Derek meows and scrunches up his nose; the warehouse, which he’d deemed passable as a human, now smells incredibly awful. He does not want to stay here. 

He runs. Finding food is somewhat easier and harder as a cat, and avoiding calls of “pretty kitty” soon fade away after a storm and Derek’s fur gets matted with mud. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but it feels right. He steals food and avoids dogs who would have been terrified of him in wolf-form, lets small children pet him, runs away from do-gooders who try to take him to a shelter. Snoozing in the back of a pickup truck in the full sun, lazily licking his paws, Derek thinks, he’s actually kind of enjoying himself. It’s a lot easier to be on the run when you’re a cat.

Whatever city he ends up in is full of traffic and crowds and noise; Derek winds his way down a quieter street. It’s not quite suburb; a mix of houses and small apartment buildings, cramped quarters. There are posters in windows; Derek scurries along and climbs up a fence and then the ledge of a second-story building. There’s an open window with scents wafting through that smell fantastic. 

Derek pokes his head in the window; looks like a cluttered college kid’s place, books and empty cup noodle containers everywhere. Okay, not exactly the feast he was imagining, but it still smells nice. Especially this pillow, on this couch, right here in the perfect spot of sun.

Derek falls asleep. 

“Hey there,” says an amused voice, and it’s so familiar and startling that Derek wakes up immediately, and a flood of emotions he doesn’t quite understand floods through him, the scents of Beacon Hills and pack and an echoing of trust spoken in a chlorinated pool a long, long time ago.

Stiles is grinning at him, holding out his hand. Derek should run away. He should leave now. He can’t stay here, he can’t endanger anyone else, that’s why he left in the first place, but there’s something clicking inside his head, why he was drawn here in the first place...

Okay, head scratches? Amazing.

“Aw, you kinda look like the Grumpy Cat. You have eyebrows, dude. Heh. I mean, I can’t technically have a cat in this apartment, but I live alone and the landlord is never here...” Stiles is rambling, his voice is bright and warm, and Derek is lost in the neverending train-of-thoughts as Stiles picks him up and pets his head in a constant, soothing strokes. “Are you a stray? You kinda don’t look so good... all skinny... been on the road for awhile?” 

Derek doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to; he’s a cat. But the purring sound, he realizes, is coming from him. Maybe he can stay for a little while. Being a cat is easy. Easier than being human. It would be safer, too. It’s not like anyone knows who he is.

“Derek.”

Derek jolts up in surprise, and then he realizes Stiles is looking off into the distance. He turns to Derek-the-cat with a small smile. “You kinda remind me of him, with the eyebrows and the grumpy face. I saw that dude today, it was so weird. I mean, I didn’t see him, it was during a training video, but, still. So weird.”

Derek meows as Stiles’ hand starts stroking his head again. He’s kinda glad he’s a cat. He doesn’t know what he would say if he was human. The last time they’d seen each other, and there was so much Derek didn’t say, that he didn’t have to say. He’d thought he was going to die there, in that lonely abandoned church out in Mexico, and there was too much across that distance in that one look. There had been something there, something Derek never acknowledged, that something when they moved beyond reluctant allies to trust and there’s a part of Derek that doesn’t want to admit he might be fond, too, of that sharp intelligence and resourcefulness and sarcasm.

“Aw, you’re a good kitty. You wanna stay?”

No, no. Derek doesn’t belong here. Scott’s pack is doing well, for all Derek’s heard through the whispers that travel across the country. They’re all doing their own things, Stiles is in college, he has a future. Derek doesn’t. He needs to leave.

He scrambles out of the too-comfortable lap and back to the window.

“Oh. Okay.”

Derek turns around, and Stiles looks so hurt and vulnerable, rubbing the back of his head. 

“I mean...” Stiles sighs. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, it’s not like you get it. But it’s so fucking lonely here and the program is really hard, and I miss Scott and my friends and it would be really nice to come home to someone.”

Derek looks up at him, calculating. 

Stiles gives him a hopeful smile. 

Well, maybe a little while wouldn’t hurt.

He leaps off the windowsill and ambles back to the couch, giving Stiles a judgemental look that he hopes conveys you better feed me and take care of me. 

“Awesome,” Stiles says, beaming. “I”m gonna call you Derek.” He laughs. “I mean, you’re making the exact face he would make if he were a cat.” The smile falls from his face and his eyes glaze over a bit. “I hope he’s doing okay.”