Chapter Text
The first time Stiles sees Derek Hale after their breakup is a year later, on a grid amid a sea of blank profiles.
Stiles is simply perusing his options for a late-night hookup when he nearly vomits, one profile photo making him freeze. Though his face is obscured, Stiles recognizes the photo as one that was sent to him over a year ago, during the spring of his senior year of high school. A photo from the archives of Stiles’ phone backup. Back when Stiles and Derek were an unbreakable unit, the yin to each other’s yang. When the goal of their lives was to stay alive, to research, face, and vanquish the monsters that rolled through town. Back when there was no future, only the present.
A year without Derek by his side was worse than every supernatural creature they faced. It felt as hard as overcoming the nemeton, each day seemingly less promising as time passed. Derek was a constant in Stiles’ life from age 16. Stiles knew it even then: Derek was his, and Stiles was Derek’s. The first time they met, in the large lot belonging to the Hales, Stiles just felt it. That attraction, the intoxicating, magnetic pull he couldn’t describe but knew they both felt.
They danced around it for two years. Two years of charged looks and of electric brushes of skin. Two years of anchoring each other through the worst of tragedies, even if from afar. Two years of late-night studying, working to decode mysteries around them. Two years of Derek putting himself in front of Stiles at every opportunity, protecting Stiles above anyone else with his flimsy excuse of safekeeping the human. Two years of “We’re pack, and that’s all.”
It was after two excruciating years, at 12:01 a.m. on Stiles’ birthday, that Stiles marched into Derek’s loft with the key he obtained ages ago. Stiles loved Derek's trust, unbreakable even if platonic. He planted himself in front of the other man, entirely ignoring the audience of straggling pack members in Derek’s loft. Derek turned his head from the screen and looked at the intruder. Stiles raised an eyebrow, locked in a stalemate.
They stared at each other with intensity that could light a match. Derek knew what day it was; Stiles’ last birthday was celebrated in Derek’s loft. Derek personally decorated, something Stiles found out from his friends months later. Stiles tried to send every subtle message he could, letting his eyes dance around Derek’s face, taking in every bit of his beauty. The light creases around his mouth, the wrinkle of his nose. His tight plum shirt and black track pants, Stiles catalogued it all, unwilling to leave a single detail out of what would likely be one of his all-time favorite memories. Derek stood, crossing his arms across his chest, refusing to speak first.
“It’s my birthday,” Stiles announced after minutes of staring. He almost sounded annoyed, like a petulant child waiting for their reward.
Derek’s eyes darted to Stiles’ lips as Stiles licked them. Derek barely got out, “Happy,” before Stiles had him by the collar, caring little about the sound of fabric ripping as he did so, and kissed Derek with the force of 830 days. Stiles vaguely heard someone hooting behind them. He let go and flipped the finger at their audience, who finally took their leave as Derek lifted Stiles into the air, lost in the heat of each other’s kisses. It was magic stronger than anything Stiles could find in ancient textbooks. As Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek, he determined it to be his favorite birthday yet.
The next four months were the best of Stiles’ life. They still bickered and fought, but now, rather than storming off from each other, they made up with fervent kisses and desperate, passionate touches. Instead of watching each other from across the room, they curled up together, bodies tangling together at every opportunity. They ignored their annoying pack, all of whom were overjoyed that the facade was finished, thrilled to no longer be amidst a sea of unresolved emotion and lust.
Stiles was keenly aware of the ticking clock over their relationship; As Stiles left for school at the end of the summer, they operated as if they were on borrowed time, holding each other like every day was Stiles' departure day.
It was the best, most joyful, most summer ever - until three days before Stiles left, when everything imploded.
Derek was a champ, having done most of the packing of Stiles’ things. Stiles wondered how much of it was help and how much of it was scenting himself on as many of Stiles’ belongings as possible, claiming Stiles against whatever mystical creatures he would stumble upon. Stiles watched his boyfriend from where he lay on the bed, playing with the frayed strings of his red hoodie, watching Derek delicately fold a very worn shirt Stiles insisted on bringing with him. With a pain in his chest, seeing Derek carefully wrap one of Stiles' tablets in a thick sweater, Stiles said the stupidest thing possible.
“I’m thinking about taking a gap year.”
Derek whipped around, nearly snapping the tablet in half at the news. “No.”
Stiles’ eyes bugged as he laughed once in disbelief. Derek never told him what to do; Derek understood it to be one of the few remaining triggers Stiles experienced from the Nogitsune. “No?”
“No.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘no’?” Stiles demanded, pushing himself to his feet and bridging the gap between Derek and himself.
Derek averted his eyes to the ground sheepishly. He never could stand to see Stiles upset. “You can’t stay here. You need to live your life.”
Stiles saw red. “What the fuck are we doing here, then? Playing pretend? This is my fucking life, Derek, and you don’t get to tell me how to live it.”
The rest of the night is still a blur for Stiles. There wasn’t screaming and crying. Nobody threw or broke anything. Neither resorted to vague threats of physical harm. The calmness of the conversation made things harder to grasp, Stiles remembers. Stiles remembers saying, “We should push the brakes on this,” but can’t remember the conversation that led to the proclamation. Stiles remembers the way Derek’s face fell, how devastated he looked, but can’t remember why Derek didn’t fight him in the moment. Stiles remembers the sound of Derek’s pained howl as he drove off in his Jeep, but can’t remember why he didn’t turn back.
Time with Derek was just that: crystal clear or murky beyond recognition. The high emotion of their relationship, of the world that surrounded them, washed away the bond they thought they forged in steel.
Stiles doesn’t remember why Derek didn’t show up to his goodbye party, but it’s all the farewell Stiles needed to know the flame was officially snuffed. The worst of it was that Stiles regretted the trip as soon as the plane took off, jetting him outside of the United States to spend a gap year in Paris with Lydia. Stiles thought he wanted distance, a new space to freshly explore life rather than continually yearning to go back in time.
It was doomed from the start, Stiles sees now, as he sits in his living room, lounging around in boxers since his father is away. He and Derek's world views are too incompatible to overcome: Derek with his hero complex and Stiles with his inferiority. Derek couldn’t see a world in which Stiles picking him wasn’t settling, wasn’t giving away his life for an unworthy Derek. Stiles couldn’t see a world in which that wasn’t a selfish decision on Derek’s part or a lie to let Stiles down easy.
In the end, Stiles knows leaving was the right thing to do; he just wishes it didn’t have to hurt so much. A year later, Stiles relishes the memories of his trip to Paris and cherishes the friends he made along the way - even after a year of silence, Stiles would throw it all away for another chance with the older man. This is why - despite knowing it to be the dumbest option in the world - Stiles’ thumb hits the familiar photo, revealing an otherwise largely blank profile. Derek has one other photo, one Stiles hasn’t seen. His face is blacked out, but his body is unmistakably Derek’s. Stiles could never forget such a work of art, a perfectly carved beauty. The decision of whether to message Derek seems abundantly clear.
Throwing back the rest of his glass, Stiles does the opposite.
S: that’s a stupid haircut
It is not a stupid haircut. Derek looks incredible with any hair or lack thereof, Stiles recalls. Stiles grabs the bottle, ready to pour himself another glass, when Derek replies. The swiftness of his response makes Stiles' stomach flip.
D: That’s a stupid shirt.
Stiles screams with laughter. Derek is so right, Stiles considers as he flips back to his own profile. A worn shirt joking that “Sarcasm is my Defense” is very high school of him, not mature, educated, and internationally traveled. Fuck Derek for still harnessing an incredibly attractive, sharp, quick wit, Stiles curses.
S: i hate you
S: wyd?
When he's met with several minutes of silence, Stiles thinks he made the worst call in the world. That is, until he receives a live video of Derek Hale in bed, casually stroking his very erect cock. It's explicit with a clear intended impact of the video. He looks exactly the same as the day Stiles stormed out of his loft - muscular, sun-kissed skin, sharp and angular muscles, and a mass which went straight to Stiles’ core. Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat before he whips up an answer.
S: my profile says no nudes.
D: You know I can’t read.
D: Come over.
No! Stiles' brain shouts at him, his common sense trying to pull the young man back to his bed. Stiles has his shoes on before he responds, seconds later.
S: this is a bad idea
D: Yeah.
D: I’ll leave my door unlocked
S: i hate you
S: be there in 15
S: i’m leaving immediately after
Stiles tries not to think about how he still has a key to the loft on his keychain, a token of their love and trust, which Derek never ripped away. He doesn’t think of the last time he was in this home and the heartbreaking conversation that occurred. Stiles ignores the memories that threaten to flood his senses. Instead, Stiles walks into his own doom in the bedroom, following a soft moan that he could identify anywhere.
Derek greets Stiles from where he languidly strokes himself on the bed, hand slowly teasing up and down his length. He hasn't moved an inch since he sent Stiles the previous video, relaxed back against the headboard of his king-sized bed. He raises an eyebrow when Stiles freezes where he stands, eyes flickering from Derek’s cock to his expectant face, unsure which he missed more.
Derek raises an eyebrow as he puits an arm under his head, using it to look at Stiles better. “Is something wrong?”
An unwilling bark of laughter pulls from Stiles' chest. “I fucking loathe you,” Stiles says from where he stands, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it to the floor.
“Did I do something?” Derek asks, his mouth twitching, his eyes following the discarded clothes. Derek hates clutter, hates mess, so Stiles purposefully throws his shirt and pants in opposite directions.
“You…” Stiles mutters under his breath. This is what he misses. The back and forth, the gentle ribbing. The play is every bit as good as the sex. Stiles remembers all too well. “Are every bit as insufferable as I remember.”
It’s close enough to an admission of missing him that Derek’s hand stills, gripping the base of his thick cock. “You’re more ridiculous than I remember,” he counters, tilting his head to the side to crack his neck, a habit which always annoyed Stiles. “Do you need to be carried to bed?”
Stiles tosses a balled-up sock, hitting Derek square in the forehead. Stiles tries not to think of how easy it would be for the older man to dodge the poor throw rather than humor him. Instead, Stiles takes three quick, long steps to the bed and bounces atop it, landing on his knees between Derek’s calves. Like old programming, Stiles rakes his fingers along Derek’s sensitive inner thighs, watching the wolf’s face to see his eyes flutter back in his skull. Stiles isn’t sure whether he wants more or needs to run as a shock runs up his spine, a familiar heat building deep inside. The fireworks explode as Derek tucks an arm into Stiles’ armpit, using the grip to haul Stiles up to him. Derek wastes no time as he rolls atop Stiles, eclipsing the younger man with his body.
“You’re - fuck,” Stiles moans as Derek rolls his hips down, their cocks sliding against each other. It's more electric than any sex Stiles had in the past year; the deeply-rooted, possibly inherent chemistry the two share is too hard to forget.
“Shut up.” Derek punctuates the sentiment with a hard kiss, pulling one hand off Stiles’ ass to pull him in by the jaw, keeping his mouth firmly planted against Derek’s. I’m
“I think it’s established I don’t fucking like to be told what to do,” Stiles demands after letting Derek ravage his mouth, Derek's tongue seemingly searching for or trying to prove something. With a grunt, Stiles uses all his strength to swap their positions, rolling Derek to his back, Derek now under Stiles. With a shit-eating grin, Stiles trails his hand down, squeezing the meat of Derek’s right thigh.
“Someone’s been working out,” Derek taunts, his pupils dilated and cheeks pink.
“And someone else is slacking,” Stiles returns. This is all too familiar, like a scene Stiles played out in a not-so-distant past. Stiles wonders if he still knows all the buttons to press to make his ex-boyfriend go crazy. Given a lifetime, a year was hardly enough time to change Derek's entire personhood, yet Stiles feels as if the man in front of him may as well be a stranger. With a shaky exhale, Stiles places a delicate hand on Derek’s neck and squeezes. Derek preens, baring his throat for Stiles without any further prompting.
“That’s right, Wolfie. I know what you like,” Stiles smugly taunts before he attaches his lips to Derek’s throat. He bites sharply at the crux of Derek’s neck, and the older man rolls up onto him, chasing pleasure or… chasing Stiles, begging for more with low moans and hums of satisfaction.
Sliding inside Derek is precisely like coming home from his long overseas journey; familiar, relaxing, and viewed with a new appreciation after prolonged separation. It feels more familiar than lying in his bed the first night back did. Derek gasps Stiles’ name when he comes, and Stiles kisses any further words off of Derek’s lips.
As Stiles falls beside Derek, both panting for breath, he remembers the best part of sex with Derek. The orgasms are fantastic, but they’re second place to the feeling of Derek pulling Stiles close, of Derek tipping his nose against Stiles’, brushing lightly until he tucks into the crook of Stiles’ neck, practically vibrating with comfort. Stiles forgets things about his time with Derek, but he’ll never, ever forget the feeling of Derek blinking up at him, looking at Stiles like he is the only thing in the world, as his eyes gently shifted from red back to his gorgeous, speckled hazel.
Only now, Derek’s eyes don’t meet Stiles’, even as Stiles presses a soft kiss to Derek’s forehead, wishing he could heal the older man’s turmoil with his touch. It's not Stiles' job anymore - maybe it never was.
Derek breaks the silence. Derek never breaks the silence. “I meant to call.”
Stiles exhales. This was the bad part, the pieces Stiles chooses to forget. The part that cause the gap between the two of them. The would’ve, could've, should’ve’s littered across the last three years. The unkept promises, the fantastical dreams. For the sake of his sanity, Stiles released those dreams into the air in France. Stiles settles on responding with the truth of the situation. “We both meant to do a lot of things.”
Stiles doesn’t expect the reaction he gets. It's not accusatory or an attack, but the statement is a punch to Derek’s gut, clearly written across his face. Stiles thought he’d never be privy to such emotion again; Derek Hale doesn't share his feelings with just anyone. Stiles used to be one of the select few, but that was 365 or more days ago.
“You should go,” Derek demands in a low voice as he rolls out of bed. Unashamed of his nudity, he deftly paces to the bathroom and slams the door behind him. Stiles hears something on the other side of the door fall to the ground. It doesn't sound heavy enough to be Derek, but Stiles can't be sure. Stiles feels a familiar guilt at a familiar situation: a misunderstanding, a miscommunication between the two of them that ends in silence and separation.
This is why they didn’t work, Stiles recalls as he dresses himself. The drama, the commotion, the intense emotional outbursts without mature resolution. His life is better sans Derek Hale, no matter how much Stiles hates that truth.
And boy, does he despise it.
The next time Stiles spots Derek on the grid is 5 months later. It's a beautiful, bright Saturday mid-afternoon, and Stiles is once again lounging around his family home. He comes home regularly on the weekends to spend time with his friends and family, but Stiles would be lying to say Derek plays no part in the equation, or that Stiles doesn't look around in public for the tall, thick mass of a man. Stiles is very good at lying, though unfortunately, poor at lying to himself, leading him to sulk. Who is Derek taking shirtless pictures for now? Does Stiles know any of the lovers Derek takes? Is there someone (or someones) else, someone entirely unworthy of Derek's time and trust, who shares a bed with him?
This time, it’s a photo he’s not familiar with. Derek’s face is blacked out, and his shirt is off. Stiles feels a stab of jealousy, remembering why Derek is online on the same app. Derek isn’t his; Stiles knows this rationally. Emotionally is harder. Emotionally, Stiles is still 18 and looking into Derek’s bright eyes in the warm sunlight, the older man making promises of his fidelity forever.
Stiles remembers one specific afternoon they spent together in early June. They lay in the grass of Stiles' backyard, relishing in the joy of being alone together in a place both men loved. Stiles lay flat on his back with his arms under his head as a pillow. Derek was on his side, rolled to look down at Stiles, his eyes swimming with adoration. In two long years of watching his every facial expression, Stiles never witnessed Derek look at someone with such open, warm affection.
“There’s no one else,” Derek swore, brushing Stiles’ messy hair off his forehead and planting a kiss in the dead center. Derek spoke only when he was convinced, and he sounded rock-solid on the theory. “This is it.”
Stiles beamed and pressed himself close, leaving no space between their bodies. He kissed Derek with an open-mouthed smile, teeth gently clacking together. Stiles loved witnessing the softer, gentler side of Derek, the one Derek worked so hard to bury under scary eyebrows and deep frowns.
“Yeah, big guy,” Stiles affirmed, placing his hand atop the one Derek rested on Stiles’ cheek. Stiles languished in the gentle caress of lips with every spoken word. “This is it.” When Stiles pulled back, he was face-to-face with the brightest smile he had witnessed. In fact, Stiles wasn't sure Derek's lips could stretch that wide. How had he gone two years without this feeling? “Tell me, if I hadn’t kissed you, how long would it have taken you to make a move?”
“I hadn’t presumed you wanted me to,” Derek answered, making Stiles gawk.
“You didn’t know I wanted you?” Stiles asked in a deadpan tone, rolling his eyes as Derek casually shrugged a single shoulder. Derek was a million things, but clueless wasn’t one. “Aren’t you able to smell me all the time? There’s no way you didn’t know.”
“Arousal doesn’t create consent.”
Stiles’ heart broke, shattering with the understanding of Derek’s traumatic past and instantly stitching back together at the thought of providing him a solid, safe future. “You have my consent,” Stiles affirmed, kissing Derek simply for the sake of being able to do so. “For the rest of my life, you have blanket consent. Except for, like, the real wild stuff. Not sure I’m ready to fuck a shifted wolf-man, but we can get there.”
Derek tossed a fistful of grass over Stiles’ face. Stiles wiped away the strands dramatically before he locked eyes with the happiest expression Stiles had witnessed in his entire life.
“I hate you,” Derek mumbled, his tone and face giving away the complete lie of the joke. He tucked back into what had become his safe spot on Stiles’ neck where he could feel Stiles’ pulse against his cheek. Proof of life, confirmation of existence throbbing against Derek’s skin.
Stiles kissed Derek’s forehead before settling back in, an arm wrapping around Derek’s shoulders as if they could get any closer. “The feeling is so incredibly mutual.”
Stiles feels the phantom of Derek’s lips against his as he looks at the unfamiliar photo, at the man he once knew like the back of his own hand. Stiles spends 15 minutes staring, trying to think of a good opening line, before he gets the notification that Derek viewed his profile. Before he can chicken out, Stiles taps out a message and promptly chucks his phone to the edge of his mattress. Stiles barely has time to hide behind his hands, to chide himself for his weakness, when his phone dings. Too rapidly to be casual, Stiles grabs the device, quickly absorbing the precious words from Derek.
S: you know you could just text me instead of stalking me online
D: Didn’t get the memo you’re in town.
S: for a day or so
S: wyd
D: You?
The line works too well on Stiles, who is disarmed enough to laugh and give in to his worst impulses. Fuck it, what's the worst that could happen? Derek couldn't really end what hadn't restarted; a single fling didn't constitute getting back together. Regardless, the urge to deftly move through dressing and throwing himself out of the house remained.
S: be there in fifteen.
This time, when Stiles tramples into Derek's apartment and finds the older man shirtless on the couch, there’s no back and forth, no pretense of insults to cover the simmering feelings. It’s less angry with fewer teeth and sharp elbows. It’s not the frantic passion of a reunion but the reheating of an unforgettable chemistry. It’s the shining of a nightlight, guiding the way back to peaceful slumber. After they quickly retire to the bedroom, Stiles doesn't rush stretching Derek, allowing for a slow adjustment, finger-by-finger, until he's comfortably nestled inside his former partner. They last longer than the time before, neither feeling the same desperation as the first night back together. They mold together perfectly, moving together in a familiar rhythm. As Derek rolls over and Stiles flops down, exhausted and in the glow of his orgasm, Derek doesn’t hesitate to pull Stiles in for a slow, appreciative kiss that sends sparks down Stiles' tired spine.
When they finally can stand to pry their lips off each other, Stiles leans his head on Derek’s shoulder, closing his eyes for a moment. He indulges himself for those few quiet seconds, imagining this feeling to be a part of his everyday life. For a moment, Stiles wonders what would happen if he just… didn’t get out of bed, forsaking the life he built for the one he yearns to create. Derek would never allow Stiles to drop out of school. Stiles knows exactly how the argument would end, how little it would accomplish for his aching heart. That doesn’t stop Stiles from kissing Derek’s temple and mumbling a soft, “Be right back,” against the skin as he begrudgingly drops his hold on Derek.
Stiles stares at his reflection in the large mirror as he washes his hands, trying and failing to get any rational hold on his brain. Stiles can’t deny how incredible he feels, and not just from his climax. Stiles realizes how desperately he needs Derek back in his life, either in this messy friends-with-benefits situation or a platonic friendship. It’s the truth, too; Stiles’ life has a gaping hole in the role Derek Hale used to fill, a spot which no one else could take. His number 1 supporter, his favorite person, his anchor - Stiles can't forsake his burning desire for Derek to fill those spaces any longer. Stiles needs Derek back, even if it means giving up the physical portion of their relationship forever. Resolute to have THE discussion, Stiles swings the door open and lets his mouth run wild.
“I know this is dumb, and I know I sound insane, but I think we should get breakfast in the morning and talk. Or, I’ll lead the discussion, and you can chime in with your thoughts and opinions as you see fit.” Stiles picks at the skin of his thumbnail as he drags his feet back to the bed. “I don’t want to make what’s been a great night weird, but fuck. I miss your dumb frowny face keeping me company during my late nights. I miss the way you always brought me back to reality. I miss - fuck, I miss you, Der. And I think we should start from there.”
Unfortunately for Stiles, his words go unheard as Derek is out cold, his light snoring audible once Stiles is bedside. Stiles huffs, shaking his head. Of course, the one night Stiles has courage, Derek is adorably sleepy. Stiles can’t help but feel light pride at having fucked his ex so hard that he immediately entered REM sleep.
“You’re fucking ancient,” Stiles mumbles, running a hand through Derek’s short hair. Derek turns his head into the embrace, melting any of Stiles’ residual resentment at his deferred plan. Stiles sighs before he dresses and leaves, not wanting to take advantage of Derek’s hospitality while he is unconscious.
Regardless, the conversation didn’t have to happen tonight, Stiles rationalizes as he drives back home, Derek’s apartment disappearing in the mirror just as quickly as Derek did from Stiles’ life. They have 3 years of breaks, with Stiles flying back home from Virginia to visit. This will not be the last time Stiles and Derek’s paths cross; Stiles knows that for certain. Magnets always pull toward each other. Stiles remembers.
It takes six years and a new continent for Derek to appear on Stiles’ feed again.
Stiles is, for all intents and purposes, happy. Over the past years, Stiles carved out a lane for himself, crafted a life all on his own, by his own terms and conditions. It’s nice and steady and normal, three things Stiles thought his life could never be. Stiles enjoys being a field agent for the FBI; he likes solving puzzles, the rush of danger, and doing actual good for others. His hectic schedule provides the perfect out for his dazzling lack of a social life, which is exactly how Stiles prefers it.
It’s been long enough now that Scott and his father don’t push him on it anymore. Not that Stiles ever provided great rationale for his time alone.
"I'm set," is all Stiles says every time he's questioned because he is. He has friends. He has lovers as he wants them. He has a great job, a kickin' apartment, and a relatively healthy father. Theoretically, Stiles is overjoyed with his life.
Stiles prefers not to remember when he wasn’t just “theoretically” happy. It’s a trick of your youth, Stiles decides. It’s painting over the past with rose-colored glasses. When was he actually happy, anyway? You couldn’t be happy, not in Beacon Hills, where he nearly died every week. The cold fist of danger was always suffocating him; how could you be happy when you can’t breathe?
Stiles doesn’t like to think about it, but does one night, when Stiles finds himself in a hotel in Rio de Janeiro, working a dead-end on a case which was very quickly becoming cold. He opens the dreaded app in hopes of finding a way to blow off some steam when he sees it. There’s no face in the photo, but Stiles recognizes the scar above Derek’s left nipple anywhere. He could never forget the day Derek earned it.
In May, when they were officially together, they were in a forest in Utah, chasing a cabal of power-hungry witches. Stiles had long forgotten how bizarre the situations he found himself in were, and the concept was mildly exciting. Witches, usually, meant spellbooks of some sort, something Stiles craved. After all, Stiles was desperate to get his hands on more texts that could help unlock what Deaton called “Stiles’ spark.”
Derek thought Stiles shone enough as he was. Stiles wanted a fraction of the power Derek held in his meaty paws. It was another thing on the laundry list of incompatibility between the two.
The air was unreasonably cold, and the forest quiet, save for Stiles’ rambling, the rustle of wildlife, and two sets of footsteps crunching along the cold ground. Both men were increasingly frustrated as the chilly night went on, and Stiles' excitement turned into disappointment after Derek refused to entertain any of Stiles' pitches for altering their search plans. It was after two hours of meandering through a frigid forest that Stiles exploded, turning on his boyfriend.
“No, you need to listen to me,” Stiles all-but shouted, fists balled at his side. He couldn't listen to Derek grumble about the lacking scent trails any longer. “We’ve been at this for hours. Our trail has gone cold.”
Derek’s answer was an immediate and firm “No.”
Stiles’ head fell backwards as he groaned, the back of his head tapping the top center of his shoulder blades in a concerning show of flexibility. “You don’t even know what I was going to say. You’re not listening to my plans at all. It’s like you don’t appreciate my opinion when I’m the one who figured out this coven’s home base! I'm the one who did the digging and figured out weaknesses. I've done all the leg work, and you need to listen to -”
“You’re not going to be the bait.” Derek’s tone left little room for argument.
Stiles did anyway.
“How many times do we need to go over this? I’m smart, I’m fast, I’m strong. Ah bup! Don’t even,” Stiles demanded, pointing his finger at his boyfriend when Derek raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the sentiment. “You know I can help. You know I’m good at this. Listen, I have this vial that can be used - ”
“Stiles.”
“Don’t! Derek, please listen. I won't be in danger. I can draw her out by -”
“STILES!” Derek suddenly roared, grabbing him tightly around the middle and taking him to the hard ground.
Stiles exhaled harshly as his back hit the floor, the weight of Derek crushing the air out of his lungs entirely. With excruciating effort and dirt spreading into his clothes as he wiggled, Stiles rolled Derek off, pushing Derek to his back. A thick, dark arrow penetrated Derek’s chest, above his left nipple. He bled profusely, particularly by wolf standards. Stiles shrieked at the sight, taking the gleeful assassin's attention. Distracted, the witch didn't reload her arrow, which allowed Scott to slash her throat from behind.
Stiles couldn’t factor in the dead witch at this moment, nor Scott's proud shout.
"I GOT HER!"
They’d figure out how to smooth this over with the rest of the coven after Derek’s face regained color, Stiles determined as he quickly sorted his priorities. Dying boyfriend ranked higher than gleeful best friend. Stiles grabbed the arrow where it connected to Derek’s chest, applying pressure to avoid breaking it as he pulled it out. Derek didn’t respond in any way; no grunts of pain, no difference to his pale, clammy skin as Stiles worked the long arrow up and out of Derek's skin. Now that Derek was free of the weapon and gushing blood, Stiles pushed one hand atop the wound, the other feeling along Derek's neck for proof of life.
“Come on, Derek. Open those beautiful eyes. Fuck, his pulse.” Stiles shouted the last bit, echoing across the clearing, his breathing coming in shallow gasps as he felt Derek’s heartbeat. “Derek, baby. Please, don’t do this to me,” Stiles begged as he reached for his satchel, digging for the herbs he needed. Stiles dug in his bag, finding the correct pouch and vial as Derek began foaming at the mouth, a white, sticky substance that made Stiles scream out, nearly crushing the glass in his palm.
“No, no, NO, this isn’t how this fucking goes. You don't get to die now. You’re not leaving me.” Stiles' hands shook violently as he sprinkled the needed herb into the gushing wound, his fingers smearing Derek’s blood as he did. Stiles prayed he remembered the instructions right - or that he translated them from Latin correctly in the first place. Being manic with worry did nothing to help the situation, Stiles realized as he spread a gummy mixture atop the herb, a smell which made Scott - who watched from a few steps away - gag. Stiles wiped his stained hands on his shirt, adorning himself with Derek’s blood. Stiles shucked his empty containers to the side haphazardly and grabbed the lighter out of his front pocket.
Stiles placed his free hand on Derek’s cheek, patting it once before grabbing Derek’s hand tightly in his. “If you can hear me, I’m so sorry, baby. This is gonna hurt.”
Stiles lit the herb, and Derek’s body instantaneously shook, his closed eyelashes fluttering as the foam was replaced by a black liquid. Stiles hardly cared because he felt it. He felt the way claws pressed into his hand just so, confirming Derek’s consciousness and life. “I’m here, Wolfie. I’ve got you,” Stiles chanted, grunting softly as he pushed Derek’s upper body upright. If Stiles had another hand, he would’ve used it to smack Scott away as he tried to assist in getting Derek into a seated position. It was just in time, too, as Derek turned his head and coughed, violently purging a thick, black, tar-like substance from his body. Stiles kept his arms both wrapped around Derek’s middle, sitting behind the older man, cradling him back against Stiles’ chest to keep him upright and from choking on his vomit.
Stiles’ efforts paid off when Derek’s eyes fluttered halfway open as soon as the puking stopped.
“FUCK,” Stiles cried, his head dropping to Derek’s shoulder, crushing the older man in a tight embrace. “Fuck, you can’t do that to me ever again, you hear me? You fucking idiot, holy shit, you almost died. What the fuck is wrong with you, Wolfie? I would’ve killed -”
Stiles was cut off by Derek’s lips against his, Derek’s neck craned in a painful angle to do so. “Your breath is disgusting,” Stiles informed, getting a huff of a laugh from his boyfriend before Stiles cradled Derek to his chest, rocking them where they sat in the dirt, tears finally coming free of Stiles’ ducts.
“I love you,” Derek whispered to Stiles in the back of the jeep, where he sprawled out in the back seat. Scott drove, letting Stiles stay seated in the back with Derek, checking his vitals and keeping pressure on the slow-healing wound. Stiles sat upright and kept Derek’s head in his lap. Stiles smoothed one hand through Derek's hair and kept the other pressed firmly against the wound.
“Then fucking listen to me next time. It’s much better than you dying on me. I won’t let you.” Stiles blinked away tears. “I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever. I love you so, so fucking much, big guy. Fuck, I'm never letting you around witches ever again. I love you.”
“Now I’m going to puke,” Cora announced from the front seat, her eyes watching Derek and Stiles embrace in the rear-view mirror. Stiles’ head dropped to Derek’s, pressing their foreheads together as they continued to whisper charged sweet nothings at each other.
Scott, too focused on the road to see the scene, punched Cora’s bicep. “I like them better this way. Rather hear their love poems than have them smell like a bathhouse.”
Stiles whipped his head up. “How do you know what a bathhouse smells like?”
Derek’s stifled chuckle was enough to send the entire car into loud, hysterical laughter.
A message in his inbox shakes Stiles out of the memory.
D: You shaved your head. Midlife crisis?
S: you still haven’t put on a shirt. desperate old man much?
D: Wyd
Stiles thinks for a moment, pausing to honestly reflect on his choices. It is a chance to break his bad patterns, which can be a proud moment in the light of the morning. Yes, Stiles did turn down THE Derek Hale, thank you! Everyone clap!
Even six years later, Stiles is not that strong. Instead, he sends a video of his half-hard cock to Derek, letting it flop against the front camera as if slapping it onto Derek’s tongue.
Derek sends back a picture of his hole, reddened and puffy, slick from being toyed open. Stiles is strangely disappointed by the image. He wishes Derek waited. Stiles loves the process of getting Derek ready. It’s a moment of pure pleasure for Derek, a moment to focus solely on the other man. Derek can lie back and relax, just receive without giving anything but his soft moans and murmurs of appreciation.
S: i’m visiting the area. you have a place?
D: (location)
S: i’m not 18 anymore. if i get there and it’s an abandoned something-or-other, i’m leaving.
D: You’ll find I’ve mildly decorated
S: for me? you shouldn’t have
D: Shut up
S: wow, wolfie. strong words for someone who’s about to be begging for my cock
D: I don’t beg
S: yeah you do. sit, stay, roll over, beg. you know all the classics.
D: Apartment 2C. I’ll buzz you in.
Stiles makes horrifically good timing to Derek’s apartment via his rideshare, finding himself pressing the button to Derek’s home in less than half an hour. Derek takes a long moment to answer his door, a long moment in which Stiles fears Derek has come to his senses. Stiles is greeted at the door by his biggest fantasy and nightmare: Derek Hale, looking incredibly domestic in a pair of loose joggers and sans a shirt. There are more lines around the corners of his eyes, his body muscles are less sharp, and his damp hair has dulled some, but he's largely the same. He’s still the same man who looked Stiles in the eyes and promised forever, only to yank it away weeks later. His gaze sets Stiles aflame all the same, tracking the way Derek’s eyes travel purposefully around the room, as if hesitant to take in Stiles’ presence before the front door closes. When Derek finally gazes upon Stiles, he, in typical Derek fashion, says nothing. Instead, he looks up and down Stiles’ physique, taking an inventory of the changes to the young man’s body. Stiles isn’t lanky and awkward in his limbs anymore. He filled out, with toned muscle along the majority of his body. Stiles appreciates his own physique at this point in his life and doesn’t hate to see Derek appreciating it too.
Stiles, emboldened with the years it took to build some fucking confidence, puts both hands on Derek’s face and pulls him in for a kiss that’s all teeth. Regardless, Derek’s hands fall as if soothed, clasping together in the small of Stiles’ back, pressing the younger man closer.
Derek's never been verbose, and now Stiles doesn’t feel the incessant need to fill the silence anymore, they don’t talk. The sex is hard and fast, and Stiles tries not to luxuriate in the familiar feeling of safety that is inside Derek, of being curled next to him after a particularly good orgasm. Of feeling the body heat radiating around him, his own weighted, heated blanket.
It is a safety Stiles searched for the past six years, only to find it cannot be replicated. Nothing about his brief fling with Derek could be recreated. Not his emotions, not the experiences; nothing compared to the feeling of Derek’s head on his chest. It’s that thought, coupled with the way Derek runs his hand in gentle circles along Stiles’ bicep, that makes Stiles finally break the silence.
They’re both getting older. Why wait?
“Don’t be mad,” Stiles starts, his big toe circling Derek’s bare ankle where their legs tangle together. His mouth works of its own volition, lax after such a powerful orgasm. “But I think I may probably totally definitely still love you.” Derek’s face twitches, the older man quickly putting a lid on whatever emotion he almost reveals. “Any chance you love me too?”
Derek locks his jaw and loosens his hold on Stiles. Stiles' stomach drops. “That was never the problem.”
Stiles downplays the spike of hope the sentence gives. Derek’s devotion to Stiles was unquestioned and unparalleled; Stiles wanted for nothing when they were together. Derek's affection, Derek’s focus, Derek’s every breath. Derek worshipped the ground Stiles walked on, putting Stiles on a pedestal that Derek thought he’d never reach. It was one of the things that split them apart at the end.
“The problem being?”
“Stiles.”
“No, I’m serious. What’s the issue? Distance sucks, but we both like to travel.”
“I can’t do this,” Derek announces, pulling away entirely and sitting upright. He takes the blanket with him, suddenly modest around Stiles. “We can’t do this.”
“No, you can’t fucking do this,” Stiles shouts, hating the sound of his own voice and struggling to keep up with the whiplash. When did his emotional state regarding Derek shift from grief to anger? When had he lost all semblance of maturity? After six years, Derek still gets under Stiles' skin like the finest splinter, poking at his delicate insides. “Fuck, Derek. There’s a reason we keep coming back to each other. We’re good together, and you fucking know it.”
Derek, in a very unlike Derek fashion, hides his face in his hands, the walls Stiles worked so hard to tear down coming back up instantly.
“I’m not 18 and naive anymore. I’ve lived, and I’m not giving any of that up for you. Please, don’t do this again. Can you listen to me? Derek - are you hearing anything I’m saying?”
Derek says nothing, makes no moves. Stiles shakes Derek by his shoulders several times, trying to get Derek’s eyes back, but just like the rest of the mass of the man, Derek's immovable.
“FUCK!” Stiles roars after Derek doesn’t budge. “Why can’t you let us have it, huh?” Stiles asks venomously, his mouth working without the use of his brain (which one could argue was the case since opening the dreaded app hours ago). “We could be so fucking happy together. We are every time we’re together. Are you okay just fucking me every few years? You don’t miss me?” Stiles pushes himself off the bed during the diatribe, kicking the pile of clothes on the floor. “Can you say anything? Do you feel anything at all for me? Do you even care enough to hate me?”
Derek pulls his knees to his chest, and just like that, Stiles is on the outside of Derek’s life once again. Stiles wants to stay, to pull Derek into his arms and break down those barriers all over again, but this isn’t then. It’s not back in the day when Stiles anchored Derek to reality, and vice versa. Stiles isn’t 18 and isn’t insecure enough to get on his knees and beg. It’s not a time when Stiles is Derek’s emotional support. Derek has a new life, which he clearly does not want to share with Stiles.
Stiles dresses quickly and leaves the apartment without looking back, but not before mumbling a quiet, “Go fuck yourself, Hale.”
It’s another eight months before he sees Derek again. This time, Stiles doesn’t spot Derek on a grid.
Getting a call from Cora Hale means entering a manic phase of worry before picking up on the second ring. Stiles doesn’t recognize the fear that overtakes his person; it has been a long time since Stiles last had a panic attack, but he recognizes the signs fast. Stiles closes his eyes tightly, barely able to stutter out a “hello?”
“Peter’s gone,” Cora bluntly announces. Her tone is matter-of-fact with no traces of emotion. Stiles’ shoulders drop all the same. “The funeral is on Wednesday.”
Cora doesn’t need to ask. Of course, he’ll be there on the first flight he can get. His hands shake as he packs his bag, finally recognizing his horror as the fear of getting the other call, the one he knows he won’t survive, despite Stiles' lingering anger at his wolf.
14 hours later, Stiles drives a rental car into his hometown, his shoulders rising just by proximity. Outside of his father, Beacon Hills had little for Stiles but bad memories. Memories that follow at Stiles’ feet, constantly needing to be stomped out and pushed away. Of course, he goes straight to Derek’s place when he gets back to Beacon Hills, only to realize it’s now Derek’s old place. It’s a harsh reminder of the chasm between them, the very separate lives they lead. Regardless, Stiles texts a number he should have long deleted. A number listed under “DO NOT YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING IDIOT” isn’t one he should still have memorized.
There are a million things Stiles wants to say. I’m here for you. He’s gone, and you’re safe. I’m proud of you. I love you and will for the rest of my life. I’m ready whenever you are.
Of course, that is something Stiles wouldn’t do, not to Derek, not at this moment of emotional turmoil. If he and Derek were going to find their way back to each other, it had to be of their own rational intent rather than emotionally driven. No, this reunion wasn't about the two of them and their loose yet intact connection. Instead, he tries for a moment of levity. Derek always liked Stiles’ jokes, even if he wasn’t the loudest laugher.
S: wyd
Stiles watches the three dots appear and disappear over their blank message thread, their previous conversations lost to Stiles’ angry deleting. It was better that way, Stiles determined during the breakup. It was better not to have their conversations as text to review, to study, to find and fix the faults. Now, it feels petty to have erased everything, like a cheap cop-out in Stiles’ attempt to heal the gaping wound.
It’s after five minutes that Stiles gives, throwing Derek the lifeline the wolf needs despite his residual hurt over their last meetup.
S: i’m here, der
D: Can I come over?
Derek’s response comes seconds later. Stiles' heart breaks. Even at the height of their romantic relationship, Derek asked for things from Stiles if he exhausted all other options. It was one of the many faults in their relationship, Stiles remembers: both felt their struggles weren’t worth burdening the other. Feeling a sense of deja vu, Stiles responds as if they never said goodbye.
S: my dad’s gone. i’ll keep the door unlocked.
S: front door, not window door
Having nodded off during his brief wait, Derek's light knock pulls Stiles out of his jet lag stupor. Derek enters slowly, seemingly testing every step as if the floor were at risk of falling through. Stiles pushes to greet Derek at the door, willing to meet Derek more than halfway, only this one time. Derek would do the same for him were their roles reversed. Derek looks conflicted, a heavy weight weighing his shoulders down and a deep exhaustion in his green eyes as he shuts the door behind him. The exhaustion highlights his age more than it did months ago at Derek's apartment.
“When did you get in?” Stiles asks because it’s the easiest on his list of questions.
“A few hours ago.” Derek looks everywhere and nowhere until Stiles cups his face, getting his eyesight. Maybe it was a late-in-life growth spurt, or the confidence pulling his spine upright, but Stiles swears they are eye level for the first time.
Stiles smooths his thumb across Derek’s cheek, savoring the prickle of his stubble in combination with the gift of Derek's focus. “I want you to know whatever you’re feeling right now is totally okay. You two didn’t have…the easiest relationship.”
Derek’s statuesque features crumble as he exhales. As his jaw shakes, Stiles pulls Derek in and holds him, squeezing like they didn’t let go 8 years ago. “It’s okay, big guy,” Stiles soothes as he embraces Derek as tightly as he can manage. Derek likes the pressure, Stiles remembers, when overwhelmed. That used to mean Stiles wrapping himself around Derek like a weighted blanket. Stiles remembers one particular weekend in which he was practically Derek’s backpack, the younger man’s legs and arms draped around Derek while Derek stood, holding Stiles’ legs at his sides. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Stiles wonders who has that position for Derek now. Who gets to lay their head on Derek’s shoulder and receive a fond kiss on the cheek?
They stand there for what feels like forever, swaying softly as they hold each other, Derek’s arms around Stiles’ waist and Stiles’ around Derek’s broad shoulders. It’s just as warm a feeling as Stiles remembers, making him hesitant to end the trance. Knowing Derek needs more than a hug in the doorway makes Stiles pull back.
“Have you eaten? Or slept?” Stiles scratches his hand between Derek’s shoulder blades and down his back, returning to his list of questions.
Derek shakes his head. “Bedroom?” He mumbles, not able to meet Stiles’ eyes.
Stiles remembers this, too. The way Derek feels more comfortable speaking with his body and through his actions. The way Stiles learned to decode Derek’s body language, he could understand without a second guess. They fall into bed as easily as ever. Stiles presses kisses everywhere he can, whispering soft affirmations into Derek’s ears. Derek’s defenses crumble, tears escaping as he pulls Stiles in by cupping either side of Stiles' face, kissing him with a desperation Stiles will never forget. Stiles knows, as Derek's tongue presses against his own, exactly what he’s saying: Thank you for being here. I miss you terribly. I’m so sorry. I need you desperately. I can’t do this without you anymore.
Or - maybe Stiles is projecting his own thoughts onto Derek.
Regardless, because the circumstances of their reunion are a reminder of how fucking short life is, Stiles takes a risk. Lying together in the delicious afterglow, Derek nosing along the bare skin of Stiles’ upper torso, Stiles meets Derek’s vulnerability with his own. “You should stay the night,” Stiles whispers as Derek tilts his head up from where he lay on Stiles’ chest. “I think it’d be good for you to be around someone. My door's open, but you don’t have to stay with me. I’ll take you to wherever your sister is staying.”
Derek’s kiss is an answer Stiles never thought he’d receive. It’s the affirmation that his place here next to Derek is wanted. Needed, even. That Derek, at least for tonight, chooses Stiles. Stiles puts everything into his mouth’s movement, every hope and dream of restarting with Derek from the beginning. They can make it this time, Stiles believes, as Derek settles next to him. With years away under their belts and a new appreciation for each other, they stand a fighting chance. Stiles knows, as he promises Derek they'll wake up together in the morning, that Derek knows it, too.
The next morning Stiles wakes up first. He rolls to his side and watches Derek sleep, thinking about how easily this could have been his life, had either one of them been emotionally developed enough to process through the challenges rather than succumb to them. If either of them would compromise. Stiles runs his hand along Derek’s broad chest, watching the rise and fall. Stiles remembers that’s not one of their strong suits.
Still, when Derek’s sleepy eyes search for Stiles the second he wakes, Stiles lets that ember of hope burst into a flame
Derek turns outward, pulling Stiles atop him. Stiles smiles faintly against Derek's lips as they meet. Stiles worried the tenderness of the sex last night would push Derek further away, but Derek proves the opposite as he rests a hand on the small of Stiles' back, holding Stiles close.
“Sleep okay?” Stiles asks, voice rough with lack of use.
Derek answers with a kiss. Stiles doesn’t mind the morning breath at all as Derek’s lips move languidly against his. They break apart, and Derek - as if this were the day Stiles turned 18, walked into the loft, and kissed Derek stupid - noses at Stiles’ neck, his beard scratching against the sensitive skin. Scenting Stiles, marking him as the alpha’s before they were in a room of mystical creatures. It makes Stiles’ stomach flip, as does the overwhelming relief at the concept.
As is the norm with Stiles and Derek, they are overtaken by the passion of their sleepy morning kisses, by how only they communicate with each other’s bodies. The overwhelming desire spills over every time, rendering both boys helpless to do anything but succumb. It's why they keep coming together, keep crashing into each other at every opportunity.
“Cum in me,” Derek begs while Stiles has him on all fours, using the headboard to snap himself into Derek with vigor. The softest "Please" in the world follows. The request ruins Stiles. Stiles remembers how red Derek was the first time he asked for it, how he stammered and stuttered, and how he managed to get the words out.
“What’s got your tongue, Wolfie?” Stiles asked as he moved with haste, slamming into Derek with something to prove during their first time. “Tell me what you need to say.”
Stiles slowed his pace, pushing Derek’s legs back further, feeling the stretch of the older man’s calves. He watched Derek’s face shift with every inch of movement, teasing him with his head and grinding in when at the hilt. Derek’s upper body was flushed, and two canines bit hard enough into his lower lip that he drew blood. “Fuck, c’mon. Talk to me. What can I do for you?”
Derek’s eyes opened, searching Stiles’ face for a moment. Derek covered his eyes with both hands, murmuring something behind them that Stiles couldn’t hear. Stiles exploded with affection, leaning down to kiss Derek's partially exposed mouth gently. “Talk to me, Der,” Stiles requested one final time, reaching up and squeezing Derek’s throat.
“Cum inside me,” Derek rushed out in one breath.
When Derek dropped his hand, looking at Stiles with an open vulnerability, Stiles was beaming brightly at the flushing older man. Stiles understood the magnitude of the request, the level of scent marking the intimate act was. He pressed in, kissing Derek again, though this time with the force of his unbridled enthusiasm.
As they lay together afterwards, catching their breath, Derek scented himself at Stiles’ pulse point, rubbing Stiles’ wrists against his face to properly nuzzle. To properly mark Stiles as his and Derek as Stiles'.
Stiles never forgets the horrified look on Scott's face the next day when Derek came to the pack meeting reeking of Stiles. In fact, he thinks of that exact expression, considering they will walk into a room bustling with supernatural creatures in a few short hours, both drenched in each other’s scent. Stiles says nothing as Derek pulls him close and begins scenting along Stiles’ pulse points as he did years ago. Stiles says nothing when Derek follows behind him like Stiles’ shadow, holding him from behind while Stiles cooks them some eggs for breakfast. Stiles says nothing when Derek pulls on one of Noah’s suits rather than going to his hotel for his bag.
Stiles wants to say a lot of things, but none of them are right for this moment. Not when they’re in Stiles’ rental car, not when they walk into the funeral together, and not when Derek grabs Stiles’ hand as a mournful, distant relative attempts to share fond memories of Peter with Derek. Instead of all the things he yearns to say, to wrap Derek up in love and praise, Stiles asks Derek if he wants to grab a seat.
Nobody blinks when Stiles and Derek walk hand-in-hand into the service, take a row in the back, and nearly sit in each other’s laps. Stiles actually thinks he sees the ghost of a smile cross Cora's face. Stiles' skin itches with the desire to be closer, be back in bed, and skin-to-skin with the wolf. He wraps his free arm around Derek’s shoulders, resting their joined hands in Derek’s lap. Derek’s jaw locks, and he slides his sunglasses back on. Stiles says nothing but squeezes Derek’s hand so tightly that Stiles thinks his hand might break.
Derek never cries. He stays stoic throughout the service, but as the coffin lowers into the ground, Stiles feels the prick of claws in his tightly held hand. Stiles doesn’t need to ask if Derek wants to go to the wake. Instead, he provides Derek with a direct route out of the situation. “Go say bye to your sister,” Stiles instructs, squeezing Derek’s hand once before hesitantly letting go. “I’ll be by the door.”
Derek disappears for five minutes and looks seconds from shattering as he moves through the crowd back to his companion. Stiles opens his mouth, but Derek speaks the second he’s within hearing distance.
“Let’s go home,” Derek requests softly, grabbing Stiles’ hand in his. The words sink like a brick in Stiles' gut. Stiles nods and kisses the back of Derek’s hand, earning a solemn smile from the older man. Maybe tonight is the night for the conversation, Stiles considers as Derek tugs Stiles out of the building and towards their vehicle. Or maybe they could skip the conversation altogether. Stiles knows, without a doubt, that Derek would do the same for him were their roles reversed; what else could today mean, if not confirmation of the place Stiles still holds in Derek's heart?
“I could visit,” Derek whispers post-coitus, as Stiles plays with Derek’s short hair, legs tangled together under the sheets and Derek's head square on Stiles' chest. Stiles’ pulse jumps, and Derek follows up with a quiet and defeated, “Just a thought.”
It's almost there - if Stiles squints, he can see the proposal in the offer. At this point in his life, Stiles is tired of straining his vision. Stiles swallows and places his hand under Derek’s chin, forcing eye contact. “Don’t you dare make promises you can’t keep,” Stiles warns, proud of the steadiness of his voice. In his core, Stiles knows Derek Hale will always be his greatest weakness; Stiles wouldn't be able to say no, not even now, to the fanciful dreams of the older man. The demand is enough to render Derek back into silence until he falls asleep, catching a nap before jumping on his evening flight.
Just as he didn't need to ask Stiles to show up the previous day, Derek doesn’t need to ask Stiles to drive him to the airport. As they drive from Stiles’ house to Derek’s hotel for his luggage, Stiles wants to ask Derek the question to find out the answer to the burning “What am I to you?” on the back of his tongue. Are they friends from their hometown? Are they exes? Are they pals with very sparse benefits? Is there even a hint of a chance at a future together?
Instead, neither man speaks throughout the journey, keeping their communication to the one area in which they never did each other wrong: physically. Stiles holds Derek’s hand through the trip and hopes, prays that it’s enough to make the upcoming goodbye not a permanent one. The cloud hanging over them warns Stiles to keep his hopes low.
“Text me sometime?” Stiles asks, nervously licking his lips after he hugs Derek across the console. “We don’t have to communicate solely through Grindr and funerals.” It's supposed to be a joke but comes out less sure than intended. From the look on Derek's face, Stiles knows he won't.
Derek smiles sadly and kisses Stiles’ forehead in a way that confirms for Stiles that he’ll never hear from Derek. Somehow, it’s an easier goodbye to swallow than if Stiles begged Derek to stay with him. It was 24 hours without promises, without the world, and solely for the two of their hearts to share. A moment of pure love trapped in a moment of time, without the promise of forever attached. No one could ever take it from them, including each other.
Pulling away, Stiles knows what he can about himself, about Derek Hale, and about the strange connection they still share. They will likely always share.
Somehow, this time, it’s enough.
Stiles spends the next decade trying to forget Derek Hale. Derek Hale, who went from Stiles' bodyguard to uncaring if he lived seemingly overnight. Derek Hale, who never called. Derek Hale, who never answered a text, email, or postcard. The dead silence tells Stiles everything he needs to know, particularly when paired with a bad decision to show up on Derek’s doorstep in Brazil (Sue Stiles! He was drunk and on vacation). The decision revealed itself as a poor one as Derek, as Stiles discovers, no longer resided at the home. Stiles is left explaining in mediocre Portuguese what he’s doing at 2 in the morning to a very, very kind woman who brings him inside for tea and says nothing as Stiles chokes back tears.
After that night, Stiles pushes every memory of Derek Hale away, filing him away into the furthest crevices of his mind he dares not explore. He works to immerse himself with other lovers, to build a family with a series of unsuccessful boyfriends, but it never lasts. Nothing lasts. How could it, when nothing compares to what Stiles had and lost? How do you settle for simple affection when you have experienced the love of your life?
When Stiles moves back to Beacon Hills, it’s not a rational decision. During a regular, standard, scheduled phone call, Stiles’ father mentions he’s selling the house and, without a single thought, Stiles offers to fix the dated insides. Offers to uproot the life he built in Virginia. He finds the roots surprisingly easy to prune - he decides, packs, and leaves his home of the last decade on a random Friday without any fuss or fanfare. There's no goodbye party, no tears shed. The decision is not about Derek Hale and the only connection they still share, or the crazy hope at an eventual reconnection. That would be too pathetic, even for Stiles' standards. No, the decision to move home boils down to one truth: Stiles is desperately, hopelessly unhappy with the life - or lack thereof - he built.
Which is why, as he lies out on the couch after a particularly long day of working on tile floors, Stiles indulges himself in a scroll through a familiar app. Stiles scrolls for a minute, not excited at any of his prospects for the evening, when he stops. Stiles’ heart drops out of his chest when he sees a familiar tattoo on an achingly familiar body. On a body Stiles subconsciously compares every lover to. On a body Stiles once thought was his. On a body he, in truth, hadn't considered for more than passing thoughts in the most recent years. Stiles will later claim it is his desire to see Derek that gets Stiles to click the profile and tap out a message. A curious look into where the hell the last 10 years took Derek without him. In reality, it’s a strange, masochistic desire, a way to pry off the scab on an old wound to see underneath. It's the rehashing of his deepest regrets, and exactly the kind of self-harm Stiles wants to partake in this evening. The rest of his life was in shambles. Why not return to the ruins?
S: wyd
D: …you know who this is, right?
S: yeah, yeah. don’t get too flattered, wolfie. wyd?
D: Hotel okay?
S: ew, come to mine
D: Where?
S: the old place
Thirty minutes later, Stiles takes a long drink of his wine glass as he sees Derek amble up the gravel driveway. He looks almost the same if Stiles squints, but he's really entirely different. The years were kind to Derek, the only real giveaway of his age being the slight salt-and-pepper hair. He wears a crewneck shirt which clings to his body, though not in the skintight way it would've in Derek's youth. Derek’s body is softer, has some actual cushion, and gives in a way that makes Stiles taste something bitter on his tongue. Derek moves with less precision, less sharp steps and more a meandering gait. Derek domesticated his life and did it without Stiles, seemingly removing the one true barrier between their romance after stepping away for good. It was never the settling down, Stiles realizes with a profound sadness. It was settling with Stiles. It's the answer to a question Stiles didn't know he still needed to find out.
“You look nice,” Stiles compliments rather lamely, trying to calm his racing pulse as he leans against the living room wall. Derek stares at Stiles from the doorway, looking quite like he sees a ghost. Stiles wonders if Derek would jump if he shouted, "BOO!"
“You’re living here?” Derek asks, his tone giving away no intent behind the question. Derek's a blank slate with bunched eyebrows and hands shoved into his jean pockets.
Stiles breaks a smile, remembering asking Derek a familiar question almost two decades ago. “For the time being. I’m helping get it ready to list. Get top dollar to set my dad up for good, y’know?” Derek nods and takes a step closer. “What about you? Still in Brazil?”
Derek shrugs. His posture is still tight, shoulders raised, and eyebrows pinched. He almost looks pained to be in the familiar space. He takes another step forward regardless. “Now and then.”
Stiles rolls his eyes at the familiar banter, feeling rather pleased with his newfound restraint. It only took a fucking decade. “How dramatically mysterious. I thought you might grow out of that quality,” Stiles taunts as Derek plants himself in front of Stiles. “Guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
Derek’s kiss is the salve to Stiles’ wounds, the cure for his aching bones. It’s a thousand hellos and a million goodbyes, the reintroduction to each other they deserve. Derek's hands grip Stiles' face like he's desperate for proof Stiles is really here. Stiles' skin is on fire as he drags Derek into the house, moving slowly so as not to disconnect the passionate embrace of mouths.
Despite the grey in his hair, Derek comes apart on Stiles’ cock all the same as he did when he was 21. He looks sinful riding atop Stiles’ lap, delectable and all Stiles’ for a few hours. Time is never on Stiles’ side around Derek Hale, seemingly decreasingly finite with every dalliance. Regardless, Derek bares his throat to Stiles, allowing the other man to attack sacred spans of skin like they had done this every night of their lives.
Stiles feels Derek's claws dig into his flesh, begging Stiles to get closer. Stiles hears Derek's moan take a lower octave, pleading for more. Derek's upper thighs tremble, letting Stiles know how close he is. Stiles answers by moving his hips at sharper angles, thrusting into Derek with just as much to prove as their first time. Decades later, they're still fluent in their shared language.
“We can’t do this again,” Derek mumbles after several minutes of holding each other, of nuzzling their noses and trading soft kisses, of Derek's hand in Stiles' hair, of remembering what they both desperately yearn to forget.
In the high of his orgasm, of finally being reunited with the man he loves, Stiles refuses the sentiment. He pushes away from Derek, sitting upright, and Derek follows. "Why the fuck can't we? Who's stopping us?"
”I can’t see you casually,” Derek says to the sheets, as if it's not words Stiles dreams of hearing.
Stiles won't be deterred. He shrugs with the hope of looking unbothered. “Cool. Let’s not be casual.”
“Stiles.” Stiles hears the plea in Derek's voice, begging Stiles to end the conversation.
“Don’t give me that old Alpha Derek bullshit. You can’t say you’re keeping me safe. You can’t say I’m giving up my life for you. You don’t know anything about my life, and you can't tell me what's good for it.”
“I’m not -
“Is it me?” Stiles demands, desperate to finally know the definite answer. To know why Derek let him walk out all those years ago. To know why Derek keeps letting him walk out. “Am I not good enough for you?”
“Don’t ever say that,” Derek growls, grabbing Stiles’ wrist in emphasis. His thumb presses against Stiles' pulse point.
“Then why don’t you love me?” Stiles hates the way his voice breaks, despises how he suddenly feels like he’s 16 with an unrequited crush on the older man. He's crying in his bedroom after Derek leaves without so much as a single word the entire night. He’s watching Derek curl up next to every member of the pack, just not Stiles. He's watching Derek methodically train them, just not Stiles. He’s on the outside looking in, and it breaks Stiles’ heart like it did the first time.
Derek’s defenses crumble. He's helpless against the unguarded show of emotion, of Stiles' vulnerable questioning and face. Derek gives Stiles the same crestfallen look Derek gave the night they broke up, so open and hurting and desperate for Stiles’ comfort. “I do.”
“No, you fucking don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t keep doing this to me. Giving me a crumb when I’m starving - it’s not fucking fair, and you know it. We’re not young kids anymore, Derek. The world isn’t spinning any slower. If you really love me, why are you still fighting this so hard?”
“Losing you once almost destroyed me,” Derek informs as he plucks a thread off the pilling quilt, trying to look casual and not like he's finally rewarding Stiles with the final pieces to the puzzle, the admission of things Stiles already knows. Stiles is glad to hear Derek finally knows the same truth.
“Then don’t do it again,” Stiles answers simply. Stiles sees Derek giving, slowly pulling down the defenses that time and distance built between them. He sees the cobwebs shake from Derek's brain, the fog clearing. He sees Derek's wheels turning, his brow pulled together.
“Neither of us can control that,” Derek reminds, always the voice of reason cutting through Stiles’ whimsical daydreams.
Stiles holds both his arms open, sitting upright against the headboard. “You’re right, Der. Aren't we choosing self-destruction by not trying?”
“You - “
“I swear to God, I’ll hit you. I don’t deserve better. I’ve already been around the world. I’ve tried, and it’s you, you idiot. It’s only you for me. I wish you’d let me be the one for you because you are for me.”
Stiles doesn’t dare breathe as Derek moves in, pivoting his stance to shuffle back between Stiles’ thighs, Derek’s back to Stiles’ chest. “We can’t -”
“I love you, Derek.” It earns a whimper from Derek, who tucks himself into Stiles, pulling his legs up to his chest. He sits perpendicular to Stiles' chest. His head rests at the nape of Stiles’ neck, nose brushing against the long stretch of collarbone. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Stiles chants into Derek’s hair, wrapping both arms around Derek’s entire frame, looping around Derek’s legs, and clutches Derek as close as he can. “Will you finally let me?”
Stiles feels Derek tremble in his arms. Stiles keeps his nose in Derek’s hair, savoring the scent his nose searched for a decade. “You don’t have to say yes today. I’m here and waiting whenever you’re ready because fuck.” Stiles guides Derek’s head up, locking eyes. “You’re my soulmate. You were at 16, and you are at 35. Haven’t we wasted enough time being stupid and stubborn? I've been around the world, and guess what? It's you every time.”
“I’ve let down every person I’ve ever loved.” It’s a quiet, scared confession from Derek.
“You also made my life significantly better.” Stiles promises. Derek hedges, holds his breath, and Stiles sees the wheels turning. Sees Derek trying to sabotage himself before he could even consider the possibility. Trying to find any reason to stay alone in what had become his comfortable darkness. Derek can’t bring himself to words, so he answers with a kiss. A long, deep kiss that ends with Derek’s hand on Stiles’ face, rubbing his thumb along Stiles’ cheek as their noses brush
“Don’t go back tonight,” Stiles says in a voice much more confident than he feels. “Check out of the hotel and stay with me for a few days. We can catch up, make food, fuck like rabbits, and figure out what to do from there.”
Derek does exactly that. Stiles makes Derek a very late, extravagant dinner (a grilled cheese with three slices of deli special cheese, thanks!). The two men wrap around each other in the kitchen as Stiles works, Derek’s arms around Stiles’ waist and head hooked over Stiles’ shoulder, like an anchor at the dock. They eat, shower, and retire to Stiles' bed. They fuck less like rabbits and more like a promise to each other, like a slow rekindling of a hearth’s fire
“I could help,” Derek says after they fall back into each other, panting for breath, speaking into the dimly lit bedroom. He combs his hand through Stiles’ hair, Stiles leaning his head onto Derek’s chest. He hears Derek's heart thundering and feels the way Derek's claws poke into his scalp. He hears Derek trying.
“With?”
“The house.” There’s silence, the weight of the subtext of the offer hanging over them like a raincloud. Both of them wait for the sky to break.
Eventually, Stiles clicks his tongue. “Yeah? I vaguely remember you renovating that old house.”
Derek’s tone is shaky when he responds. His arm tightens around Stiles’ shoulder. “I’d need to stay longer. A while.”
In Derek Hale speak, he might as well have proposed. It is a declaration of love, confirmation of his commitment to giving it a full try. To stay close and share his life once again with Stiles. “If it’s longer than a month, I may have to charge you rent,” Stiles warns, a smile spreading across his face. Stiles tilts Derek’s chin down, capturing his lips in a soft, languid kiss. “You always have a place with me. Wherever we are, I’ve got room for you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Derek begs against Stiles’ lips, earning a sweet peck from Stiles, who smooths through Derek’s hair one final time before he relaxes wholly, resting back into Derek's firm chest.
“Not to you. Never to you.”
There’s much to figure out in the coming days. There are logistics to iron out, stories to share, and emotions to settle. There's the literal space between them to bridge. There are a thousand and one ways this could go wrong, based on their history. But tonight, they have each other in this long-awaited reunion. There's time and distance to bridge another day.
"Stiles," Derek mumbles. "I'm sorry I - "
Stiles slaps a hand over Derek's mouth. They have plenty of time for apologies. Stiles doesn't need that, not tonight. Just for tonight, holding each other with the promise of tomorrow is enough. "Shut up, kiss me good night, and let me fall asleep in your arms, Wolfie."
So Derek does, again and again and again until finally, after decades of hurt and silence, of longing and suffering, Stiles knows, without a single doubt, Derek always will.