Archive of Our Own

The old Hale property had a way of collecting things.

Leaves collected against the remains of the stone foundation. Rainwater collected in the dips and hollows where the ground had never quite recovered from fire, construction, destruction, and years of neglect. Memories collected everywhere, whether anyone wanted them to or not. And apparently, according to Peter Hale, the property also collected garbage.

Derek stood beside the old stone well with his arms crossed over his chest, watching his uncle dig through a pile of half-rotted boards and rusted metal.

"You know," Derek said, "most people hire someone to do this."

Peter didn't bother looking up. "Most people don't have your sparkling personality to make manual labor enjoyable."

"I wasn't offering to help."

"And yet you've been standing there for twenty minutes."

Derek glared at the back of his uncle's head. Peter finally straightened, tossing a piece of broken wood onto the growing pile beside him. His gray shirt was streaked with dirt, his jeans had a smear of mud across one knee, and there was something almost offensively normal about the sight.

Derek wasn't sure he liked it. Peter was supposed to be immaculately dressed and irritating. He was supposed to sit somewhere comfortable with a drink in his hand while criticizing everyone else's technique. Manual labor made him look suspicious.

"What are you looking for?" Derek finally asked.

"Nothing."

"You're digging through trash."

"I'm cleaning."

"You don't clean."

Peter slowly turned his head. Derek raised an eyebrow. Peter pointed toward him. "That was unnecessarily hurtful."

"It was accurate."

"Accuracy doesn't preclude cruelty."

Derek rolled his eyes and stepped closer to the well. It was one of the few things that had survived. The old well sat farther into the woods than the house had, surrounded by thick trees and overgrown brush. Derek remembered it from childhood, though he'd forgotten about it until Peter had announced that morning that he was going out to clear some of the property.

The well had once been functional, long before Derek was born. By the time he'd been a kid, it had been sealed with a heavy wooden cover and used mostly as a landmark during games.

Don't go past the well. Stay where your mother can hear you. If you reach the well, you've gone too far. Rules that had seemed incredibly unfair when Derek was eight.

He brushed his fingers over the rough stone. Peter glanced at him but didn't say anything. That was another thing Derek didn't like. Peter not saying anything.

"What?"

Peter's eyebrows rose. "What, what?"

"You're staring."

"I glanced."

"You were staring."

"Your ego is becoming concerning."

Derek gave him a flat look. Peter sighed dramatically and bent down again. "I was wondering if you remembered it."

"The well?"

"No, Derek, the large purple elephant standing directly beside it."

Derek's jaw tightened. Peter smirked. There he was. Much better.

"Yes," Derek said. "I remember it."

Peter pulled another piece of debris from the weeds. "Your mother used to threaten to tie you to the porch because you kept wandering out here."

"I didn't wander."

"You absolutely wandered."

"I knew where I was going."

"You were six."

"Eight."

Peter paused. Derek did too. For a second, neither spoke. Peter looked down at the piece of wood in his hand.

"Eight," he conceded quietly.

Derek looked away. That happened sometimes. They'd start talking about something stupid, something harmless, and then one of them would remember a detail the other hadn't expected them to remember.

Eight. Peter remembered. Of course Peter remembered. Derek sometimes forgot that Peter had been there for nearly all of it.

Not just the fire. Not just the things afterward. Before.

Peter had been there when Derek was born. He'd been there when Derek learned to walk, when Derek learned to shift, when Derek lost his first tooth. Peter had teased him through childhood, annoyed him through adolescence and —

Derek's thoughts stopped when he heard something metallic scrape against stone.

Peter froze.

"What?" Derek asked.

Peter didn't answer. He crouched beside the base of the well and shoved aside a mat of dead leaves. His fingers found something buried underneath. Derek stepped closer.

Peter pulled. Something rectangular emerged from beneath the leaves, covered in dirt and rust. Derek stared. "No way."

Peter sat back on his heels. It was an old portable cassette player.

Not a Walkman. Bigger than that. One of those cheap battery-powered cassette recorders with a speaker built into the front and thick plastic buttons across the top.

The casing had once been silver. Now it was mostly brown. Peter turned it over. Derek actually laughed. Peter looked up sharply. "What?"

Derek pointed. "You wrote your name on it."

Across the back, barely visible beneath years of grime, were two faded words written in permanent marker.

PETER HALE.

Underneath them, in smaller handwriting:

NOT TALIA'S.

Peter's expression became deeply offended. "I was protecting my property."

"You labeled it."

"Your mother stole everything."

"She was older than you."

"Exactly. She believed that gave her rights."

Derek crouched beside him, wiping dirt away from the plastic. "How long has this been out here?"

"Apparently several decades."

"You left it outside?"

"I didn't leave it outside."

"Then how did it get here?"

Peter stared at the cassette player. Something changed in his expression. Derek noticed immediately.

"You know."

Peter was quiet.

"Peter."

His uncle exhaled through his nose. "I might."

Derek waited. Peter hated being waited out. It was one of the few strategies Derek had learned actually worked on him. Eventually Peter sighed. "There was a summer when your mother decided music was corrupting me."

Derek blinked. "What?"

"I was thirteen."

"That explains nothing."

"I had discovered punk."

Derek stared at him. Peter stared back.

"You?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

"You listened to punk?"

"I contained multitudes."

"You listen to classical music."

"I listen to everything."

Derek picked up the cassette player before Peter could stop him, examining it more closely. "What kind of punk?"

"Give me that."

Peter reached for it. Derek pulled it away. "Absolutely not."

"Derek."

"What kind?"

Peter's eyes narrowed. Derek smiled. It was small, but it was there. Peter looked genuinely annoyed. Which made it better.

"The Clash," Peter muttered.

Derek's smile widened.

"The Ramones."

Derek snorted.

"Sex Pistols."

"Oh my God."

"Stop enjoying this."

"You were a punk teenager."

"I was cultured."

"You probably had leather bracelets."

Peter's silence answered for him. Derek laughed.  Not the short sarcastic exhale he usually gave when Stiles did something ridiculous. Not the reluctant twitch of his mouth Scott occasionally managed to earn. A real laugh.

Peter stared at him.

Derek noticed. "What?"

Peter looked away first. "Nothing."

Derek knew better. But before he could ask, Peter reached over and pressed one of the cassette player's buttons.

Nothing happened. Obviously. Peter pressed it again.

"You think there are still batteries in that thing?"

"There shouldn't be."

He opened the battery compartment. Both Hales recoiled.

"Oh, Jesus," Derek muttered.

Peter snapped it closed. "We'll pretend we didn't see that."

"Agreed."

Derek turned the cassette player over again and noticed something. "There's a tape in it."

Peter stopped. Derek pressed the eject button. Nothing. He tried again. The mechanism groaned.

"Careful."

Derek looked at him. "It's been sitting outside for thirty years."

"That doesn't mean you should manhandle it."

"You're sentimental."

"Haven't I earned that yet?"

Derek's mouth twitched. He carefully worked the compartment open. Inside was a cassette. The label had faded almost completely, but black marker remained visible across it. Derek wiped his thumb over the plastic.

Then he read the words aloud. "'Well Mix.'"

Peter went very still. Derek looked at him. "Peter?"

His uncle sat down on the edge of the well. For once, there wasn't an immediate sarcastic response. Derek remained crouched for a moment before sitting beside him.

The forest moved around them. Leaves whispered overhead. Somewhere farther down the hill, a bird called. The breeze carried the smell of damp soil and pine and distant rain.

Peter took the cassette from Derek. "Laura made this."

Derek's chest tightened. Peter turned the cassette slowly between his fingers.

"Laura?"

"She was nine, maybe ten." Peter smiled faintly. "She'd gotten one of those ridiculous little tape recorders for Christmas. She carried it everywhere for months."

Derek remembered. Barely. A flash of Laura sitting cross-legged on the floor, headphones covering her ears.

He swallowed. "Why is it called Well Mix?"

Peter's smile grew. "Because this was our concert venue."

Derek stared at him. Peter looked toward the well. "Laura decided the acoustics were better here."

"At a well."

"She was nine."

"And you went along with it?"

"I was coerced."

"Sure."

"Your sister was terrifying."

Derek looked down. "Yeah."

Peter bumped his shoulder against Derek's. Lightly, almost accidental.

"She recruited everyone," Peter continued. "You, Cora, me. Your mother participated once before declaring that we were ruining perfectly good music."

"What did we do?"

Peter looked genuinely surprised. "You don't remember?"

Derek shook his head. Peter leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Laura would bring the recorder out here. We'd sit around the well and everyone had to contribute a song."

"Sing?"

"God, no. Thankfully."

Derek snorted.

"We'd bring tapes. Whatever we were listening to. Laura would record bits onto one cassette."

Derek looked at the tape in Peter's hand. "This one."

"Apparently."

"What did I pick?"

Peter glanced sideways at him. Then smiled. Derek immediately disliked that smile. "What?"

"You were obsessed with 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight.'"

Derek stared at him. "No."

"Oh yes."

"No."

"You sang it constantly."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

Derek shook his head firmly. "You're lying."

Peter put a hand over his heart. "About something this important?"

"Peter."

"You couldn't pronounce 'wimoweh.'"

Derek stood up. "We're done."

Peter burst out laughing. Derek walked three steps before Peter caught his wrist. "Wait."

Derek looked back. Peter was still smiling, but there was something softer underneath it. "You were little."

Derek stopped pulling away. Peter released his wrist.

"You were happy," Peter added.

The words landed harder than Derek expected. He looked toward the trees. Sometimes memories of childhood came to him divided into two categories.

Before. After.

Before the fire. After the fire.

It was easy to let the ending swallow everything that came before it. Easy to remember loss so vividly that the people themselves became attached to tragedy.

Laura dead. His mother dead. His family dead. The house burned. Beacon Hills ruined.

But once...

Once Laura had been nine years old and bossy, carrying a cassette recorder through the woods. Once Derek had been a kid singing stupid songs beside an old well. Once Peter had been the annoying uncle who got dragged into children's games.

They hadn't always been ghosts. Derek slowly sat back down. "Do you remember what you picked?"

Peter scoffed. "Of course."

"What?"

Peter hesitated. Derek stared at him. Peter's eyes narrowed. "'Werewolves of London.'"

Derek barked out another laugh. Peter shoved his shoulder. "Shut up."

"You picked 'Werewolves of London'?"

"I thought it was funny."

"That's terrible."

"I was hilarious."

"You were an idiot."

"I was young."

"You weren't that young."

Peter considered that. "Fair."

Derek looked at the cassette. "Think it still works?"

"No."

"You answered pretty quickly."

"It spent decades underneath wet leaves."

"Werewolf hearing can't fix a cassette?"

Peter turned slowly toward him. "That may be the stupidest question you've ever asked me."

"Stiles asked if werewolves can smell Wi-Fi."

Peter paused. "Second stupidest."

Derek smiled. Peter looked at the cassette again. "We could try."

Derek glanced at him. Peter shrugged. "Clean it. Find a player. See if anything survived."

"You want to?"

Peter didn't answer immediately. Then he handed Derek the cassette. "I think Laura would be furious if we found one of her mixes and didn't listen."

"She'd probably complain about our music."

"She'd definitely complain about mine."

"Probably deserved."

Peter nudged him again. Derek didn't move away. They stayed there for a while. There was work still scattered around them. Broken boards needed moving. Weeds needed cutting back. The well itself probably needed to be inspected before someone inevitably fell into it and blamed Derek.

But neither Hale moved. Eventually Derek spoke. "Do you remember a lot?"

Peter looked over. "Of what?"

"Before."

Peter understood. His face changed. Not dramatically. Peter Hale rarely allowed anything truly vulnerable to show without covering it with a smirk or some sharp remark. But Derek knew him. He'd known him his entire life.

"Yes," Peter said.

Derek nodded. "More than me?"

"Probably."

Derek looked down at his hands. Peter watched him. "If there's something you don't remember," Peter said carefully, "you can ask."

Derek's jaw tightened. "That's not really what we do."

"No."

"We insult each other."

"Frequently."

"Threaten each other."

"Occasionally with murder."

"You actually tried to murdered me."

Peter waved a hand. Derek gave him a look.

"What? I got better."

Despite himself, Derek laughed. Peter smiled. Then the smile faded into something quieter. "We're not particularly good at this."

"Family?"

Peter looked around the woods. "No. We're very good at being family. That's the problem."

Derek frowned. Peter gestured between them. "We're terrible at admitting we need one."

Derek didn't answer. That sounded irritatingly accurate. Peter leaned back against the stone. "You spent years thinking you had to carry everything alone."

"So did you."

"I never claimed to be emotionally healthy."

"Neither did I."

"True."

Silence settled between them again. Not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Derek looked at the cassette in his hand. "Tell me another."

Peter's eyebrows lifted. "Another what?"

"Memory."

Peter studied him. Derek almost regretted asking. Then Peter smiled. "When you were five, you became convinced you were going to marry your kindergarten teacher."

Derek groaned. "No."

"Oh, absolutely."

"Different memory."

"You proposed with a dandelion."

"Peter."

"She accepted."

"Peter."

"I believe your mother still has photographs somewhere."

Derek looked toward the woods. "I hate you."

Peter's smile softened. "No, you don't."

Derek glanced at him. There were a thousand answers he could have given. Sarcasm would've been easier. Deflection would've been normal. Instead, Derek bumped his shoulder against Peter's. "No," he admitted. "I don't."

Peter looked briefly surprised. Then he cleared his throat and stood. "Well. That's enough emotional growth for one afternoon."

Derek rolled his eyes. "God forbid."

"Exactly."

Peter picked up one of the broken boards. Derek stood too. For the next hour, they worked. Peter complained. Derek insulted his work ethic. Peter accused Derek of having no appreciation for proper delegation. Derek pointed out that ordering other people around wasn't a skill. Peter informed him that kings, generals, CEOs, and mothers everywhere would disagree. By the time they finished, the ground around the well was clear.

The old cassette player went into the trash. The tape didn't. That evening, Derek found an old cassette deck online. Peter mocked him for spending too much money on obsolete technology.

Three days later, Peter was standing in Derek's loft when the package arrived. Neither acknowledged that Peter had apparently remembered the delivery date. They cleaned the cassette carefully. Derek put it into the machine. For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then static filled the loft. Peter stopped breathing for a moment. Derek stared at the speakers. The sound warped and crackled.

Then...  Music. Faint and damaged, but there. Peter laughed under his breath. And somewhere beneath the music came another sound.

A child's voice. Laura. Derek froze.

"Peter, stop cheating! You already picked one!"

Another voice answered. Younger Peter. "I didn't cheat. I'm improving the playlist."

Then laughter. Several children. Derek heard himself somewhere among them. His chest hurt.

Peter stood beside him, shoulder pressed firmly against his nephew's. Neither moved away. The recording crackled again.

Laura's voice shouted through the years. "Okay! Derek's turn!"

There was a pause. Then the opening notes of a very familiar song. Peter slowly turned his head. Derek closed his eyes. "Don't."

Peter's mouth twitched.

"Not one word."

Peter lasted approximately three seconds. "A-weema-weh—"

Derek shoved him. Peter laughed. And through the speakers, decades away, children laughed with him.

For once, the Hale house wasn't what Derek remembered. The fire wasn't what Peter remembered. The dead weren't dead. They were eight and five and thirteen. They were laughing around an old stone well, arguing about music and stealing each other's tapes.

Derek sat beside his uncle and listened. Not to ghosts.

To family.