#post-3b

Regina hated her, but that only stirred fear for how she might lash out. It was everyone else that had made this experience so isolating. Her mother was disappointed in her. Her father was trying not to get in the middle. Henry was upset. And Hook … well, she’d pushed him away in the interim. She couldn’t handle having him around; he kept choosing the wrong words, the wrong actions, and it only served to heighten her anxiety rather than soothe it. He didn’t feel right. She was sure it was just her, but still she found that being away was better than having him there.

And still it was nothing compared to what Marian was going through, having returned to see her husband and son with the woman that had threatened to kill them and nearly succeeded in killing her. Her tolerance of Regina had snapped in seeing it, especially after her reaction.

Emma reached the beach, its chill seeping from the waters and into her skin. She shivered. The woods were calming for her, but she wasn’t seeking calm. The crash of the waves gave her exactly what she needed; the perfect place to stir in her own emotion.

She found the bench along the sand and walked toward it. Her eyes sought the shore, when suddenly something caught her eye. A flash of black in the water, washed up against the edge. Quickly, she rushed down the dune. When she got closer, she stifled a gasp. 

A black knight.

Her hands shook as she considered his form, contemplative. He must’ve traveled with the portal, lost amidst the magic. Dangerous, her mind whispered. She had run from these men so long, and she knew it was likely that the Queen’s command had him hurling through the portal. She should be fearful.

She wasn’t.

There was something else, some stirring in the pit of her stomach that made her both warm and nauseated all at once. Tentatively, she reached out tense fingers along the edge of the metal. Carefully, she removed his helmet. 

She swallowed hard as he came to view. Somehow, she knew exactly what she would see as soon as he was revealed, but it still was a shock to see him. Her heart tugged hard, a flash of pain. 

“Graham,” she breathed. No memories were replaced in her head, no differences to her experience in those first few months in Storybrooke. And yet, here he was, right in front of her, whole and alive … well, barely alive. Unconscious and breathing shallowly, he looked far too close to how he had been in that last moment.

Bitterly, she knows why her memories are unchanged. Struck with the knowledge, she raged inside of her, unwilling to do what she was aware was necessary. She didn’t want to return him. If he stayed, she could save him. Just like Marian.

But Graham was too important, and hadn’t died in the Enchanted Forest. He had lived, only to die in her arms. Not the Savior, her mind taunted, and her lashes brushed her cheeks painfully.

But then he turned and coughed violently, blinking awake. Her palms rested on his cheeks, staring down at him. “Are you okay?”

He looked at her a long moment, finally reaching up to touch her face.  ”Emma.”

She jerked back. “You know me?”

He nodded. “Emma, I thought … I didn’t think I’d be able to see you again. Not in anyplace new,” he said hoarsely.

She stared down at him a long moment. “How?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I woke up there, and it was all the same. Then … then you came. I didn’t mean to find the portal, though.”

She swallowed, then brushed her fingers along his head. “You were unconscious. Did you hit your head?”

“Not a strong swimmer,” he muttered in response, rising slightly. “Or not as good as I thought.”

Her eyes traced the length of him, messy curls and dark circles. Still, he looked … perfect. Her heart was thundering, excitement twisting with regret and fear. He could not to stay. She wanted him to stay. “You’ll have to go back,” she said numbly.

His cobalt eyes shot up, meeting hers. Slowly, he nodded. “Eventually.”

“As soon as possible,” she contradicted. The sadness bore down on her. “Fate hates me.”

Cold palms rested against her cheeks. “Maybe it hates us both,” he murmured thoughtfully, and then twisted a strand of her hair in his fingers. Then, he shook his head. “But maybe not. At least I get to see you again.”

She lowered her head. Maybe it was just a reminder that things could be worse. Marian’s life, Graham’s life … her worries paled in comparison. “I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself.”

He shook his head. “No. Don’t do that. You deserve happiness, and anything that’s making you doubt that right now is … is ridiculous. Be angry at it. Just don’t let it consume you.”

She huffed a laugh, marveling at the way he could read her without revealing everything. “I missed you,” she admitted.

He leaned closer, but drew back almost immediately. Instead, he entwined their fingers and hauled them both to stand. “I missed you.”

Disappointment filled her. She wanted his lips on hers, just once more, just one more taste before she had to send him back. She knew she shouldn’t, but the desire burned through her veins. “We should … find Gold or something. Get you home.”

He winced. “Not home, but … you’re right.”

She paused, recognizing what he was saying. She inhaled sharply, and finally turned. "I’m sorry,” she burst out, tears cloying on the back of her voice. 

He cautiously pulled her closer, wrapping her in a loose hug. “It’s not your fault.”

She bit down hard on her lip, stifling the emotion that wanted to burst through. “Still.”

He sighed and nodded, his lips caressing her hair gently. A beat passed before his voice vibrated against her cheek. “It’s worth it,” he swore. “For you.”

She shuddered and rocked back, finally stepping on tip toes to touch his lips with hers in the barest hint of a kiss. It left her buzzing, too much and too little. “I wish -”

He cut her off, pressing his lips to hers a little harder, but not enough. “I wish, too.”

She buried her head on his chest, finding no beat to thump soothingly against her.

The wind whipped across them, hollow and chilling and fighting against their embrace. And something inside her raged against it, a want to forage her own path.

“Maybe just a day,” she said, pulling him closer.

“A day,” he echoed. “Just that.”

They’d make it theirs before she would retreat back into her life.

"Heads up!"

Derek barely has the chance to look up from where he is brewing another pot of coffee to snatch the projectile from the air before it hits him in the face, the paper bag crumpling in on itself around his fist. He takes a moment to blink at just what he is holding and recognises the garish branding of the new coffee shop down Main Street, before he glances back along its flight path to pinpoint its origin.

“Stiles.”

His voice is surprised as his lips quirk into a small smile. Stiles grins from the doorway to his impromptu office, a wide, devilish smile that takes over half of his face as he lounges against the wooden frame. His fingers wiggle in a small wave, long and spindly, and exaggeratedly childlike.

"Hey Deputy."

He hovers in the doorway, his limbs nearly twitching with nervous energy as his eyes scan over the details of the room, the scarce personal affects Derek has seen to outfit it with. Stiles is curious, inexorably so, for this new Derek - the one in a neat button up that’s popped only one or two holes at the collar, almost buried amidst a sea of paperwork that covers every inch of available space on his desk and floor. Some of them are in boxes, with names he doesn’t recognise, and some that he does - old case files, mysterious deaths, that his dad had pulled up when he had first learned about werewolves, going as far back as Derek’s family’s era.

"So you did get suckered into updating the filing system.”

He takes a step closer to get a better look, and Derek manages to exhale a sigh, lowering himself into his low seated desk chair with a squeal of leather and heavy measure of regret.

"Yes."

The look Derek shoots him is wryly amused, which is impressive in and of itself, considering his job at the moment as a glorified station errand boy. Yes, Stiles was well aware of the ‘adventures of an American werewolf in the beacon hills police department’ from the sheriff himself, who, drunk on the delights of stiles’ home cooking - the sucker - had been more than happy to fill him in on the details. From work as an outside contractor employed by the Argent’s private hunting company (and man, Stiles had never seen that coming) called in as a ‘wildlife expert’, Derek had applied to become a full time employee of the Beacon Hills PD a year and a half ago, and had been recently deputised.

Derek, as the newest recruit, was subject to the worst jobs of their division, like ticketing and managing the remains of the old filing system that hadn’t quite yet been transferred to digital copy. Which meant paperwork, and lots of it, if the sheer volume in his inbox gave any indication. Poor bastard. Now that Derek is seated, all that Stiles can see of him is his disapproving eyebrows, the rest of his face obscured by a precariously balanced stack of paper in front of him that wobbles unsteadily when he perches himself on the edge of the desk. It doesn’t topple, but it’s a close thing, causing Derek to curse and raise a hand to brace the pile, giving Stiles a dirty - or deeply browed, at least -  look.

"Please, please, be careful. What is this?” He shakes the bag lightly, careful not to disrupt its contents too heavily, before he pauses, sniffing. He brings the bag up to his nose and takes in a long breath, and Stiles’ can’t help his grin at that - he has a weakness for when his friends act like their wolfy ancestors, sue him- before Derek levels him with another look. “Did you bring me breakfast? This better not be a bribe, Stiles - this is a police station.”

"What? No! Consider this gratitude. Wait - that came out wrong. It’s a - thank you. For taking care of my dad while I was away."

Derek’s expression softens and he looks away, as Stiles tries to smile and not make this anymore awkward than this already was, but he still feels the weight of the years he’d spent avoiding this place - this place, not them, never them - between them, like it’s a tangible thing within his chest.

He hates how this is no longer as easy as it once was, and he wishes he knew how to change it. The breakfast is a thank you, but also a peace offering - a chance to maybe get to know this Derek better. Now that he's here, though, he's no longer sure he knows what to do. This isn't like college - you can't just fake it till you make it. Not when he actually gives a fuck about Derek, and what he thinks. For the first time in his life, though, he has no idea what to say.

He shifts uneasily on the spot, watching Derek as he shuffles through the bag and withdraws a lone cranberry muffin, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger as he brings it closer. Stiles tries and fails to smother a laugh as he sniffs it again - and Jesus, you'd think Stiles had made a habit of poisoning Derek in the past. He'd only maybe sort of poisoned Derek that one time, by accident, which does not, by any means, excuse this sort of behaviour.

Stiles has just made up his mind to say as much when Derek finishes his examination with a pleased nod, placing the muffin carefully onto a stack of papers on his desk- before promptly tearing it in two. A noise escapes Stiles' throat at that, a crushed sort of 'you're breaking my heart along with that muffin’ sound, as he separates the halves, leaving one on his desk as he sends the other sailing through the air towards Stiles.

“Heads up.”

In his defence, he was caught entirely unawares, or at least that is what Stiles tells himself when he manages to fumble the catch spectacularly, nearly dropping it as crumbs cascade down his shirt front– which had been new, and unstained. He regains his composure quickly – thank you, lifetime of similar events - and narrows his eyes over the massive pile of paperwork, brandishing the crumbling baked good as if it was the cause of all his problems, by which he means Derek.

“This-" he gives the muffing another shake for good measure, "was meant to be for you.”

“I’ve had coffee. It kills my appetite.” His shoulders lift in a shrug as he pushes himself back in his chair, before he gestures towards a spot at his left side, which Stiles discerns after a moment of staring to be a chair not buried in paper. By that, he means there is only a small stack, which Derek lifts and manoeuvres onto the desk with a single hand. “Will you join me?”

It’s a question, an actual question, with correct intonation and everything, and if that isn’t a sign of how much things have changed, Stiles doesn’t know what is. He makes a snap decision, then - he’s going to start cataloguing these changes, marking all the little differences from when he was a scrawny teenager darting around the woods, trying to save the day. If anything, Stiles will have something to do while he loafs around town, and it sure as hell beats the waiting game that has become his life - waiting for replies from the application after application he sent out, to hear something aboutthe studentships he has applied for, or an internship - anything.

So he says “sure”, and they settle down to eat, and it’s easier than he thought it would be, and a bit fun, even though they have to cut it short when Stiles’ father stops by and asks Derek to find a case file that he can’t quite remember the name of, but knows it involves the closure of an illegal zoo around a decade ago. When Derek asks a question and his father moves further into the room to explain, Stiles takes it as his cue and gets up to leave, clapping his father on the shoulder and directing a short nod towards Derek. He has just made it to the door and is planning out exactly how he intends to spend his afternoon – productively, of course, by which he means Mine Craft - when Derek apologises to the Sheriff and calls Stiles’ name before he has managed to navigate his way fully across the room.

He makes it to the threshold and glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I have the day off tomorrow. Will you join me for coffee, maybe some lunch, to catch up? My treat.”

Stiles gives him a wide grin and nods, and by now, any last remnants of the tightness in his chest have eased. He can - they can - do this. Reconnect. He's sure of it.

The look Derek shoots him is wryly amused, which is impressive in and of itself, considering his job at the moment as a glorified station errand boy. Yes, Stiles was well aware of the ‘adventures of an American werewolf in the beacon hills police department’ from the sheriff himself, who, drunk on the delights of stiles’ home cooking - the sucker - had been more than happy to fill him in on the details. From work as an outside contractor employed by the Argent’s private hunting company (and man, Stiles had never seen that coming) and called in as a ‘wildlife expert’, Derek had applied to become a full time employee of the Beacon Hills PD a year and a half ago, recently deputised.

Derek, as the newest recruit, was subject to the worst jobs of their division, like ticketing and managing the remains of the old filing system that hadn’t quite yet been transferred to digital copy. Which meant paperwork, and lots of it, if the sheer volume in his inbox gave any indication. Poor bastard. Now that Derek is seated, all that Stiles can see of him is his disapproving eyebrows, the rest of his face obscured by a precariously balanced stack of paper in front of him that wobbles unsteadily when he perches himself on the edge of the desk. It doesn’t topple, but it’s a close thing, causing Derek to curse and raise a hand to brace the pile, giving Stiles a dirty - or deeply browed, at least -  look.

"Please, please, be careful. What is this?” He shakes the bag lightly, careful not to disrupt its contents to heavily, before he pauses, sniffing. He brings the bag up to his nose and takes in a long breath, and Stiles’ can’t help his grin at that - his weakness to dogs, seriously!- before Derek levels him with another look. “Did you bring me breakfast? This better not be a bribe, Stiles - this is a police station.”

"What? No! Consider this gratitude. Wait - that came out wrong. It’s a - thank you. For taking care of my dad while I was away."

Derek’s expression softens and he looks away, as Stiles tries to smile and not make this anymore awkward than this already was, but he still feels the weight of the years he’d spent avoiding this place - this place, not them, never them - between them, like it’s a tangible thing within his chest.

He hates how this is no longer as easy as it once was, and he wishes he knew how to change it. He shifts uneasily on the spot, watching as Derek shuffles through the bag and withdraws a cranberry muffin – and then promptly tears it into two, laying one half on the desk as he sends the other sailing through the air towards Stiles.

“Heads up.”

Stiles fumbles and nearly drops it, crumbs cascading down his shirt as he manages to cradle it against his chest – which was new, and unstained, thank you Derek- narrowing his eyes at the other man over the massive pile of paperwork.

“This was meant to be for you.”

“I’ve had coffee. It kills my appetite.” He manages a shrug, pushing himself back in his chair before he gestures to his left side, at what Stiles discerns after a moment of staring, is a chair that is not buried in paper. By that, he means there is only a small stack, which Derek lifts and manoeuvres onto the desk with a single hand. “Why don’t you join me?”

It’s a question, an actual, correct intonation and everything, and if that isn’t a sign of how much things have changed, Stiles doesn’t know what is. He decides he’s going to start cataloguing these changes, marking all the little differences from when he was a scrawny teenager darting around the woods, trying to save the day – and if anything, Stiles will have something to do while he loafs around, waiting for responses from his funding applications, job applications, anything.

So he says “sure”, and they settle down to eat, and it’s easy and a bit fun, even though they have to cut it short when Stiles’ father stops by and asks Derek to find a case file that he can’t quite remember the name of, but knows it involves the closure of an illegal zoo around a decade ago. When Derek asks a question, and his father moves further into the room to explain, Stiles takes it as his cue and gets up to leave, clapping his father on the shoulder and sending a short nod to Derek. He has just made it to the door and is planning exactly how he intends to spend his afternoon – productively, of course, on mine craft - when Derek apologises to the Sheriff and calls Stiles’ back with his name.

He pauses on the threshold and glances back over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“I have the day off tomorrow. Will you join me for coffee, maybe some lunch, to catch up? My treat.”