the beach.

"Aww, you remember our first date," Stiles suddenly beams, twisting it into a smirk, remembering the time he did in fact have to save Derek's little werewolf ass from wolfsbane poisoning, hiding him away in his Jeep until they got to Deaton's and Scott brought them the magic bullet.

"How could I forget," Derek says, with a crooked smile, "you were as annoying as ever. And your hair was terrible."

"Excuse me, it was not terrible! It was hot! I was a jock! Jocks have buzzcuts!"

"Keep telling yourself that," Derek singsongs, before turning his gaze back to the water. A moment passes between them, where Stiles still can't stop himself from smiling and leaning into Derek even more. He grabs Derek's free hand, fidgeting with his fingers and pulling them onto his lap to keep messing with them.

It's quiet for a beat, and then—

"Are you really going to be okay?" Derek asks him quietly, genuinely. He pulls his head away from Stiles slightly and turns to nuzzle his cheek, pressing a kiss there and leaving his lips on Stiles' skin for longer than normal. But when have Stiles and Derek ever been normal?

"Yeah. I think so," Stiles answers, voice crackling but honest. It's true; what makes the biggest difference is having Derek with him, to support and love him unconditionally, at least he hopes so. It's not like he wants to thrust himself into the first codependent relationship he comes across, but he and Derek have always had something special. It's about time they finally act on it.

When all his other friends, and even his father, hesitate to touch him, to talk to him, not wanting to make the wrong move or say the wrong thing these days when they don't know how to help, Derek's there, somehow doing everything right, treating him like a person, like a friend. Like a partner, like pack. Stiles still isn't looking forward to his future, per say, but knowing someone loves him? Messed up, anxious, spastic, hyperactive, annoying, Stiles? After what he did, who he is, what they went through together. After all that, and Derek still loves him, wants to be with him and hold his hand and cuddle him and kiss him and save his life?

Well, Stiles would be an idiot for turning that down and not factoring Derek into his future. And Stiles is kind of an idiot already, so he can only go up.

His life, he realizes, while sitting there holding Derek's hand and stealing his warmth and watching the peach and rose-colored clouds shift and the sun say goodnight, can only go up. Shit will still go down in Beacon Hills, monsters will still go bump in the night, and he'll still have to do his homework and keep his dad on a diet, but the worst might be over for now, and all that's left to do is recover, and deal with what happened. And find a way to be happy. Because Derek's told him he deserves that, late at night when they're sharing the same sleeping bag, and he thinks — no, he knows — that if he doesn't run away from this, he could let Derek make him happy.

It will be hard work to get there, to let himself have that, to trust that Derek really loves him and that Stiles could do the best job of making Derek happy in return. But he wants to try, and first he has to start, and he's had a lot of practice putting one foot in front of the other on all the hikes they went through on this trip.

So Stiles and Derek do indeed get out of Beacon Hills, but they come back stronger than ever, and a team, and a couple. Stiles still has nightmares and panic attacks and a lifetime of guilt and maybe a death wish sometimes, but Derek is always there to pull him out of it, make him remember that he's still good, and that Derek loves him and sees him for who he is, the smart, caring, clever, funny, strong and sweet boy that has a pure heart, one that overcame the darkness.

Beyond the darkness, there's light, and when Derek looks at Stiles he thinks he knows what light he's reaching for, now, and it's not the one at the end of the tunnel, where his mother sits waiting for him on the other side. It's the one right in front of him, meeting his eyes with that fond, loving look, the one reserved for Stiles alone.

The light is Derek, and Stiles reaches back, and takes his hand, and Derek doesn't let go, not ever, and Stiles doesn't either.

And maybe that's what life is about, Stiles thinks, sitting there in front of the vast, calm ocean, with waves coming and going but always evening out in the end. Ups and downs, highs and lows, and whoever sticks with you throughout it, whoever loves you up to the moon and back, and howls at it with you and kisses you underneath it without caring who sees.

The light is Derek, and Stiles loves him, and that's all that has to matter for now. That's all that matters in the end, too. Stiles and Derek, and Derek and Stiles, and maybe, one day, a happily ever after.

The end.

art by sparassiss