Too little, too late || Sterek
@flailsandsarcasm
Relationships are not Derekâs forte. He leaps before he looks and hopes thereâs a mesh net below to catch him when he starts to fall head over heel too fast and too deep but, there never is. Braeden, who Derek should have known was trouble after her âa girls gotta eatâ comment, left him high and dry in an upscale hotel with no note, no phone call and no wallet.
It took two weeks to get his identity theft straightened out. Only then was he able to start focusing on hunting her the fuck down. Unfortunately, she left a scarce trail that faded back to Beacon Hills.
Thereâs a pull on his bones when he drives past the too-worn Welcome to Beacon Hills sign hanging sideways on a telephone pole. Itâs an instinctual gravity that tells him this is where pack and home are; Derek hates it.
He avoids people the best he can, starts to think coming back to curse Braeden out wasnât worth the trouble but, now heâs fucking stuck in this good for nothing town with nothing more than a sob story.
What the fuck else is new.
Derek does a good job of staying out of sight, out of mind. He refuses to call or text anyone. Especially Stiles. At least not until heâs using the BHHSâs track one night for laps.
Heâs just coming off the field some time after the sun sets, sweating profusely and trying not to stumble on the wobble taking over his lower limbs when he watches Stiles throw the jeep in reverse and cut the lights.
The air smells like blood and fear.
Derekâs spine leans against the cool brick of the library building when the cop whips out his flashlight. Apparently, his brain still registers as a nearly committed felon in these situations - regardless of the fact he is clueless as to what is going on.
The patrol car pulls away as quickly as it came, leaving Derek to release a breath he hadnât know he was holding in. Then he glances across the parking lot at Stiles, slouched down in the drivers seat of the jeep smelling utterly confused and terrified. He should move, put one foot in front of the other and find out what happened. He doesnât.
Weeks pass and Derek still canât bring himself to interfere with whatever supernatural hell is breaking loose this time. Not until after he witnesses the way another wolf, arrogant and unreserved, stalks around Stiles like prey. The sight gets under Derekâs skin and crawls up the back of his throat like bile, forcing him to growl to himself.
Days later, after the Sheriffâs patrol car pulls out of the driveway to the Stilinski house - Derek pulls in; unsure of why heâs there or what heâll say as he manages to get his feet on the pavement and start toward the door.
His fist is heavy, feeling like an anvil, when he raps his knuckles against the weathered wood, mouth suddenly dry and brain going haywire at the thought of being face-to-face with Stiles too many months later.
