Archive of Our Own ^beta

Falling Up

Of all the things Stiles imagined could happen, he never thought he’d end up packless.

Getting his throat torn out by a werewolf’s teeth? 

Pfft. He carries a small pouch of mountain ash with him for a reason.

Getting kidnapped, tortured, and beaten within an inch of his life? 

That actually happened. 

More than once.

Getting cornered at the local supermarket by a Lamia carrying a centuries-old grudge? 

That happened, too. Last Wednesday, in the condiment aisle at Lucky’s, in fact.

But becoming packless? Pushed out by his former blood brother and childhood best friend?

Apparently, Stiles isn’t as imaginative as he’d thought.

*

In his more rational moments, Stiles knows "pushed out" is perhaps not wholly accurate. "Edged out" is more like it. The pack had always been an ever-changing thing. The shift had started after the losses of Erica and Boyd, and the fissures only grew after Isaac had left for France and Jackson for England. Kira was gone, having thrown in her lot with the Skinwalkers. Derek had left after Peter's (third and final) death, and was presumably somewhere in South America with Cora. Stiles had needed a break from Beacon Hills and attended Columbia instead of Stanford, which was a not-inconvenient four-hour train ride from Lydia in Cambridge.

He's twenty-two years old now, and has been away from home for four. So when he returns to Beacon Hills with a shiny new Ivy-league degree in political human-animal studies in one hand and his unemployed status in the other, he doesn't expect things to be the same as when he'd left. Deaton is still the pack's emissary, but Scott and Malia are together now. And there are four new members: Liam, Mason, Hayden, and Corey. They're younger and inexperienced, and Stiles has some serious flashbacks to Derek's attempts to start a pack from scratch.

The difference is, Scott had an existing pack to begin with.

Stiles tries. Even though Hayden is now the researcher, Liam is Scott's new gaming buddy, and Mason is the de facto pack mom. But he constantly feels like he's stepping on everyone's toes, and after Scott ignores his advice for Mason's (and the pack gets thoroughly trashed by the troll as a result), Stiles knows where he stands.

He thought he'd be able to come back.

He thought the pack was family.

After four months, Stiles realizes he was wrong.

*

Stiles decides to leave Beacon Hills once again after the pack neglects to include him in their plans for battling a band of obnoxious pixies. Pixies are annoying but rarely lethal, and they’re kind of Stiles’ specialty since they revel in mischief. Stiles has been dealing with pixies for nearly the same amount of time he's known werewolves existed, and he probably could have devised a plan or at least bargained his way out of the stalemate the pack had gotten into if he’d known about their intentions. Instead, he tipped the scales in the pixies’ favor because he’d walked unwittingly into Liam’s last trap. 

The McCall pack lost ten acres near the mouth of the creek to the pixies as a result. It also shed one-hundred and sixty pounds of human.

This time, Stiles isn’t sure how long he’ll be gone. Expiration dates sort of lose their meaning when the thing you’re trying to preserve has spoiled.

*

Stiles' hand hovers over the trunk of the Jeep.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Dad?"

"You've been all the way on the other side of the country for the last four years. Besides, I'm overdue for a vacation, and you'll have a harder time finding quinoa and alfalfa sprouts to feed me."

Stiles turns and faces his dad. "Don't be too sure about that. I have a couple vegan packable lunches in that duffle."

The Sheriff walks over and peers inside the back of the car suspiciously. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Stiles says, slamming the door shut. He slides into the front seat and digs his keys out of his front pocket. As he waits for his dad to get into the passenger's seat, he stares out at the street he's lived on for all his life and takes a deep breath.

His dad coughs. "If you want to get to Reno by sundown, we should probably get going. I know you tuned Roscoe up," he adds, patting the dashboard, "but I wouldn't want to push our luck on Mount Rose. It's a pretty rigorous climb." When Stiles doesn't respond, he rests his hand on Stiles' thigh. "Or we can do this another time."

It's strange. Stiles thinks he should be more furious, wailing at the injustices of the world. Instead, he feels empty. Detached. He wonders if it's the same for werewolves. Whether the loss of a pack bond would feel like a snapping string, or whether it would be slow, with the threads fraying one by one until only a hole was left.

"No. Nope, I'm ready." Stiles takes one more look around him, places the keys in the ignition, and drives.

*

The Sheriff looks at the brown paper wrapper, his brow furrowing. “What is this?”

“Open it,” Stiles says, his mouth half-full with ham and cheese.

“Look, this trip’s been off to a pretty good start, but if you’re feeding me rabbit food, it’s only fair that you’re going to—Oh.” His dad’s face breaks out into a surprised grin as he opens the wrap and picks up the half-cut sandwich. “Roast beef?”

“With the horseradish mayo mom used to make. I figured you’d need your protein fix if I’m going to be dragging you around on these trails.”

A soft look creeps into his dad’s eyes. “Thanks, kid.” He stares at the sandwich wistfully, then takes a tentative bite.

Stiles watches from the corners of his eyes. Now that his dad’s out of uniform, it’s easy to see how he's aged. The short sleeves of his t-shirt gap around his biceps and the material pulls ever-so-slightly over his belly. The sun at this altitude is welcome, but also unforgiving. It’s easier to see the grays in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He looks older. So vulnerable and human.

A lump forms in the back of Stiles’ throat. He takes a swig of water from his thermos and promptly chokes.

His dad drops his sandwich, not even halting when it tumbles off the rock they’ve been sitting on and into the dirt.

“Are you okay?” he asks, patting Stiles’ back.

“Ye—yeah,” Stiles says, glad for an excuse when his voice comes out raspy. He turns toward his dad’s arms and buries his head in the Sheriff’s neck. “I’m just glad you’re with me.”

His dad’s arms grow tighter. “There’s no place I’d rather be, kid.”

That night, when they get to their hotel in Reno, Stiles looks the other way when his dad makes several trips to the all-you-can-eat buffet.

*

Stiles shields his eyes from the sun and dust and squints at the outline of the Black Rock mountains.

“Just think, Dad. If we got here three weeks ago, we could have been to Burning Man. You could have shed your authoritarian chains. Indulged in some self-reflection and communed with nature.”

The Sheriff turns around slowly. “You know Burning Man started way before you were born, right? By people older than me?”

“Yeah, well. That doesn’t change the fact that it would have been fun. It would’ve been cool to see you let loose.”

His dad lets out a huff of laughter. “Kid, I spent the second half of the eighties in vans that were in worse condition than Roscoe and attending protests with your mom. We slept in strangers’ cars or packed like sardines in a tiny hotel room. Believe me, I know what it means to 'let loose'.”

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and stares out toward the horizon. One of the mountain peaks wavers in the distance, a shimmering mirage from the light and heat. The idea of his dad thumbing his nose at authority makes him smile. “Apples and trees, right? Although I bet mom made you go to half of those things.”

The Sheriff’s eyes twinkle. “The things we do for love.” He scuffs the ground with the front of his shoe. “The thing is, though. After the first year? I would have gone on those marches on my own.”

Stiles remembers the pictures he’s seen of his dad from the 80s. If there was photographic evidence of him bucking authority, Stiles’ mom was right there beside him. “You? The Kansas kid?” he asks, scrunching his face doubtfully.

“I had a limited point of view growing up, because it was all I was ever exposed to. Your grandparents were first-generation immigrants who moved to a small town. We had one convenient store and a single gas station, and even then, you had to drive fifteen minutes to get to them. And things weren’t like they are today, where you have hundreds of ways to access information.”

Stiles had known little of his dad’s parents. They were much older than his mom’s and had passed away by the time he was eight. “I didn’t know your childhood was so insular.”

“It certainly wasn’t anything like growing up with a pack of werewolves. But it wasn’t bad. Far from it. I’m grateful for the things I had growing up. I had parents who loved me. I had access to an education and was involved in lots of extracurricular activities. But that pales compared to what your mom brought into my life. For obvious reasons,” he adds, squeezing Stiles’ arm, “You were the best thing that happened to either of us. But she also opened my eyes to a whole new world. To things I hadn’t known.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly. “That’s mom.” He blinks, the sun suddenly too bright for his eyes.

“You know,” his dad says slowly, “I guess that’s my way of saying life sometimes takes us in unexpected directions. People change.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes tight. “I don’t want to talk about Scott.”

“Why does it have to be about Scott? Who’s saying that you’re not the one who’s outgrown him?”

“I—” Stiles appreciates his dad, he really does. And of course, that’s the angle his dad would take. But objectively, it’s Scott who’s moved on. Scott is the one in a relationship (again). Scott moved out of Melissa’s and is renting a one-bedroom apartment. He still has his job at Deaton’s, but he’s also going to veterinary school. And he’s the alpha to a group of bright and shiny, brand-spanking-new werewolves. Meanwhile, Stiles is unemployed, staying in his childhood bedroom, and can’t provide any utility to Scott’s pack. 

He shakes his head and turns, facing his dad. “Still not talking about it.”

“Fine.” His dad is wearing the look that says, it’s not fine, but I know when to stop. “What about your lessons with Deaton?” When Stiles shrugs, his dad’s frown grows deeper. “Is it because there’s a conflict of interest? Since he’s Scott’s emissary?”

Stiles barks out a surprised laugh. “No. Deaton’s not a lawyer or some business entity; there’s no conflict of interest. It’s just…” He removes his hands from his pockets and scrubs his face. “I mean, when I was in New York, things were pretty quiet on the supernatural front. Yeah, supernatural shit exists everywhere, but there weren’t wendigos running through campus or basilisks petrifying pedestrians on the sidewalks. There wasn’t really any motivation to practice magic. It was nice to feel… normal.”

The Sheriff raises a brow. “If there’s anything the last several years have taught me, it's that ‘normal’ is relative.”

“You’re telling me,” Stiles says with a snort.

His dad gives him a sad smile. “It can also be a moving target. Ignoring something doesn’t make it disappear. You have a gift, Stiles. You shouldn’t have to suppress your magic just because the things surrounding it have changed.”

“Honestly, you’re making a bigger deal of this than it is. It’s not like I’m Gandalf or Dumbledore. I’m just a measly spark. I once made a fistful of mountain ash last longer than it should have. I can levitate branches and light candles.” He waves his hands. “Parlor tricks.”

“Right,” his dad says dubiously. “And you’re okay with letting these parlor tricks go?”

Stiles shrugs. Maybe there’s no conflict of interest technically, but there would be some serious awkwardness if Deaton remained as Stiles’ mentor, given everything that’s going on between him and Scott. And Stiles doesn’t have it in him to search for a new teacher. It seems pretty trivial compared to everything else that’s going on in his life.

“Deaton says magic is innate. That it’s a part of you, but it’s also a manifestation of who you are. So it kind of makes things hard when you’re not sure who that person even is, you know?”

“Stiles… This trip. Maybe it’ll help you answer some of those questions.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes Stiles’ throat. “This isn’t some spiritual Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance or Kerouac-inspired journey, Dad. It’s me having a vacation with my old man. Although ‘vacation’ usually implies time away from work, so I can’t even claim that, not really, but I’m going to, because the alternative is ‘running away,’ and that’s just too pathetic.”

Stiles looks down at his feet. He can’t bring himself to look at his dad. He can’t deal with anything resembling sorrow or pity.

His dad shuffles his feet and coughs. “Well, I don’t care what the hell we call it. All I know is I’m on vacation, and we’re going to have a damn good time because we deserve it.” He removes his sunglasses from where they’ve been resting in the vee of his shirt; when Stiles lifts his eyes, he can no longer see his dad’s expression behind the mirrored lenses. “I’m going to head back to the car. Take your time. Whenever you’re ready.”

Stiles fists his hands at his sides as he listens to his dad’s footsteps recede. He hasn’t practiced his magic for the last several years; dorming wasn’t really conducive to experimentation, and his workload during the last two years was pretty terrible. But he’s always had an affinity for manipulating earthy elements, and he wonders if maybe—

He glances behind him. Using his back to shield his hands from his dad’s line of sight, he points at a small, sandy hill three feet away and focuses, trying to draw from his spark.

He’s met with utter stillness. There’s no movement from the sandy hillock; no shifting grains of sand or a small breeze, nothing to differentiate one moment from the next aside from the sound of the Jeep’s engine starting.

Even the mirage in the distance remains unchanged.

*

Over the next week, Stiles’ dad seems determined to live up to his words and have the best damned father-son vacation-slash-bonding experience ever. They visit hot springs and mining towns and ghost towns. They take pictures of themselves in front of pristine lakes and majestic mountains as well as a cheesy photo studio backdrop dressed in 1800s costumes. And they indulge in enough barbecue for Stiles to warn his dad that he’s exceeded his red meat quota for the year.

Stiles finally gets a text message from Scott on day ten of the trip. It’s brief and so, so misses the point: hey, dude, heard you’re on vacay. When r u coming back? Stiles wonders how and when Scott learned the news. Whether it was something he’d stumbled onto accidentally or whether he’d actually noticed Stiles’ absence is a mystery. The fact is, it’s been nearly two weeks since Stiles last spoke to Scott, and it’s too much time to make either of the possibilities palatable.

Stiles doesn’t text back. If he waited this long, Scott can wait, too.

*

Some of the shine wears off by day sixteen. The towns grow smaller, the parks sparser and trails steeper, and it’s taking a toll on the Sheriff. Stiles’ dad tries, bless his amazing, gigantic heart. But several decades’ worth of donuts and routine traffic stops are a poor substitute for endless hours of driving and miles of hiking, and Stiles is feeling that their father-and-son bonding time is no longer fun, but done out of obligation.

He catches his dad scrolling through his emails at a gas station in Wells. 

“Things busy at work?” Stiles replaces the gas pump in its cradle, then stands next to his dad, peering over his shoulder.

The Sheriff looks up from his phone with a guilty expression. “Just catching up on some messages,” he says, pocketing his cell. “It’s difficult to get reception out here, so I’m just taking advantage when there is.”

His dad’s a terrible liar. Especially when lying to someone who’s a master at it.

“You know,” Stiles says casually as he wipes his hands along the front of his jeans, “I was nervous about taking this trip. It’s not like I’ve never been away from home, but college was different. Everyone I knew went. Things were more or less mapped out for me; there was always an endpoint. But leaving Beacon Hills, this trip… It was a choice without a defined direction or ending. And that was a really scary thing to know.” He clears his throat. “Having you with me for the last two weeks has made it so much easier.”

“Stiles.” When Stiles looks up, his dad’s expression is sad and his voice rough. “Kid, I’m with you for as long as you need.”

“I know that. And I appreciate that, I really do. But I think the thing I’m realizing is maybe it isn’t what I need.” His dad looks like he’s about to interrupt, and Stiles shakes his head. “Let me get this out, Dad, please? Before either of us gets caught up in our emotions.” He takes a deep breath and tries to get his thoughts in line. “Being with you makes me feel secure. But if security was what I needed, I would’ve stayed home. I kind of don’t know where I fit in anymore, and I can’t answer that if I’m still hanging onto your coattails, you know?”

The downturn of his father’s mouth grows larger. “So, how much time are we talking about here?”

Stiles kicks the wheel well of the Jeep and shrugs. “I don’t know. It could be a couple of weeks or a couple of months. Maybe a couple of years.”

His father’s face pales. “A couple of years—What are you going to do for money?”

“I have some savings left over from working at the coffee shop last year. And maybe I’ll find a job. Or maybe I’ll find out in a week on my own that I’m not cut out for life on the road and I’ll head home.”

“I don’t like the idea of you being on your own like this.”

Stiles removes his phone and waves it in front of his dad. “Funny thing, technology. I can call or email or text you. There’s even this thing called FaceTime,” he adds, wiggling his brow. When he sees his dad’s resistance crumbling, Stiles’ voice softens. “I’ll keep in touch. And there are people back in Beacon Hills who need you. Maybe even more than I do right now.”

His dad sighs after a long moment. “I suppose it would be nice to sleep in a decent bed,” he concedes.

“We’re a little over a hundred miles from Twin Falls,” Stiles says, because he knows this day would eventually come, even though he didn’t know exactly when. It’s why he’s been keeping track of the different ways his dad could get home safely every day. “There’s an airport there that has flights to Denver, and then you have your choice of flights to San Francisco International.”

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, huh?” his dad teases.

“No. And yes,” Stiles says, right before he leans in, pulling his dad in for a fierce hug as his vision swims. “I’m not trying to push you away. I just don’t want you to stay out of some misguided sense of duty. Because that’s not what either of us needs.”

His dad pulls back and watches Stiles carefully. “If you’re sure you’ll be okay…”

“I’m sure.” Stiles fought an alpha pack, a demonic fox, and a venomous lizard before graduating high school. He may be a squishy human with a fading spark, but he’s also a squishy and resourceful human with experience in living on the fly.

*

After spending the following night at the most lux hotel in the area—which turns out to be a Best Western, but there’s an indoor pool and room service and free HBO—Stiles drops his dad off at the airport. Magic Valley Regional Airport, to be exact. The name doesn’t escape his dad, who does a bit of a nudge-nudge, wink-wink move as if to say, Don’t you think the universe is trying to tell you something? But Stiles knows the universe doesn’t exactly play fair. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s been playing against a stacked deck for longer than he’d like.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” Stiles says as he hauls his dad’s duffel bag out of the trunk. It’s the equivalent of him sticking his fingers in his ears and going Can’t hear you, lalalalala. Because right now, denial is his best asset.

His dad grunts as the packed duffle thumps against his chest. “Only if you’ll do the same,” he replies, and yeah, Stiles left himself open for that.

“This whole thing is about taking care of myself. I’m going to recharge my batteries. Give myself a mental break, be one with the land… Just, you know. Be one with all the cliches.”

“Find a little magic in your life?”

“Aww, come on,” Stiles says with a groan as his dad chuckles.

“Come on. How could I resist?” his dad asks as he points to the enormous Magic Valley sign at the entrance to the airport.

“Way to beat a dead horse.”

His dad’s expression immediately sobers. “Hey.” He drops his duffle to the ground and places his hands on Stiles’ arms. “I’m sorry. I don’t pretend to know everything about this other world. Werewolves and kanimas and mages?” The Sheriff gives a small shake of his head. “I’m still kind of new to all of it. But what I do know is that nothing worthwhile in life is going to stick when you try to force things. And I’m pretty sure that goes for your spark, too.” His dad drops his hands back to his sides and looks up at Stiles, his brow furrowing. “Indulge your old man and allow me a movie moment here.”

“You’re not going to get all Jimmy Stewart on me, are you?” The groove in his dad’s forehead deepens and Stiles snaps his jaw shut. “Sorry. Way to ruin the moment. You put your life on hold to do this, and the least I can do is listen. Which I’m going to do right now. Listening,” he finishes, miming zipping his lips closed.

His dad huffs out a laugh, and Stiles is glad to see some of the tension in his face ease. “I couldn’t have asked for a better person to share the last several weeks with. There’s magic in these mountains; something so majestic about God’s green earth that’s humbling to witness. But there’s also magic in the ordinary things. Things like fighting over the radio with you when there’s only three stations to choose from and the pleasure of having a roast beef sandwich. Which I miss sorely, by the way. But do you know what? Being in Beacon Hills—back in the home your mom and I bought, the one you grew up in, and working with people who I trust as much as my family—that’s my magic. It may not be perfect, and hell if it’s not always the easiest, but it’s what makes me the happiest. So, when I say I hope you find your magic, what I mean is… Well, I hope you find your own version of home.”

Stiles' throat grows choked. “You know, we could forget about this flight and drive to Denver together instead. Just saying.”

“Kid, I’ve been thinking of a hot shower, the couch, and my flat screen TV for the last twenty-four hours. I’m pretty much on that flight already, mentally. Plus, didn’t you want to visit Yellowstone?”

Stiles nods slowly. He’d wanted to make the trip north through Idaho into Montana and Wyoming before things got hairy because—well, heh, winter was coming—and he didn’t want to be there in November when the temperatures turned freezing.

“I’ve had my journey, Stiles. Now it’s time to live yours.”

They end up hanging out together at the airport until his dad’s ready to board. Stiles watches as his dad walks out to the tarmac, remains even after the plane takes off, and only moves to leave when it’s disappeared completely from view. 

When he returns to the Jeep, there’s no one in the passenger’s seat next to him. The entire cabin feels strangely empty, even though he’s shifted one of his bags from the trunk to the front seat. So he turns on the radio and tries to fill the silence with some noise. He fiddles around with the dial; the sharp bursts of static and whistling eventually give way to a lone radio station that Stiles leaves on as he pulls out of the lot. By the time he sees the signs for US-93 north, Patsy Cline’s smoky voice is serenading him. Telling him he’s Crazy for trying, Crazy for crying. 

Stiles snorts. He refuses to take it as some universal sign.

It may be the end. But it’s also a beginning.

*

He has his first panic attack the next day. At a small diner just outside Buhl. It's one of those places that looks like it's plucked right out of the 50s, with laminated menus and red-vinyl, chrome-trimmed seats, and servers with ‘Marge’ on name tags pinned above their left breast pocket. They even have curly fries, or at least, they did. Marge returns to Stiles' table with an apology on her lips, babbling something about how they were unexpectedly out of the spicy, spiral-shaped goodness, but that they can give him tater tots or home fries or shoestring potatoes instead. And Stiles tells her it’s fine, that he’ll take the tater tots—because who doesn’t love tater tots?—but apparently it isn’t, because as Stiles waits, sipping his Coke from his pebbled, red plastic cup, he realizes those damn curly fries are just one more thing, one thing familiar, one thing he loves that's being denied him.

Marge finds him in the bathroom ten minutes later with his face wet, his hands shaking as they grip the sink ledge, his knuckles white. Her suspicious expression slides into one of sympathy as she helps slow Stiles' ragged breaths, and her hand pats his shoulders in awkward circles as she asks, How about curled sweet potato fries instead?

*

A buzz settles into Stiles’ skin soon after. He wonders if it’s because he’s steadily losing his connection with the pack with each passing day, although he’d thought it would be more finite. Instead, he feels restless. It’s a thrum that’s hard to ignore but not altogether unpleasant. Sort of like the jitters you get on your birthday when you know there’s something big planned for you, but you’ve no idea what it is just yet.

*

Expect the Unexpected.

That should be a given by now. But the last four years have taught Stiles that you can’t live life constantly looking over your shoulder. Or you could, but it would suck. He’s already endured too many sleepless nights, bruises, and broken bones; dark circles and lingering worry seem permanently etched into his skin. To be out of Beacon Hills is…

Well. What he told his dad was true. It was scary leaving. But it was also freeing.

It’s why, after three weeks of being on the road, and without so much as a whisper of a supernatural encounter, he’s not really looking behind his back anymore when he pulls into a small gas station in Stanley, Idaho. It’s set in the middle of a winter mountain village—which is pretty much the only village around: a small, one-mile stretch of paved road flanked by one- and two-story, wood-clapped buildings that look like they're right out of an old Western. Stiles has seen enough abandoned gas stations to know better than to pass up the opportunity to fill Roscoe.

He’s picking up some provisions—Funyuns and Andy Capp’s Hot Fries, neither of which he’s had in ages— and is craning his neck past the wire rack filled with fishing magazines and a shelf cluttered with air fresheners shaped like pine trees when the unexpected hits him.

The bell above the door tinkles. “Hey, Josh. I'm exchanging this empty for another. Five-gallons,” the customer says. The man's brusque but familiar tone cuts through the tinny strains of Cowboy Take Me Away blaring from the cheap speakers overhead.

Stiles’ heart stutters as he stumbles, the momentum carrying his body forward. “Shit!” he cries, his hands flailing at the magazine rack. Luckily, he saves the wire tower from falling, although he sacrifices his snacks and several air fresheners in the process.

“Are you okay? Wait, what—Stiles?!”

Stiles crouches as his face heats from his neck to his ears. He gathers the air fresheners into a small pile and tries to stack them neatly, his hands shaking as he does. He wonders how long he can stay like this, but the gig is up when a pair of worn, brown hiking boots comes into view. 

Stiles stands slowly. His eyes lag a second behind the rest of his body, his brain cataloging the man’s information as he takes everything in: a pair of muddied, grass-stained jeans, the black so faded they’re now a gray-blue; a soft-looking but well-fitting green henley; a duck canvas jacket with way too many pockets; a full-on, mountain man beard; and a pair of familiar and still-incredible hazel eyes, which are observing him with a mixture of shock and concern.

“Derek. I…” Stiles swallows, the words sticking in his throat. “And I thought you creeping through my window was a shock.”

The corners of Derek’s lips quirk. “You’re the one who was hiding. I’m pretty sure that makes you the creeper.” His tone isn’t harsh or accusing. It’s fond, and it adds a softness that Stiles finds disconcerting. If there’s anger still simmering inside him, Derek’s hidden it well.

The thrumming under Stiles’ skin intensifies. “Yeah, well….” He looks down, acutely aware of his disheveled appearance. It’s been four days since he’s had a proper shower and there are dirt stains under his nails. He catches the subtle flare of Derek’s nostrils, and he hunches into himself further.

There’s a loud cough. “Derek?" The cashier—Josh, apparently—places a bright blue plastic container of kerosene on the counter. Do you want this, or…?”

“Yeah. Be there in a sec.” Derek’s eyes never leave Stiles’ even as he waves in Josh’s general direction. “Are you staying in Stanley? Or passing through?”

Stiles barks out a sharp laugh. “Not sure, actually. For someone who was always planning, I’m surprisingly plan-less at the moment.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Kind of playing it by ear.”

The silence blooms between them. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because Derek’s trying to listen for a lie. Or if it’s because he’s trying to figure out Stiles’ real story. Or perhaps he’s just trying to find a graceful escape. It’s possibly all three. So, Stiles is about to put them both out of their misery and tell Derek that he’s got to hit the road, that it’s been nice, but he has to make it to Clayton before things get dark, when Derek decides for them.

He pulls Stiles into a hug. It surprises the shit out of Stiles, to be honest; Derek’s always been guarded with his emotions, and nearly as guarded with his touches. Even among the pack. But it feels good to have something comforting, something familiar, and Stiles can’t help but lean into the embrace.

“You smell… different,” Derek murmurs, his voice troubled. He turns his face slightly and takes a slower, deeper whiff. 

Stiles tries not to shiver. “The places I’ve stayed this week didn’t exactly have state-of-the-art plumbing. I've seen rail cars with better facilities.” Derek steps back and gives him an unamused look. Stiles sighs. “It’s a long story.”

Derek nods. “The diner down the street has pretty good coffee and wi-fi. It also has a working restroom,” he adds solemnly.

Stiles decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He puts the Funyuns and Hot Fries back. “I’m in.”

*

Stiles peppers Derek with questions. Derek answers them with a patience that makes Stiles question whether Derek is actually a Skinwalker. Or if he's pleasantly stoned.

"Why Idaho?" he asks, resisting the urge to shine a light on Derek's pupils.

"I fell in love. With the mountains, the woods, the isolation," Derek clarifies. "It obviously appeals to my wolf. But it appeals to my human side, too."

"Stuff's probably pretty quiet around here." Stiles raises his hands and makes air quotes around "stuff's."

"Stuff?" Derek asks, his eyes crinkling. "I wouldn't say it's quiet, exactly. But there's less human interference. Lots of space and resources. It's easier to co-exist peacefully this way."

"You don't miss it, though? Having a pack?"

Derek looks up sharply at the crack in Stiles' voice. "Of course, I miss it. But being in a dysfunctional pack is worse than not being in one at all."

"So, are you an omega?" For someone living on their own, Derek looks surprisingly… well, grounded. Maybe Stiles can handle the whole packless thing. After all, it's got to be worse for a born wolf—

"I'm not an omega," Derek says, as Stiles' hopes come crashing down. "I still have Cora. She may be far away, but our bond exists. And there are other things that keep me anchored."

"Oh." Stiles stares down at his near-empty coffee cup. It figures Derek would find another pack between his family's ties and his… Well, everything. He turns the cup back and forth between his hands. "That's good."

"It is. I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't discovered photography."

The cup spins on the tabletop. Stiles jerks his head up. "Photography? Your anchor is taking pictures?"

The tips of Derek's ears turn pink. "Yeah," he says, his face taking on a soft and vulnerable expression that Stiles has only witnessed once before. "One of them, anyway. I, uh, picked it back up after I left Beacon Hills. I wanted to keep a record of places I'd been when I was traveling. When it no longer felt like I was just running." He pauses and shrugs.

Stiles isn't sure if Derek waits deliberately. As if he's encouraging Stiles to share; after all, they've been talking for nearly half an hour, although in an unusual turn of events, it's been Derek who's been carrying most of the conversation. He's pretty sure Derek's curious why he's driving around Idaho by his lonesome.

Thankfully, Derek doesn't push. "Anyway, someone had seen my work and asked if I was interested in doing a shoot for the local tourism board. And it's kind of taken off from there."

"No shit." Stiles tilts his head as he tries to reconcile this new information—this new Derek—as Derek huffs out a laugh. "That's really awesome, dude."

Derek picks up his coffee and drains it slowly. "My place is a twenty-minute drive from here. I could show you, if you'd like," he says once he finishes. His tone is studiedly casual, but Stiles knows what a big deal it is. It's an offer to re-establish a connection with a former pack member. To invite Stiles into the new sanctuary Derek created for himself.

Stiles looks at his empty cup. He thinks of the miles he's driven. Of the motels and hotels and cheap campsites he's crashed at, and tries to keep his desperation to have something familiar, of not feeling so goddamn lonely, from his voice.

"Yeah. I'd really like that," he says, and if his heartbeat does a little swoop, Derek's too polite to mention it.

*

It feels strange to follow Derek back to his place. Perhaps it's because while Stiles is alone in his car, he’s not truly alone anymore. Or that Derek’s driving a pickup truck that has more in common with Roscoe than the Camaro or FJ Cruiser ever did. Or maybe it's because Stiles can't reconcile his Sourwolf with this new Derek, who is softer and nicer and infinitely more patient.

Adding to the strangeness is how familiar these woods feel. The scent of the forest is almost overwhelming when Stiles exits the Jeep. The air is sharper here—it tickles his nose, along with the pungent whiffs of fir and pine, so much more prevalent than what he’s used to back home. When he plants his feet on the ground, the crunch of gravel mixes with the cushion of fallen pine needles. It’s like the forest is making its presence known, layer by layer. It tugs on a something deeply buried, its steady pull so intoxicating, so right, that Stiles audibly gasps.

The look Derek gives him is knowing. “These woods can make you feel so small, yet so a part of something at the same time.”

Stiles nods. He wonders what it’s like in the winter months, when the roads must be impassable. Whether the isolation appeals to Derek’s wolf, or whether the solitude becomes too much. Right now, however, it looks like heaven. 

“It suits you,” Stiles says. He walks over to Derek’s truck and pats the side panel. “As does the ride. Although it’s a lot of car for just one person.”

“I needed something to haul my equipment around. And it can handle off-roading, although the winters here are rough. By next month, those tires will be draped in chains.”

“Sounds kinky,” Stiles says, waggling his brow.

Derek snorts. “Come on,” he says as he pulls the container of kerosene out of the cab along with several other bags. Stiles follows, jamming his hands in the pocket of his hoodie as he takes in the surrounding view, but it’s not until they’re practically at Derek’s doorstep that he truly sees the home.

The sight makes him suck in his breath.

The cabin isn’t tiny, but it’s certainly not massive like the Hale house was before it became a ghostly husk of its former self. Its wood and stone construction is also a contrast to Derek's old spacious but impersonal loft.

Stiles reaches out and touches one of the beams before he realizes what he’s doing, then draws his hand back quickly. “Sorry.” His face heats as Derek watches him carefully. “I didn’t realize you had wards on your home.”

Derek gives him a quizzical look. “I don’t. Although I’ve been thinking about putting some up."

“That’s weird.” Stiles reaches out and rests his palm gently against the cabin’s surface. There’s a warmth there; a gentle thrumming beneath his skin. "I felt a shock when I touched it before.” Shock isn't exactly right; the sensation wasn't unpleasant, but it was forceful enough to demand acknowledgement.

There’s none of that the second time around. Just the smooth ridges of the hewn wood, the vibrancy of life waiting on the other side, and the hum of the forest under Stiles’ skin.

Derek sets down the plastic container and fiddles with the lock. “It feels silly to lock up sometimes. I don’t really get any visitors; if it weren’t for my equipment and some of my family’s things, I wouldn’t bother.” He pushes open the door and motions for Stiles to enter. “Mi casa.”

Stiles’ jaw drops as he walks inside. “Dude. This literally looks like it was lifted from a Pinterest page.” The entryway has a comfortable seating area in front of a stone-walled fireplace that flows into an eat-in kitchen decked out with high-end appliances. There’s a hallway leading to several rooms to the right; the rear of the home has a wall of glass with sliding doors that open onto the porch, along with a stunning view of the forest and mountains in the back.

He lets out a long whistle. “How did you find this place?”

A faint blush creeps along Derek’s cheeks. “Actually, I designed it.” When Stiles’ eyes widen, Derek's blush deepens. “There were several cabins for sale in the area. I found one I liked, but it needed to be modernized. I wanted somewhere I could stay year round, but winters here are brutal, even in my wolf form.” He walked over and ran his hand over the fireplace mantle, his eyes softening. “I worked on the things I could do myself. I have money left over from my family, but it felt wrong to use it for something so selfish.”

“I’ve seen you live in train cars and a drafty loft with a massive hole in a wall. I’m pretty sure your family would have been happy to know you finally have a place of your own. Especially one that makes you feel secure.”

Derek glances at Stiles. “Still. I bartered for supplies or an extra hand where I could. And I had some money saved up from odd jobs over the years.”

Stiles walks over to the couch and sits. He closes his eyes; he doesn't need to be a werewolf to realize the entire place exudes contentment. Hell, Derek reeks of contentment. Stiles wonders if Derek misses anything about Beacon Hills, whether he’d imagined his pack surrounding him when he was designing the kitchen and the central living space.

He opens eyes and discovers Derek watching him with an unreadable expression.

“You’re never coming back, are you?” Stiles whispers.

Derek hesitates. “I’ve learned there’s no such thing as absolutes in life. But I’ve spent nearly half of my life running, Stiles. And it feels good to finally stop.”

There’s a lump that’s growing in Stiles’ throat. Which is… stupid, because he hasn’t seen Derek in years; hadn’t really thought he’d ever see him again, even. Maybe it’s because seeing Derek now is another reminder of something that's changed, or it’s because Derek looks so happily settled. And Stiles should be happy for him, because god knows if anyone deserves some peace, it’s Derek, but it’s hard to take the high road when his own life is falling to pieces around him, and—

“Um.” Derek is still standing in front of the fireplace awkwardly while holding his bags. “I know I said I was going to show you my photos, but unless you count the coffee, neither of us has had lunch. I have some leftovers I can reheat if you’re interested.”

Stiles presses the tips of his fingers into his palms and manages to steady his breathing. “Well, you kind of messed up my plans for a preservative-filled meal of onion-flavored fried goodness, so I guess that’s a fair trade.” He looks up at Derek. “Thank you.”

Derek opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. “It’s no big deal,” he says after a moment.

It is a big deal, though, Stiles thinks as Derek sets his bags on a table then makes his way into the kitchen. Because being with Derek gives him the temporary illusion of belonging. Because it allows Stiles to fool himself into thinking, even for a short while, that he’s stopped running, too.

*

'Leftovers' turns out to be a casserole of roasted rabbit and root vegetables. 

Stiles can’t resist. “So, did you get up at the crack of dawn to chase down your food?”

Derek gives him a wide smile, full of teeth. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Stiles remembers how beautiful Derek had looked fully shifted. He can only imagine how much more powerful he’s grown since.

“I can see it,” he says, taking a long swig of his beer.

“It’s a half-and-half thing. Sometimes, I go to George, our butcher. And sometimes I hunt.” Derek grimaces. “Last year, during the full moon, I brought down an elk. It was too much for one person and I ended up bringing it to George. Plenty of people around here can use the pelt and the meat.”

Stiles points to a carving that rests on the mantle with the end of his fork. “The antlers, too.”

“Uh, yeah.” Derek rubs the back of his neck. “That’s one of mine,” he says as Stiles lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “My father liked working with his hands. He used to whittle and make bone and antler carvings. I’m nowhere as skilled as he was, but I’ve been practicing on the burrs. That’s the first one that I liked well enough to keep.”

“Can I see?” When Derek nods, Stiles leaps out of his seat and walks over to the fireplace. The carving is relatively simple: there’s a full moon at the top and a single wolf sitting on its haunches at the lower left-hand corner. But the image is striking and the emotion behind the piece palpable.

Stiles picks up the carving and curls his fingers along the edges. He startles when the outline of the wolf seems to shimmer and move.

“What’s wrong?” Derek is beside Stiles in a flash, his hand a steady presence against Stiles’ back. “Your heart rate just skyrocketed.”

Stiles shakes his head, then stares at the carving. “Nothing. I…” When the image remains static, he lets out a weak laugh. “I'm just tired. And had too much beer, I guess.”

Derek frowns. “Where are you heading to? The roads are pretty steep and the light’s going to go down in a couple of hours. I’m not sure you should drive if you’re buzzed and exhausted.”

“I was thinking of spending the night at Challis. I don’t really have a set itinerary,” Stiles hedges.

“So stay here. Unfortunately, I’m using the spare room as my darkroom but the couch is a pretty comfortable place to crash,” he says as Stiles makes a feeble protest.

Stiles places the carving back on the mantle and flops on the couch. “Honestly, it’s better than ninety percent of the beds I’ve slept in over the past month,” he confesses before biting his lip. “Are you sure? I mean… you’re okay with me invading your den? Getting my stank all over your furniture?”

Derek’s expression goes strangely blank. “I wouldn’t make the offer if it wasn’t okay.”

Stiles scrubs his face and sighs. It would be nice not to feel the pressure of occupying his time, of taking a break from the hours of driving. He pats the couch and wiggles around to get more comfortable. “I’m warning you. You're running the risk of my ass becoming permanently glued to this seat.”

Derek huffs out a laugh. He grabs their drinks from the kitchen table, then joins Stiles on the couch. “It’s not like you’re interrupting my busy social calendar.”

Stiles takes his bottle of beer and stares at its contents. There’s less than a third left; he figures it’s okay to finish it, since he’s no longer driving. “Well, me neither. Since my social calendar nowadays pretty much consists of me, myself, and I.” He takes a pull from his bottle, then snaps his fingers after he finishes. “Although this could count as a reunion! Or a mini-pack meeting. Of former pack members. Would that count as something social?”

Derek stares at his drink. “Yeah, that counts,” he says, taking a sip.

Stiles finishes the last of his beer. He looks around and doesn’t see any coasters, so he wipes off the condensation from the outside of the bottle on his shirt before placing it down on the coffee table and settling back in his seat. “You know, we’ve been hanging out for what, two—no, three—hours? And you still haven’t told me how you got into photography.”

Derek shrugs. He’s quiet for a moment; his fingers pick at the label on his bottle as the seconds tick by. “I felt lost when Braeden left. Not because I thought we should be together; I guess 'lonely' is more accurate. Cora was in Córdoba. She was dating someone from the Guittierez pack. The alpha’s son. I wanted… After everything with Kate and Jennifer, I wanted her to have a chance at having her own life without me being around to mess things up.”

Maybe it was the beer, but Stiles doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out and rests a reassuring hand on Derek’s arm. “I understand. Believe me, I do. But you had as much to do with Kate and Jennifer’s evil intentions as I did with the Nogitsune.”

Derek finally lifts his eyes and meets Stiles’ gaze. “I know that, logically. It still doesn’t help the guilt.” Stiles doesn’t answer, because Derek’s right. He still suffers from occasional nightmares himself. At his lowest points, he’s even wondered if being pushed out of Scott’s pack was karmic retribution for the things he’s done in the past. “The last thing she needed was a mopey older brother holding her down. So, I packed up everything worth carrying in a backpack and took off.” His mouth curves into a soft smile. “It was the right decision. Cora and Stefano are engaged now.”

“Dude! That’s awesome!” Stiles removes his hand when Derek’s smile grows bigger. “So, what happened next?”

“I traveled around. A lot. At first, it was a kind of aimless wandering. I didn’t really have a plan; I just visited places that sounded cool; places where my family had friendly connections or where I could find a job. It was more… keeping myself busy so I didn’t have to think, if you know what I mean.”

“More than you know,” Stiles mutters under his breath.

Derek shoots him a quizzical look. Shit; Stiles had forgotten about werewolf hearing.

“After a while, I realized I was pissing away a huge chunk of my life. I’d been running since I was sixteen. When Laura and I took off after the fire for New York, we were constantly hiding. Even when I got back to Beacon Hills, I was so focused on surviving. By the time I’d made it back to the States from South America, I realized I'd come full circle geographically but not personally. It was ten years after the fire, and although I'd evolved, I wasn’t truly living.” Derek’s eyes, an indefinable green-blue on the best days, grow even more mercurial in the dimming light. “I decided I’d take a picture every day from then on. On some days, it would serve as a photo diary: a snapshot of something I ate or read. Or something silly, like the ends of my feet in bed. On other days, I would photograph something from my travels. It was a reminder to view the world and life through a different lens.”

“And then you ended up in Idaho.”

“After eighteen months. I was still moving around, but at least I wasn’t just going through the motions, even though I didn’t feel settled. I even returned to New York for a month. I wanted to get some closure; I’d visited the apartment I’d shared with Laura, went back to some of our old haunts. I even thought of looking you up.”

Stiles’ head jerks up. “You did?” He feels simultaneously thrilled at the news and gutted that Derek didn’t try. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was scared. I thought that you were finally moving on with your life and I’d bring it back down. And if you were happy, I didn't want to know that being away from Beacon Hills and the pack was the reason why.”

“I wasn’t happy,” Stiles says slowly. He thinks he would have been happy to see Derek. “I think I was just glad I was no longer potential monster chow every day of the week.” He picks at the ragged end of his thumbnail. “Dad says I’m missing magic in my life now. Figuratively and literally.”

Derek’s brow draws down in concern. “What do you mean?”

Stiles stifles a yawn. “I kind of lost my spark. To be fair, I hadn’t needed it during college—”

“A spark isn’t something you need, Stiles. It’s a part of you,” Derek says with an edge in his voice.

“Well, it’s not exactly like riding a bike! I mean, I don’t have Deaton—that is, I know I haven’t kept up with practicing, but I had a pretty busy course schedule, and—”

“You had a busy schedule in high school and were busy with pack business every night.”

“And look where that got me! I did things no one in their right mind would wish to, had enough trips to the ER to last a lifetime, and nearly alienated my dad, just to become—” Stiles stopped, because no, he wasn’t ready to share his ouster from the pack just yet. He looks toward the wall of glass in the back, blinking furiously as the purple-gray outline of the mountain range wavers. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says softly. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Stiles swallows past the enormous lump in his throat. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. It’s… things happened, and some days I think I’m handling it well, and on others it just feels like… a lot.”

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“I could really use a hug,” Stiles blurts out, surprising himself at how true that is. “Wait. Is that weird? I know you’re not really the touchy-feely type, even though you hugged me back at the store. Maybe that's too much of an ask, seeing as you’ve already fed me and given me your couch, so —”

“Stiles? Shut up,” Derek says gruffly right before he scoots over on the couch and draws Stiles into his arms. Unlike the slightly awkward bro-hug they shared earlier, Stiles falls into the embrace more easily and Derek doesn’t pull back in return.

“Sorry about the… you know,” Stiles says, his voice muffled against Derek’s chest. “Still haven’t had the chance to wash up.”

Stiles knows that’s not what Derek had meant when he said Stiles’ scent was off. Thankfully, Derek plays along. 

“Good thing I've got running hot water here, too.” He draws his hand to the back of Stiles’ neck and brushes his thumb along the nape.

"Thanks for letting me crash here. I'll be out of your hair in the morning."

Derek doesn't reply. Instead, he continues to drag his fingers against Stiles' skin. It’s rhythmic; soothing and hypnotic. With a full belly and no destination in mind, Stiles loses himself to Derek's touch.

*

Stiles doesn’t leave the next morning.

Or the morning after.

In fact, he’s pretty sure there’s now a permanent Stiles-shaped imprint ingrained on Derek’s couch.

“Ow!” he cries out, his arms flailing at his sides as something hits him in the head. He pulls off the damp towel and spits out the stray fiber caught on his lip before turning toward Derek with an accusing look.

“Get up. We’re heading out.”

Stiles picks up his phone. ““It’s like—Oh my god, it’s six-thirty in the morning! How are you showered and dressed?”

“Get up now,” Derek repeats, “or you’re on your own for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Stiles wipes the sand from his eyes as he stumbles to his feet. “Where are we going?” he asks as he stretches and yawns. When he opens his eyes fully, he catches Derek staring at his shirt.

The hem of the tee has ridden up, exposing Stiles' happy trail. Stiles pulls down on it, frowning.

“Did I drool?” Or maybe it was his morning wood. Which—they’re dudes. Derek should know better, especially since he was the one who woke Stiles from a deep slumber.

“Be ready to go in fifteen minutes,” Derek reiterates, stomping away.

Look, Stiles knows he’s a guest in Derek’s home. But being awoken and snapped at? At ass o’clock in the morning? That’s just plain rude.

“Good morning to you too, Grumpywolf,” Stiles calls out to Derek’s retreating back.

*

By the time they reach their destination, Derek is contrite.

“Sorry about this morning,” he says gruffly as he sets up his photography equipment. “They're predicting snow by the end of the week, and I wanted you to see this before the roads become difficult."

Stiles points to the mountain caps. “It already looks like there’s snow.” 

“There’s snow on the tallest peaks here year-round. It’s when it hits the lower altitudes that things get dicey.”

Stiles nods. They had parked the truck near the trailhead and taken an ATV for part of the way. At over six thousand feet above sea level, the air is sharp, even in the sun. He’s glad Derek was insistent on giving him extra clothes for layering. “So, what do you do when it does?”

“I still go out. There are fewer people and I like the challenges of shooting in the cold. Some of my favorite photos are from the winter months.”

Stiles has seen examples of Derek’s work over the past two days and read several articles about him online. He’s been hailed as a combination of Ansel Adams and Suzi Eszterhas, a photographer who can capture the majestic beauty of the American West as well as providing an intimate peek at its wildest inhabitants. 

Stiles sits on a rock slab. He breathes in the sounds and sights of the vista before him and tries to ignore the way the cold seeps through the fabric of his jeans. He looks up sharply when he hears the mechanical whir and click of the camera's shutter.

“Hey!” 

Derek grins, adjusts the lens, and clicks away. “Documenting this for the diary,” he says as Stiles protests.

“Yours or mine?” Stiles grumbles. 

“Why not both? Both are good.”

Stiles snorts. “Okay, Miguel.”

Derek shoots him a confused look. “What does your friend Danny have to do with—?" He glowers as Stiles doubles over, laughing. “I don’t get it.”

“The Road to Eldorado? The meme? Oh my god, you’re culturally deprived. We’re watching it as soon as we get home,” Stiles says between his tears. “Anyway, give it here.” He makes grabby hands at Derek’s camera.

Derek clutches his camera to his chest, horrified. “No way. You dropped your hot chocolate walking ten feet from the living room to the kitchen last night.”

“There was a shoe lying in the middle of the floor! Granted, it was mine, but… Come on, Derek. There has to be some reciprocation here.”

“Fine,” Derek says with a long sigh. He opens up one of his side bags and removes a smaller one. “You can use this.”

“Cool, cool.” Stiles looks over the body of the camera and presses the power button, making a pleased sound when the flash pops open. “Very cool,” he says as he takes a picture of Derek. He takes several more, then snaps a shot of a tree in the distance. “Uh, do you think I could borrow this for a bit?”

Derek waves his hand. “Go ahead. I mostly use it as a backup for when I need a quick shot. I've got everything I need set up.”

“Okay.” Stiles bites his lower lip; he doesn’t know the area, but he knows Derek’s here to work, not to babysit him, and he doesn’t want to be underfoot. “I’m going to head up a little further. Not too far, but… I’m pretty sure we’re not getting cell service around here, so…”

“I'll know where you are by your scent. Especially since you’re wearing my clothes.”

“Right.” Suddenly, the idea of sharing Derek’s clothes seems a lot more personal than it did that morning. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Derek nods. He tilts his head, as if trying to figure out the best angle for his shot. His profile catches the light; the lines of his nose and jaw are as chiseled as ever, yet his unstyled hair and scruffy beard lend a softness to him. Stiles sneaks in a couple more shots before heading up the trail.

He takes pictures of small things at first: closeups of the orange and yellow wildflowers that pop against the brush, and the deeply grooved bark of a pine tree. As he hikes further, he takes some panoramic views of the craggy ravines that sweep down toward the canyon below. There are some figures in the distance that Stiles thinks may be mountain goats when he tries to zoom in, although they’re too far away for him to be sure. It makes him wonder how Derek gets the shots that he does, even with all his high-end equipment. 

The image of Derek scaling these mountains while toting his equipment half-shifted makes Stiles grin.

There’s a spot under a tree far enough from the edge of the trail that looks like a safe place to rest. After a couple days of lounging around Derek’s house, Stiles welcomes the activity, even if Derek had dragged him out of bed. But he’s not familiar with the area, and he’s not foolish enough to wander off completely, despite Derek’s reassurances. 

The breeze carries with it the sticky scent of pine and resin and the distant sounds of trickling water fill the air as Stiles thumbs through the pictures he’s taken. They’re nothing artistic; he doesn’t have Derek’s eye, but they’re fun. When he reaches one of Derek, however, he stops mid-scroll.

It’s a good picture. The light is bright but not overly so and Derek looks unguarded, as much a part of the Idahoan wilderness as the animals he photographs. When Stiles enlarges the picture, he sees something that makes him do a double-take.

“Huh,” Stiles says softly. He tries to enlarge the picture further, but everything becomes a pixelated blur. 

There's an undeniable loneliness in Derek’s eyes. Not only that, the hazel of his irises appears to bleed an alpha red.

*

Stiles has to sit on his hands and bite his lip during the entire car ride home so he won't blurt out that he knows. Because as much as Derek’s shared of his life—and he’s shared a lot, significantly more than Stiles has, at any rate—this revelation is something else. It upends the natural order of things. And Stiles hasn’t earned Derek’s trust. Not when he can’t be forthright himself. 

The only thing that prevents Stiles from blowing his cover is thinking of all the ways he can get Derek to spill his secret. He’s granted a small reprieve when he successfully convinces Derek to watch The Road to Eldorado; Stiles thinks it’s not the anti-hero story or even the title of Best Worst Movie Ever that sways Derek, but the Elton John soundtrack, of all things. He loses himself in Tulio and Miguel’s witty banter and the catchy soundtrack for a while, but then the blue and red of their shirts reminds him of the changing colors of Derek’s eyes, and he can’t stop thinking about what could have led to Derek’s new alpha state every time the two appear on screen.

Which is like ninety-nine percent of the movie. Which means he ends up thinking about Derek ninety-nine percent of the time, which only makes Stiles more fidgety. Which leads to Derek fixing him with increasingly frustrated glares until Stiles plays the exhausted card just to avoid their increasing awkwardness. Which means they stop the movie before Tzekrl-Kan conjures the stone jaguar, which everyone knows is one of the best parts.

Which is why Stiles needs to take this to the next level. Proverbs about curiosity and cats aside.

*

Derek stares as Stiles nudges the ketchup bottle towards him during breakfast.

“What’s this?”

“It's ketchup. Or catsup, although I’m partial to the Heinz spelling. Did you know that ‘ketchup’ wasn’t a thing until the late 1800s? It’s also known as ‘kitsip’ and ‘kutchpuck’, although those are absolute travesties. Thank you, Heinz, for the American modernization of this bright-red, tangy-sweet goodness.”

Derek growls. “I mean, why is it out here?”

“Oh! Well.” Stiles points to the plate of scrambled eggs in front of them. “Salt and pepper are awesome, but they can be kind of… boring, you know? But put a little ketchup on those babies, and it’s a power boost! A super boost for the taste buds! Plus, talk about a color pop; bright red whets the appetite, am I right?"

“No.”

“But—”

“It’s disgusting. Would you have put ketchup on an omelet? Or poached eggs?”

“Why not?” Stiles sits back in his chair and pouts. “And seriously, like you have a reason to talk with the things your werewolf-y ass hunts on a full moon.”

Derek’s cheeks redden. “It’s my nature.”

“Of course! And there's nothing wrong with that. Especially out here. I’m pretty sure the pull of your wolf here in the wilderness, in this whole den you’ve created for yourself, is probably bigger than ever.”

Derek stares, then shakes his head as he digs back into his eggs, resolutely ignoring the ketchup bottle.

Stiles sighs. “You know, I’ve had to endure all the ‘Red Riding Hood’ comments for so many years,” he says, pulling on the sleeve of his hoodie. “Like I was prey. But red’s kind of amazing, you know? It’s blood and life, and power and authority. I mean, if you wore red—”

“All right. That’s it,” Derek says, standing up so suddenly his chair’s feet skitter out from beneath him as he grabs Stiles’ wrist. “Out. Now.”

Stiles' heart trips at the thought of Derek throwing him out. Maybe he was being as subtle as a frying pan to the head, but Derek’s turnabout was completely unexpected. It’s possible Stiles has overstayed his welcome, and now Derek has a convenient excuse to cut him loose. But it’s also a too-familiar reminder of not being wanted.

“Okay, I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed. But can we talk about this at least before you toss me out?”

“I’m not ‘tossing you out,’” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “But apparently there’s an elephant in the room and we’re going to deal with it now.”

“Why are we going outside? Is it so you can get rid of the body?”

“It’s because fighting in my living space isn’t good for my karmic-chi,” Derek says, deadpan. He grabs a coat and throws it at him. “It’s twenty-eight degrees outside. Bundle up.”

The bitter cold is a rude awakening. “Smart move,” Stiles grumbles. He concentrates on staying warm, jamming his gloved hands in his pockets. “This is all part of your evil plan, isn’t it? Distracting me with the cold, so I’ve got even less of a filter?”

“Actually, I thought it would be nice to get a walk in before we become snowbound.” Derek arches a brow. “Why? Is there something you’re worried you’ll say?”

Stiles lifts his shoulders, although the effect is probably lost considering he’s swimming in one of Derek’s down coats. He’s not sure why he’s so reluctant to tell Derek what happened. Yes, the saga is sad, and more than a little humiliating, but Derek, of all people, would understand the ramifications of losing a pack.

“You’ve been real patient with me, and opening up your home without pushing, and I guess you deserve to know,” Stiles says after a long sigh.

Derek stops in his tracks. “Only if you’re ready to tell me.”

“I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing. And I’m a nervous about what you’ll think, if you'll tell me I was just being silly, to run away—Uh, how much do you keep track of things back in Beacon Hills?”

“Not a lot. Cora updates me a couple times a year with stuff she sees on Facebook.”

Stiles nods, filing away the piece of information. He wonders if lack of consistent updates was purposeful. If they were a reminder of all Derek's lost, especially given Derek’s new alpha status. Or whether it’s simply a matter of moving on.

Stiles resumes walking. The frozen leaves crunch under his feet as Derek falls into step beside him. “I left the pack,” Stiles says. He doesn’t turn to see Derek’s expression, doesn’t want to see if his expression is one of shock or pity. “When I came back from Columbia, things were different. Scott was with Malia—not that I minded, but it was just another thing that had changed. And there were new members.”

“Packs grow. That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Derek says, his voice carefully neutral.

Stiles feels his face heat. “Of course. It’s just… I didn’t feel like I belonged. There wasn’t a place for me in the pack anymore.” He finally has the courage to look at Derek, and is surprised to see the flash of anger on his face. It disappears so quickly Stiles thinks he may have imagined it.

“A pack’s bonds don’t disappear just because you went to college. It doesn’t matter if you went to Beacon Hills Community College or Columbia. The connections between pack members are like strings, binding them to one another and their alpha. As Scott’s oldest friend—as a spark—your connection should be greater than most.”

“I may be Scott’s oldest friend, but I’m not his closest. Haven’t been, for a while.” Stiles’ words catch in his throat. It’s too cold for tears to form, which he supposes he should be thankful for.

Derek grabs Stiles’ arm. “What do you mean? What happened?” he asks, his voice vibrating with tension.

“Nothing happened. Except I went away and life went on without me. I… I probably didn’t involve myself as much as I should have, and I became replaceable.”

“Scott’s a fool,” Derek says, letting go of Stiles’ arm. “Pack members support each other. There may be others who can assist in certain roles, but you’re not replaceable. Especially not you.”

“Hey, 'squishy human,' remember? 'Too risky.' 'Too easily hurt.' Ring a bell?”

“I can guarantee I never used the word ‘squishy’.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles sighs. “You get the gist.”

“Maintaining our ties to humanity is one of the most important things we can do as a werewolf,” Derek says as they start walking again. “My father was human. So was Aunt Sam; she was Peter’s mate. It wasn’t just the decimation of our pack and his physical wounds that made Peter go mad. I think her loss was why he became consumed with power and bloodlust.”

“Plenty of humans are power hungry. And they didn’t go through a literal trial by fire to get there.”

“Which is why when we find a human who is loyal and brave and smart, we do everything we can to ensure their place in the pack. To let them know how much they’re worth.” Derek picks up a stone from the ground and throws it. Hard. It bounces off a tree in the distance, the sound of splintering bark echoing through the woods. “Scott tries to lead with his heart. But he’s not as selfless as he imagines."

Stiles opens his mouth, an automatic reflex to protest the criticism of his former best friend, but then he snaps it shut. Instead, he looks at the ground, trying to find a pebble to throw, just for something to do.

“What did Scott say when you told him you were leaving?” Derek finally asks.

“I didn’t,” Stiles confesses. He pauses, waiting for the rebuke that never comes.  “Do you know it took nearly two weeks of silence before he realized I was gone? That’s how little I meant to him and the pack.”

“Like I said. Scott’s a fool.”

“But what about you?” Stiles blurts out. “Forgetting about ties to human pack members. How are you fine with the way things are? Living out here, alone? I know you said you’re not an omega, but it’s got to be so much worse for you now that you're an alpha—” Stiles’ hand flies over his mouth.

“Took you long enough,” Derek snorts.

“You knew? I mean… you knew I knew?” Stiles squawks once his brain can reboot. 

“You’re hardly subtle. It’s been a while since I’ve spent so much time with someone, so it makes sense that I’d eventually slip. When did you figure it out?”

“Five days ago. When we went on the hike,” Stiles confesses. “Your eyes were red in one of the pictures. I didn’t even know that could happen.”

“The inability of werewolves to have their eyes photographed is a myth,” Derek says, “or at least it’s not the entire truth. The camera's flash intensifies the color and amplifies their glow. I learned how to avoid looking directly into the lens ever since I was a kid.” He blows out a long breath, the heat of it creating a misty cloud around him. “Five days, huh? I let my guard down earlier than I thought.”

Stiles lowers his head to hide his pleased grin. “So, are you going to tell me how it happened?” When Derek remains quiet, Stiles backpedals. “Not that you have to. I mean, you’ve been more than generous with me while I’d been holding back all this time—”

“It’s okay. I was planning on telling you, eventually. It’s just… It’s not something I like to think about often.” He picks up the pace; normally, Stiles would protest, but the movement helps against the painfully sharp cold. “I was in Boyacá, Colombia, when it happened. For over a thousand years, the Tena pack had coexisted peacefully with the Muzo people. The area is beautiful; it’s also famous for being home to some of the most beautiful emeralds in the world. The packs' numbers were decimated after the Spanish conquest.” He coughs, and his voice hitches when he continues. “I didn’t know the Tena alpha very well; there’s a very distant family connection going back several centuries, and his name had come up briefly when Cora was considering places to move. I should have realized something had happened when he never replied to any of my messages, but I was nearby and thought I’d pay my respects anyway.”

Stiles watches as the muscles in Derek’s jaw clench and his eyes flash a deep ruby red.

“The mining industry may be more transparent nowadays, but there’s still a lot of illegal activity. There are plenty of outsiders who don’t relish the idea of encountering a territorial pack. Several of them employed hunters to get rid of the few packs that still existed, once and for all. When I arrived, the Tena alpha was the only one left. He was a much older man, well into his eighties, but he'd grown feral from rage and grief.” Derek draws his arms over his chest. “I was stupid; I’d entered his territory without his permission. It didn’t matter that I was a were, or that we were distant relatives. In his mind, I was another intruder. I didn’t want to fight him,” he adds, grief making his voice hoarse, “but beneath his fury, it was almost like he welcomed the thought of dying.”

“Der,” Stiles whispers. It’s so unfair; he can’t imagine what Derek had felt. How both instances of his alphadom had come at the cost of personal guilt and loss. Another thought crosses Stiles' mind. “You said you weren’t an omega. If the Tena alpha was the last of his pack—”

“All omegas are lone wolves. But not all lone wolves are omegas. Cora left for South America, I didn’t join Scott’s pack, and Peter died. It’s not that different from the situation I'm in now.”

Stiles has a flashback to the time when Derek had become an alpha for the first time and remembered how quickly he’d worked to turn Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. “Even though you’re an alpha now? Doesn’t that make you want a pack even more?”

Derek’s smile grows wistful. “Of course I’d love to have a pack. But if I ever have one again, it won't happen out of desperation. Cora, these woods, my photography—they ground me. And they’re enough. At least for now. Until I'm able to find a more suitable and permanent anchor.”

They stop as they hit a small clearing. Derek cocks his head, his nostrils flaring. “I know they said snow at the end of the week, but I think we’re getting some as early as tomorrow.”

“Really? You can smell that?” 

Derek nods. “There’s a dampness and heaviness in the air. The scent is stronger. Deeper.”

Stiles tilts his head and closes his eyes. He can’t smell the difference, but as he takes several more slow, deep breaths, he feels something sparking and building along his skin. It doesn’t last very long, but he recognizes the tingle of his magic, and it’s such a welcome, long-lost presence that he barks out a surprised, giddy laugh.

“Do you sense it, too?” Derek asks when Stiles opens his eyes. There’s a glimpse of raw hunger in his expression that Derek quickly schools into something neutral.

Stiles nods. "Yeah," he whispers. Because whether Derek is referring to the upcoming snow, Stiles’ magic, or whatever is going on between them that puts that look on Derek’s face, Stiles feels all those things, too.

*

They decide to head into town afterward to stock up on provisions. There’s a storage shed out back that Derek uses once the temperatures hit below freezing, a place to store both fresh kill and salted meats. Stiles works the pickling salt and brown sugar into slabs of pork and venison, then stuffs them into the crock jars Derek’s laid out. They won’t be properly cured for another month, Derek explains, but the winters here are long. There’s something about the way Derek says it as they work steadily together—like he’s both hopeful and expecting that Stiles will stay for the duration—that makes a warmth bloom inside Stiles’ chest.

Derek also shows Stiles where the firewood is kept, and the proper way to stack it under the tarp to prevent moisture from seeping in. As Stiles bends down to check one of the stakes, he spies a box of elk burrs sitting to the side.

“Hey. Do you think you could teach me how to carve one of these?”

Derek nods. “Grab as many as you’d like.”

Stiles picks through the box and selects some of the smaller burrs or ones with marred surfaces. He’s never done anything like this before and is sure there's going to be a lot of trial and error—emphasis on the 'error' part. He thinks five may be enough to get him started, but as he’s weeding through the pile he’s set aside, he spies a medium-sized burr that catches his attention.

“Is there something I should look out for when choosing one?”

Derek shrugs. “It’s not what’s on the surface that matters. It’s about removing the excess and letting yourself be guided by your hands. You have to feel the shape of the underlying space.”

Stiles bites down on his lower lip. “That’s pretty Zen.”

Derek picks up a rick of wood. He’s wearing only a light overcoat, his body apparently overheated from all the work they’ve been doing, and Stiles can see the way Derek’s shirt pulls unfairly over his chest from the effort.

“And that’s bad because…?”

“My mind has this terrible habit of wandering. I’m not exactly known for being patient. I'm probably going to fuck up a lot.”

Derek brushes by him on the way back to the house. His breath curls hot along the nape of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles fails to suppress his shiver. “You're looking at the king of fuck ups. But if there's one thing I’ve learned living out here, it's that anything important is worth waiting for.”

*

Being snowed in, especially in a place that’s not your own and with spotty wi-fi, makes things a little too quiet. Derek’s library of movies is pitifully deficient, and when he’s not snapping photographs for his daily diary, he’s usually holed up in his darkroom, working on some project.

It makes Stiles feel displaced again. He tries to fill up the time by practicing his magic. He even has some success and lays several runes around the home and the surrounding woods for protection.

But there’s a limit to what Stiles can do when it comes to more advanced magic. The last thing he wants is to cast an errant spell that blows out the walls in Derek’s kitchen, or worse. At one point, though, he’s stir crazy enough to contemplate taking the risk. It’s better than going full blown Jack Torrance from The Shining.

And it’s not just the limit to outdoor activities. There are things Stiles can’t do inside, as well. Things like… well, jerking off. He’s already had to alter his routine while traveling with his dad, but it was easier to finagle some alone time when he didn’t have to account for supernatural auditory and olfactory skills. And because Stiles is a born-and-bred NorCal dude, he keeps the fire in the living room stoked twenty-four seven, which then forces Derek to wander around the house half-naked. The guy looks like a walking wet dream. Stiles hasn’t felt this horrible mix of horny and pent-up frustration since a bikini-clad Lydia spent a summer at the country club where Stiles cleaned the cabanas.

The snow finally stops falling by day four. Derek spends most of it shoveling a path to the shed before hitching a plow to his truck and clearing out the driveway. The surrounding roads are getting plowed, but the infrequent traffic means there’s still a layer of snow and ice on the pavement that makes heading out for anything less than an emergency a foolish gamble.

The forced isolation must affect Derek, too. Especially when it’s a full moon.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” Derek asks, already halfway out the door.

Stiles shakes his head. “Dude, I’m positive. Your driveway’s pretty, but walking back and forth on it loses its charm after the sixth time. Plus, it’s like eighteen degrees out. Go out and do your wolfy thing.”

That Derek doesn’t even bother putting up another protest shows they’re both in need of some alone time, even if it’s of a different sort. Stiles tugs down the waistband of his sweats as soon as the door closes, not even bothering to lower it past the middle of his thighs.

He takes himself in hand and lets out a groan. The roughness of his fingers as they curl around his dick is tantalizingly good, and the thrill of doing this in Derek’s home sends another wave of lust through him. He imagines Derek crowding him against the kitchen counter, his stubble rough against Stiles’ cheek, those powerful forearms caging him in. He thinks of Derek spinning him around, bending him over as he fucks Stiles hard and fast. It takes only several minutes before Stiles is coming into his fist, and when he does, it’s with Derek’s name on his lips.

*

It’s cranberry sauce, of all things, that brings everything to a head.

“Oh, my god.” Stiles looks up from the bowl he filled with bright red, uncooked berries and feels the blood drain from his face.

Derek looks up. He’s bent over the oven, basting the pheasant while wearing a pink apron with an all-over cupcake print Stiles ordered from Amazon. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyes filling with concern.

“I forgot the orange.” Stiles can’t believe he forgot to pick one up when they went shopping. Driving back and forth from town would take at least another hour. He runs to the fridge and throws the door open, frantically pushing aside the dishes he’s already prepared. “No, no! Please tell me we still have OJ.” 

Derek looks up guiltily. “I drank the last of it this morning. There was hardly any left, and I thought I’d finish it and make room for—”

“It’s not your fault. It’s just me being stupid, as usual.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “It’s no big deal. I’ll just drive to the store and pick one up.”

“You’re not driving all the way back into town for one fucking orange.”

“I need the orange, Derek. You can’t have cranberry sauce without orange.”

“It’s just cranberry sauce, Stiles. No one eats cranberry sauce, anyway.”

Stiles feels his heart pounding erratically against his chest. “It might not be anyone's favorite, but it’s still essential! Cranberry sauce is a tradition. It’s the one thing you never realize you’ll miss from Thanksgiving dinner until it’s gone!”

“Woah, look. Everything will be fine. Maybe we’ll start our own tradition and have something else in its place.”

Stiles feels his face heat, and then, to his absolute mortification, a sob catches in his throat. He turns, but not before Derek’s already in his space, his hands steadying Stiles’ shoulders.

“If this is about the cranberry sauce, Stiles, I’ll drive into Stanley myself and buy every single orange they have. But something tells me it’s not.”

The concern in his eyes causes the floodgates to open. Months of grief and humiliation spill out, and Stiles falls into his arms, sobbing.

“I’m the goddamn cranberry sauce, Derek!” he wheezes. “I’m the plain and nerdy human who ran with a group of super-hot, super-everything werewolves. I may not be someone's first choice, but at least I was still essential. Or, I thought I was. But maybe I’ve been deluding myself all along. I mean, it’s always the cranberry sauce that gets left in the fridge. No one ever misses it until dinner is over, right?”

“Stiles.” Stiles feels his name rumble from somewhere deep inside Derek’s chest as Derek pulls him close and nuzzles his neck. “You’re not just a human; you’re a spark. But even if you weren’t, you’re wrong. If I had to pick one person from the pack to have at my side, I’d always pick you first.”

Stiles pulls back, his chin trembling. “The last thing I need is to be lied to out of pity. No, I think this big fat reality check is long overdue.”

Derek drops his arms. “You think I pity you,” he says, his eyes flashing.

“Yes! I mean, you’ve been unbelievably charitable, taking in a stray—”

“Charity,” Derek says with a snort. “I may be in a better place than I was five years ago, but I’m not about to give an open-ended invitation for someone to stay in my home because I’m feeling charitable.”

“But if that's the case, why haven’t you…?” Stiles swallows. “You’re an alpha werewolf who lives and works by himself. Whose family member lives over six thousand miles away. Yet you don’t want me as part of your pack.”

“I didn’t even know that was an option at first. When I saw you in Stanley, I thought you were still part of Scott’s pack. I wasn’t presumptuous enough to poach you, even though it would selfishly make me happy.”

“But what about after? We were pack mates once. Or, at least, we were pack-adjacent. You know how I could fight, how I could help. Aren't I worthy?”

Derek looks absolutely gutted. “Stiles, any pack would be lucky to have you. But it wouldn’t have been right for me to ask when you were still trying to process everything you’d been through.”

Stiles shakes his head. “A tiny hint would have been nice.”

“I’m too old to form pack bonds that aren’t meaningful. You have your whole life in front of you. You just graduated. Your life is filled with so many opportunities. Things that aren’t necessarily available to you here. If you accepted my offer and changed your mind—if we formed a pack bond, only to break it, I don’t think I could—"

Derek fists his hand at his sides. His words are raw, and his expression so helpless, that it pulls Stiles from his self-pitying spiral mid-track.

“You don’t think you could what?” Stiles asks, his voice trembling, knowing Derek’s a hair’s trigger from closing himself off. “Derek, please.”

“You and Scott were inseparable since you were eight. If the two of you drifted apart, it could happen to anyone. And that would kill me. Not only because I’d lose a pack member, but because… well, because I’d lose you.” Derek looks up at Stiles, “I’m pretty gone on you, Stiles. I have been, for quite a while.”

A rush of conflicting emotions rushes through Stiles at the revelation: shock, elation, anger at the time they’d lost, and anxiety about making sure he fucks nothing up. Because… well, it’s not only Derek Hale, star of many of Stiles' late night fantasies, but it’s Derek Hale, who’s been hurt by too many people, for too many times, and who’s now entrusted Stiles with his vulnerable heart. And Stiles will not—cannot—fuck this up.

“Okay, so… me and Scott. I mean, he saved my ass when Jackson knocked me off the swings after I shared my crayon with Lydia. And I returned the favor by retrieving his inhaler after Dana Anderson stole it. We’ve sort of been saving each other ever since.” He glances at Derek, who looks like he’s still ready to bolt. “We liked the same games, read the same comics. He helped me when my mom got sick and I was there when his dad was being a massive douche. There were a lot of reasons we were tied at the hip, but it was also because we didn’t have anyone else to lean on.”

“I’d take having a single best friend over a hundred meaningless acquaintances any day.”

“Yeah, well. Things changed once we got to high school. I mean, there was lacrosse and Allison. And werewolves, and Allison. And you and the pack, and Allison. The point is, our circle got bigger; some of it by design, some unintentional. But it was a good thing. Spread the wealth, baby. Sometimes, I can be a lot for one person to handle.”

Derek’s lips twitch, and Stiles gives him a small smile. “You know, my mom told me something around the time her memory went. She said ‘Time isn’t linear.’ I was only ten and had no idea what she’d meant. But she said it so matter-of-factly that it stuck with me. Looking back on it, I don’t think she meant it in a Dr. Who, timey-wimey kind of way. I think she meant that time is a reflection of life events. Of change. Scott and I went through a lot of changes in fifteen years. We’re hardly the same kids who bonded because we were bullied on the playground.”

“What’s not to say the same thing won’t happen with us?”

Stiles thinks carefully. “Okay, so you know when you’re a kid and everything seems like it lasts forever? Like, when it’s the eighth period in school or the beginning of summer vacation. It’s this weird paradox because, while time is defined by change, it’s also affected by our perception. When we’re young, everything changes so quickly: our bodies, our minds, our social skills. But there’s also this feeling of invincibility, that things will last forever. Until they don’t.” He wipes the flat of his hands against the front of his jeans. “I didn’t tell you, but I finally called Scott last week. I’m still angry that he didn’t see what was happening with my role in the pack, but I can’t fault him for how the pack’s dynamics changed while I was away. And even though I’m angry that our friendship became an afterthought. I’m also glad it allowed me to know where I truly stood. Because instead of staying and hoping for something that won't happen, I left.” Stiles takes a step forward. It brings him so far into Derek’s space, their feet touch. “You’ve been a huge part of my life since I was sixteen, Derek. As much as Scott; at some points, even more. And it wasn’t just because you threw open the door on the whole supernatural business after Scott got bit, or because you and Danny pretty much confirmed my bisexuality—”

“Danny?” Derek grits out, his eyes flashing.

“Yes. Handsome, dimpled, and oh-so-gay Danny,” Stiles confirms as Derek lets out a possessive growl. “Also, so beyond the point, because Danny ceased to exist from the moment I saw you in the woods. I had no idea until then what it meant to have a fear-boner. But you’re also an incredible leader, one who’s strong and with a good heart, and you really know how to rock a pink apron, and… I’m gone on you, too, Derek Hale. From the moment you told me I was on private property. And the last ten years have only made my feelings for you stronger.”

Derek reaches out and twines their fingers together. “You’re also my mate,” he blurts out. “I thought you might be, even back in Beacon Hills. But you were young, and I didn’t trust my instincts anymore. Not after I’d fucked up so much with Kate and Jennifer.” A look of regret washes over his face. “When I saw you in Stanley, it was like I was given another chance. My wolf, my heart—I just knew. But I didn’t want to push. I was worried you weren’t ready. Or that you wouldn’t feel the same way.”

Stiles' jaw drops. “I promise you, Derek Hale, that if you're worried about me reciprocating your feelings, you're worrying too much.”

The corners of Derek’s eyes crinkle. “You know, a wise person once said, I worry the exact right amount. You can never worry too much,” he says as Stiles lets out a laugh. “When it comes to you, I’m always going to worry. I want to make sure I'm doing things right.”

Stiles wants to be cool. He wants a rom-com movie moment, to tip his head up just enough for their lips to melt softly into an earth-shattering first kiss. But Derek’s looking at him, all soft-eyed and wearing a goofy smile after quoting The Road to Eldorado, and that’s totally not happening.

He throws his arms around Derek’s shoulders and mashes their faces together, unable to keep from grinning through his teeth.

“Let’s just be clear,” Stiles says between the kisses he’s peppering against Derek’s lips, “that, in this analogy, I’m Tulio. I’m pretty sure most people would agree I’m the anxious worrier, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek teases.

“I’m going to be calling you dude when you’re eighty years old, dude. Also, you're rocking the whole square jaw and bushy eyebrows, just like Miguel. Not to mention the awesome stubble.”

“It’s a cartoon, Stiles. Everyone has bushy eyebrows.”

“Tulio’s were defined. I'll even give you thick, but they definitely weren’t bushy, and— mmmph!”  

Derek’s hand snakes up the back of Stiles’ neck to angle his head, and oh, that’s the soft and mind-meltingly sweet, heart-stopping kiss Stiles was looking for.

“Can we skip the foreplay and get straight to the lovemaking?” Stiles asks, dazed.

Derek arches a brow and smirks. Then he picks Stiles up, hauls him against his chest in a bridal carry and makes his way to the bedroom to do exactly that.

Many times over.

*

They don’t eat until well after midnight. Even though the food is cold, it’s still the best Thanksgiving dinner ever.

Epilogue

Stiles tilts his head toward the shower spray and lets the water beat off his face. He’s glad Derek wasn’t stingy with the water temperature when designing the home, because there's nothing better than taking a steaming shower in the middle of a snowy winter morning. In fact, he’s enjoying it so much, he nearly misses the curtain pulling open, and only registers the change when the temperature drops.

Derek slides in behind him. “Morning, babe,” he says, nuzzling his cheek. His body presses against Stiles’ back; Stiles can feel the lines of Derek’s abs and the thickness of his rousing cock.

“Merry Christmas,” Stiles sighs happily, angling his head. Derek surges forward, groaning as his tongue thrusts between the seams of Stiles’ lips. The taste of toothpaste and shower water fills Stiles’ mouth as Derek slots his hands on Stiles' waist and ruts against him slowly.

“Merry Christmas, indeed.” Derek’s eyes are brimming with laughter as he reaches for Stiles' cock.

“You don’t play fair,” Stiles whines as his dick quickly fills. He’s supposed to be FaceTiming his dad in fifteen minutes. “I’m kind of on a schedule here, buddy.”

“It won’t take long,” Derek's fingers circle Stiles’ dick as he begins to jerk him off, the friction causing Stiles to groan. “Just a little taste for later. Because I’m planning to take my time with you. Going to open you up slowly. Tease you until you’re begging to be fucked.”

The words create a Pavlovian response. Stiles’ body reacts immediately, fueled by their filthy promise and the speed of Derek's strokes. He grabs blindly for the conditioner, squirts a healthy amount into his palm and slicks it between his thighs.

“Fuck me like this,” he begs, reaching behind to position Derek’s prick between his legs. Derek groans he slides between the warm space and Stiles adjusts his stance.

He leans forward, his hands splayed against the shower tiles as Derek ruts between his thighs. The conditioner makes a squelches filthily along with the running water and Derek’s soft grunts. Every sensation is amplified: the swell of Derek’s cockhead as it pistons between the space of Stiles’ leg, the slap of his balls against Stiles’ wet skin, the wiry hairs at the base of Derek’s dick pressing against his ass. Each point of contact forms a circuitous loop, their bodies so intertwined Stiles can’t tell where he ends and Derek begins.

“Der, I’m going to—”

Derek's grip on Stiles’ dick tightens. “I love you,” Derek rasps.

Stiles feels the prick of Derek’s fangs against his neck as Derek feverishly works to bring him off. He spills into Derek's hands just as the hot splash of Derek’s come sprays against his skin, his spark flaring fully as Derek meets his lips and swallows him whole.

*

“So tell me about your job.”

“It’s not exactly my job yet, Dad. I still have to meet with the chair. But I think if that goes well, it’s mine.” His dad looks unbelievably proud, and Stiles can’t help but join him. “But yeah. I’m excited. And it’ll be nice to do something that’s actually related to my degree.”

“Glad to know those four years are going to good use,” his dad says with a smile. “What about the commute, though? It’s over a hundred miles to Boise State, and we’re not talking multi-lane highways here.”

“Most of it’s field work. I can do my TA sessions over Zoom, so we’re really talking about commuting in once or twice a week. It’s doable. And when the weather gets bad, I’ll use Derek’s truck.”

His dad winces. “He’s letting you drive his truck?”

“What, I’m an excellent driver!” Stiles protests. “Half those tickets I got in high school were bogus!”

“And you would have had more if you hadn’t talked circles around my deputies,” the Sheriff says as someone snorts.

“Hi, sir,” Derek says, waving at the camera. His hair is damp and mussed from the shower, as if he just finished toweling it dry, and Stiles wants to run his fingers through the strands. He’s also Stiles’ favorite sweater. The maroon fabric is softly worn, and it’s tighter now that Derek’s put on some extra alpha muscle. But it makes him look as cuddly as a puppy because it’s got goddamn thumbholes.

His dad coughs pointedly as Stiles continues to drool. “So, is he treating you right, son?”

Stiles whirls around quickly to face his dad again, his cheeks heating. “Absolutely. He’s the best.”

His dad’s lips twitch. “I was talking to Derek, kiddo.”

“Absolutely, sir. He’s the best,” Derek says as he stands behind Stiles and wraps his arms around him.

“I’m expecting a visit from you both once Stiles gets settled. If you don’t, I’m flying out to there,” his dad says. His eyes narrow like they do when he’s trying to suss out just how serious things are between them, but the effect is broken when the lines of his mouth soften into a smile.

“We could do both,” Stiles says.

“Both is good,” Derek adds, to Stiles’ delight.

His dad gives them a confused look.

“Pop cultural reference,” Stiles explains. “So, what are your plans for today?”

“I'm dropping off some food at the station for those who were stuck with the holiday shift.”

“Nice! You found a place that’ll deliver on Christmas?”

His dad fidgets in his seat. “Actually, Melissa and some of the other team members are helping. It’s going to be a potluck.” His eyes flick uneasily between Stiles and Derek. “You know I’m useless in the kitchen unless it’s barbecue, and she was kind enough to help, and—”

“Dad, it’s okay. I’m glad she’s with you.”

“You don’t mind?" It's a loaded question.

Stiles shakes his head. “Melissa isn’t Scott. And while Scott isn’t exactly on my Christmas list this year, we’ll figure things out. But I love Melissa. She’s always been there for me, and if something were to happen between the two of you, I wouldn’t mind.” Stiles hesitates, then tries to pour his heart into his next words. “You know, someone once told me how important it was to find the magic in my life. You deserve to be happy. Mom would want that, too.”

His dad blinks, then surreptitiously brushes his eyes with his sleeve. “Thanks, kid. That means a lot,” he says, his voice rough. Derek gives Stiles’ arm a squeeze, and Stiles is about to provide his dad with an out, when the doorbell rings.

“That wouldn't happen to be the lovely Melissa, would it? Well, don’t keep her waiting,” Stiles says after his dad nods. “You have hungry people to feed. You’re going to have a mutiny on your hands if you don’t show on time!”

“Okay, okay," his dad laughs. “I'm going.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Dad. Say 'hi' to Melissa for us.”

“We’ll visit after the New Year,” Derek promises right before they sign off.

“He looks happy,” Stiles says softly as Derek strokes the back of his neck. “I hope he knows I’m okay with him being really happy.”

“I think you made that pretty clear.”

Stiles swivels around in his seat. “It’s not just about my mom. Scott and I used to drop hints about him getting together with Melissa all the time.” He bites down on his lower lip. “I think he feels it would be disloyal of him to pursue something with her since I left the pack. But Melissa isn’t Scott. And even though I’m sad at how everything went down, I know it was for the best.”

Derek tucks a wayward strand of hair behind Stiles’ ear. “It’s selfish, but I’m glad things worked out the way they did, too.”

“It’s not selfish if I’m in a better place. And maybe Scott and I will be in each other’s lives again, but whatever happens, life’s too short to waste on regret.”

Derek cocks a brow. “That’s pretty Zen of you.”

“Dude,” Stiles says with a laugh, “I can be as petty as the next person. But it’s easier to be forgiving when I’m this happy.”

Derek brushes their lips together gently. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

“Like you can’t hear the truth of it,” Stiles says, pointing at his chest. “Speaking of which…” He reaches into the desk drawer and pulls out a package. It had taken him until two in the morning to put on the finishing touches. Next to the macaroni heart he made for his mom in kindergarten, this is probably the most personal gift he’s ever given. “I’m not known for being a patient person and I’m kind of going crazy with all the waiting, and… well, I really want to give you this.”

Derek takes the present and slowly undoes the ribbon and paper tissue wrapping, then puts them to the side carefully.

Stiles laughs. “That’s not the actual present, you know.”

Derek makes shushing noises. “You took the time to wrap it. Let me enjoy it...” His words trail off once he sees what’s inside. “Oh,” Derek says, his voice soft with awe.

Stiles was inspired by the carving Derek had made. He recreated Derek's wolf, but added a star next to the moon. “I thought it would be cool to make a wearable amulet,” he says, pointing to the leather straps. “And I added a couple of charms to give you a bit of a werewolf-y boost. And for the pièce de résistance...” Stiles turns the carving over to show Derek the shallow dip in the surface. “Rest your thumb against it.”

“Holy shit,” Derek exclaims as the star streaks across the sky and it and the wolf dance under the moon. The animation is brief, and Derek replays it several times over. “I’ve never seen anything like this. How did you do it?”

“It, uh, wasn’t easy,” Stiles says sheepishly. “The magic is based on the emotional state of the caster.”

“You used love magic?” Derek guesses as Stiles blushes furiously.

“Sort of. But it’s more than that. It’s like taking the feelings I have for you and giving it a physical representation. If the feelings aren’t true or they’re impure, it won’t work.” Stiles looks away, feeling suddenly awkward.

Derek cups his face and kisses him thoroughly. “It’s the most amazing thing anyone’s ever given me.” He hands Stiles the amulet. “Will you help put it on?”

Stiles winds the leather straps around Derek’s neck and fastens the clasp. The wolf and the stars continue to shimmer as they feed off the residue of Derek and Stiles’ emotions. “I made the clasp adjustable in case you wanted to wear it while you’re shifted. Or if you prefer, I can shorten it into a bracelet.”

“I’m not taking it off. It’s perfect.” Derek traces the outline of the wolf and star reverently, then stands and motions for Stiles to stay. When he returns, he’s carrying several packages.

Stiles makes grabby hands. “My turn.”

“Okay, first, there’s no way I’m going to match what you’ve given me.”

“Pfft. It’s the thought that counts, right?” Stiles pulls the top package out of Derek’s hands and tears into it as Derek sighs. “Ooh!” Stiles holds up a green fleece onesie printed with cartoon donkeys and the words Smart Ass across the butt flap. “If you’re trying to get me back for the apron, you failed buddy, because I love it!” He holds it against his chest and does a little dance.

Derek looks a bit pained. “It’s supposed to be a gag gift. You weren’t supposed to like it!” He takes the second package and hands it over. “Here’s your real present.”

It feels like a book, based on the heft and shape. Stiles wonders if it’s a rare tome from the Hale library.

“I—woah.” A photo album sits inside the tissue paper. The cover is made of a buttery-soft leather and the pages appear hand-bound. The inside of the cover has an inscription, written in thick black ink and Derek’s careful script: Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always -Dante.

The first several pages hold early photographs of Derek, ones Stiles has never seen. There’s one of his family; Derek looks to be about six, which means Cora must be the baby in their mother’s arms. Peter and his wife are in it, along with Derek’s father, Laura, and several other children.

“Derek,” Stiles says, his voice breaking when he notices the photo’s singed edges. There are several more photos, a couple of newspaper clippings detailing Derek’s high school accomplishments, and a black-and-white picture of an older Derek and Laura. It must have been from when they were living in New York; there’s a haunted look in both their expressions that doesn’t belong on anyone so young.

“These are your photos. Pictures of your family,” Stiles says, his voice thick. “This isn’t… I don’t feel right accepting this.”

“Keep going.” Derek prods gently.

Stiles flips the page. There’s an enormous time gap between the New York photo and the next, picking up with Derek’s travels in South America. And the pictures are not only many, they’ve changed. Stiles can see Derek’s experimentation with his technique, how he frames his pictures to capture an unusual point of view. It creates an intimacy and meaning in even the most mundane things, and the result is intensely personal.

Stiles whistles when he comes across a picture of the cabin. “So this is what your placed looked like before you started renovations?” he asks. Derek had said he worked the home, but the truth is, he practically reconstructed it from scratch.

“Yeah.” There’s a sheepish but unmistakable pride in Derek’s voice.

Stiles looks around at the interior in amazement. “You really made it your own.”

“It wasn't my own. Not yet, anyway.” Derek nudges Stiles’ shoulder and urges him to turn the page.

A lump forms in Stiles’ throat when he does. “Derek…”

The remaining pages are filled with photos of Stiles: of his Jeep, of the coffee they’d shared in Stanley, of his hoodie over the couch. There’s a photo from their first hike, one of Stiles carving a burr, and another of him dozing in front of the fire. Stiles doesn’t think of himself as beautiful, but in these pictures, framed by Derek’s love, he is. 

“This album contains my most cherished memories,” Derek says as he takes Stiles’ hand in his. “And I want to fill up every single one of those remaining pages with you.”

Stiles knows life is unpredictable. That change is constant, and when life throws you for a loop, things can seem like they’re falling apart.

But even though he can’t predict the future, he knows things will be okay. Because the thing is, with Derek, Stiles won’t fall anywhere but up.

“I’m there. For every damn page,” Stiles promises, then kisses him for all he’s worth.

~fin~