Triggering the healing process

They're all back, the whole pack, for the first time in years. Until now, every holiday there was someone missing, someone who couldn't make it back to Beacon Hills for some reason. Stiles himself only barely made it back while he was in college and then in FBI's training academy. Now that he's working, it's not easy to get time off either but since he's been assigned to the California office as a liaison for all things supernatural, it's been a little less complicated to visit his dad and meet up with everyone else.

The pack being what it is and scattered across the world as it is, they're all involved with the Bureau in one way or another -- Lydia consults at the HQ in DC, Scott's holding down the fort locally, Jackson and Ethan work with MI5 in London, even Isaac has helped a few times in France after Chris suggested him to Interpol. Stiles doesn't hear from Cora or Peter much but he knows that at least one of the Hales has their fingers in cases involving creatures of the night. He's not even trying to guess what Peter is up to though.

The younger pack members are not permanently in town anymore though they do visit more often. Kira's parents moved back to New York but she's nearby since her training with the Skinwalkers continues now, though no longer on a permanent basis now that she's better able to control her inner fox. Mason and Corey went to the east coast for college but Liam stayed home, following in Scott's footsteps into the veterinary career.

Tonight, they're all here though, along with friends they've made since on their varied paths. When Jackson and Ethan showed up with Danny in tow, Stiles refused to ask questions lest they prompt ones about his own father and the relationship that Stiles tries really hard not to pay attention to. The older generation is here tonight too, from the pack's parents to Jordan and even Coach who hasn't moved from Natalie Martin's side.

Stiles is still taking in in, though he's been here since early afternoon as everyone started arriving and the music started. The building is vibrating with the bass line and the lights are off, letting the UV paint glow on everyone's faces and bodies as they move to the rhythm. A lot of those who can be drunk are definitely getting to the limit of what they can handle -- not Stiles's dad or Melissa, who seem to be content to be the holders of keys and unofficial chaperones, not that this is a high school dance -- and those who don't feel the effects of alcohol are following the others' lead to keep the pretense.

There are enough strangers that the pack is keeping their supernatural side under wraps. Stiles figures that once it's a little past midnight, only those in the know will stay and the claws and fangs will be more likely to come out. Especially since the next full moon is not too far.

But there's one person Stiles has barely seen all night, even though it's his building and his loft. And they're all here with his permission, unlike during the previous party that happened here, the one that Stiles remembers all too clearly. This one is not likely to be interrupted by Oni, at least.

When he's had his fill of catching up with everyone and his eyes begin to blur from the strobe lights, Stiles decides that it's time to get away from it all. Instead of leaving altogether -- midnight is close and he figures at least some of the others will be looking for him then -- he heads for the balcony where he knows the glass will keep the noise away.

It takes him a moment to realize that he's not alone out there. He spots a dark figure leaning on the half wall on the far side of the balcony, looking out at the town's warehouse district, now rebuilt into an area filled with shops and office spaces, even some residential buildings. When he was driving to the loft earlier, it took Stiles a while to process how much this part of Beacon Hills has changed from the place he knew and how little resemblance it has to the derelict space where they've fought more fights than he can count.

"You hiding?" Stiles asks quietly, knowing he'll be heard.

Derek turns his head and light hits his face, revealing an amused expression.

"Just looking for quiet," he answers. "Guess that plan didn't go too well," he adds and the corner of his lips twitches.

"I can leave you be," Stiles says, though something in his chest twists uncomfortably at the thought of being unwanted, especially right here and now.

"No, don't," Derek tells him, a little faster than Stiles would have let himself hope. "I was kidding."

"Okay."

Stiles walks closer though he keeps his distance still, leaning on the balcony a few feet away from Derek and looking down over the edge.

"Looks different down there."

Derek hums in agreement, mirroring Stiles's position.

"So, how's the academy going?" Stiles asks a few moments later.

It's not that he can't deal with silence, he's learned to master it, especially in his work -- interrogation isn't always about rambling, he realized during his training -- but this one feels different. Loaded. Tense. Like there are words that want to be spoken, words that should have been said before. It doesn't feel wrong but it doesn't feel completely right either. And then, he's also genuinely curious about Derek's progress at the police academy because Stiles is still a little amazed that his father managed to pull the necessary strings and got Derek enrolled.

He's even more amazed that Derek agreed to going through the full training and becoming a fully trained and licensed officer.

"It's fine. Final tests are coming up in a few months and then I'll have to get some experience done," Derek answers easily, with no hesitation.

"Don't you already have hours clocked here?"

"Those count for some of it," Derek says. "But I'll need to do some work in a different station. Probably to prove that I'm not skating or being given favors."

"Ha. Like Dad would ever let anyone get away with that," Stiles replies, chuckling.

"You know that, I know that. Jordan knows that. But the rules are the rules and to get my badge I'll have to work elsewhere for a while," Derek says, his shoulders rising in a shrug.

"Got any ideas yet where you'll go?"

"Six months in Sacramento. Another six in Baltimore"

"Oh wow, do they hate you so much?"

Derek lets out a chuckle and shakes his head.

"Those were my choices, actually," he says as he turns to Stiles.

"Why there? I mean, I bet there were places that would have been easier. I get Sacramento, it's not too far, but Baltimore?"

"It's close to Quantico and DC."

Stiles's head turns before he can think about it and he stares at Derek, trying to read the expression in his face. It's not easy, there's light but it's not bright and even if it was, Derek's never been one to give away his thoughts or emotions. There's something there that Stiles knows he's not seeing, something he probably should know. Something that he maybe just doesn't want to think about, lest he lets his hopes rise up.

He wants to be at least part of the reason for Derek's choice. A moment of quick math in his mind tells him that the timing fits, he's in the California office for the upcoming year but he'll be back at HQ right about when Derek's in Baltimore. Not for all of those six months but most of them, as they're going to be working on a full department for investigations focused on the supernatural. Stiles has been talking about it with the pack for months now, excited about being given the lead on the projects even though it means mountains of paperwork.

"Derek."

The name slips from Stiles's lips easily but it's barely a whisper. It's a plea and a wish rolled into five letters, a question and an answer all in one.

"If you don't want me to be around, I can request New York," Derek says, his face flashing with what Stiles can only see as disappointment.

Stiles doesn't hesitate. Doesn't let himself think about a response because there's only one.

"I do," he blurts out. "I mean, if that's what you want, I definitely do want you to be there."

"For the job?"

Now, Stiles pauses. Then he takes a breath and lets his thoughts flow right to his lips.

"I won't lie, you have connections that anyone in the Bureau can only dream about. Only Deaton's better linked to the side of the world that we'll need to reach," Stiles says but he doesn't give Derek a chance to look any more disappointed before he continues. "But that's not the main reason. Not why I'd want you to be in the area. As long as it's not permanent because I will be coming back to this side of the country once the department is up and running."

"Your father said that if Jordan's in office by the time I'm ready, he's under strict orders to give me a job," Derek says, grinning. "I have no doubt that I'll have a position here whenever."

"Good. Because I hated being across the country."

"From here?"

There's something in Derek's face now that Stiles allows himself to read clearly. Something that he himself feels and doesn't want to ignore anymore. It's hope.

"Not the town, no."

Stiles moves along the balcony and the distance closes fast as Derek moves too.

It's been years coming, a long time of Stiles pushing down hope and trying not to wonder whether Derek felt the same. Years of no relationship feeling right. It feels like a dream and because of past experiences, Stiles lifts a hand up and automatically counts his fingers like he used to do.

"Five," Derek whispers and reaches for Stiles's hand, then links their fingers together.

"Huh?"

"Five fingers. Mine too."

"Oh."

Stiles reminds himself to breathe as they stand face to face, barely any space between them. Then, as if on cue, voices come from inside, shouting numbers in unison, one after another, starting from thirty. For a few of them, up to twenty five, Stiles wonders how they're coming through the thickness of the recently installed glass but then all thoughts vanish from his mind as he sees the look in Derek's eyes.

"New year," Stiles whispers.

There's a question in the word and an answer and more information than he knows how to put in words. Derek's looking the way Stiles had hoped to see him for years, expectant and hoping, close enough that Stiles can feel warm breath on his own face. Without thinking, he leans in and closes his eyes for a beat, then opens them again and finds Derek's eyes only a couple of inches away.

"Okay?"

It's Derek who asks permission. Stiles nods and then holds his breath as their lips meet with one last movement closer. From inside, the countdown shouting continues, five, four, three, two, one, then a chorus of wishes for a happy new year. It's all white noise to Stiles though, blood rushing through his ears as he moves his lips against Derek's, their fingers linked and Derek's squeezing like he doesn't want to let go. Stiles moves his free hand to Derek's waist and his fingertips dig into the soft fabric of the T-shirt's thin layer separating him from Derek's skin.

When he feels Derek's tongue on his lip, Stiles can't fight the low moan that builds in his chest. He doesn't want to pull away, wants to stay in this moment forever or at least as long as they can. He's afraid to let go, to break the silence and the moment they're having. But his lungs eventually scream for air, unsatisfied with what he's getting into them. So with reluctance he stops kissing Derek and slowly pulls away, closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths as he processes what just happened. He feels Derek's forehead against his own and the warmth of a palm on his cheek, then a thumb moving in a gentle stroke.

Another moment later, Stiles opens his eyes and looks into Derek's.

"Hey," he whispers.

"Hey."

"So. This happened."

"Yeah."

"What now?"

Neither of them has a chance to say anything anymore because the balcony door bursts open and when Stiles turns away from Derek and toward the noise, he sees Liam in the doorframe, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, looking apologetic.

"Whoops, sorry, interrupted something, you do you. Or each other. Don't mind me," Liam blurts out and backs away, closing the door again.

Moments later there's whooping from inside, loud enough again to reach them through the glass.

"This there was betting going on?" Stiles asks when it's quieter again.

Derek pauses and closes his eyes, obviously listening to the others, the corner of his lips curling as he does.

"Definitely. Your dad's not happy. Lydia won."

"Naturally."

"So, do we want to brave the wolf's den?" Stiles asks.

HIs fingers twitch against Derek's T-shirt when he's pulled in closer, Derek's palm just above his waist.

"I think we can wait another while. Maybe they'll leave us be," Derek says, smiling.

"And then pigs will fly," Stiles answers. "But I'll take what I can get. Tonight."

He leans forward and kisses Derek again. They might not have much more of this private moment, of the magical bubble where it's only them and no interfering or curious pack members. It's enough for now though because it's only the beginning and if Stiles has anything to do with it, it's the start of forever.

Like that is an answer, Stiles thinks. Then he looks down between them and sighs when he sees the cause of this conversation. His and Derek's daughter Lila, her arms and legs wrapped around Derek's thigh and calf, looking up at Stiles with a pleading look. They adopted her when she was barely a few weeks old, a werewolf cub from a pack attacked by hunters, her parents gone. With several strings pulled they managed to get the paperwork approved and she's been with them ever since, the first of the pack babies, now accompanied by several others.

"A haunted castle," Stiles says in a deadpan tone. "You want to go to a haunted castle."

Lila nods with enthusiasm, her eyes lit up with glee.

"Why?"

"I wanna meet the ghosts," she states with determination. "Aunt Cora said they're fun."

"Cora would," Stiles grumbles and looks up at Derek. "I should have known there'd be a catch to her vacation spot suggestions."

"This was where our family came from," Derek says, reminding Stiles of the original reason they're in Scotland in October. "She tracked the Hales down as far as here."

"I know that. She also conveniently told our daughter about the one castle in the entire country that's supposed to be haunted and got her hopes up about meeting ghosts."

"Well, it's probably not the only haunted castle around here," Derek points out.

Stiles huffs and shakes his head. "We're on vacation," he tells Derek. "No monster fighting."

"But Daaaaad," Lila chimes in, still wrapped around Derek's leg.

"Ghosts."

"Yeah! Awesome ghosts!"

"Did Cora say she really met them?" Stiles asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Mhm, she did. She took photos too! Papa show him!"

Stiles levels Derek with a glare, hoping it conveys how he feels about whatever photos Cora may have sent. It's not a feeling that is in any way good and he's already preparing to spam Cora with things she particularly dislikes. Just because.

But Derek tugs his phone out of the pocket and ignores Stiles's glare as he scrolls through the pictures, then turns the phone around wordlessly so Stiles can see the screen. There, in all its creepy glory, is Cora with a grin on her face and what looks like an older version of Casper leaning on her shoulder.

"We're not fighting ghosts," Stiles says, knowing that he's starting to sound like he's pleading.

"You're not supposed to fight them, Dad!" Lila tells him, her face turning into something that he guesses is meant to look disapproving but she doesn't quite pull it off. "They're friends."

"Friendly ghosts," Stiles deadpans. "You want to be friends with a ghost."

"Duh."

Derek doesn't quite manage to hold back a chuckle and Stiles throws him another glare. Their little girl most definitely has attitude and Stiles knows that he has no one to blame for that but himself. It made the flight to Scotland an adventure and earned them a combination of amused and unimpressed looks.

"Okay," he finally says, knowing that he's not going to win this one. "Okay fine, we can go meet these Caspers."

"Daaaaad," Lila drawls, rolling her eyes. "Casper doesn't live here, he's in America. And also he moved on, he's not a ghost anymore."

"Oh? I thought he was able to come back because he was really good friends with Kat," Stiles tells her with a smile.

He knows that this will launch her into a massive ramble about the cartoon -- she'd been watching it obsessively for the past few months, which should have been a hint, now that he thinks about it. As he's expecting, she starts talking about all the details and about the movie and how they're not the same world and way more stuff that he can absorb and understand. Derek, however, despite the fact that she's saying things both of them heard a million times before, looks absolutely engrossed in everything Lila is saying, like there's nothing more important in the world.

Stiles's heart would melt if it was capable of that -- no, he doesn't want to think too much about the possibility because he's sure there's something in the world that could make it happen -- but as is, he's getting dangerously close to swooning. No matter how long they've been married and how long they've had their daughter, seeing Derek with Lila, Stiles knows he'll never tire of watching him and he'll never hit the limit of how much he can love him.

"Okay," he says, shaking his head as he interrupts Lila's rambling. "Haunted castle time?"

Lila nods her head vigorously and Derek joins her, albeit with less energy.

"Go, get your coat, baby," Stiles tells Lila and she immediately darts away.

"I love you," Derek whispers when she's out of the bedroom and leans in to kiss Stiles's cheek.

"Is that the case from last month?"

"Yeah. And I know we have all these others from the past few years that seem to have the same M.O.," Stiles says, hands flailing and pointing at all the other documents -- case notes from various unexplained deaths from across the entire country. "I thought this one was one of them but it's not."

"Weren't there the same injuries and evidence?" Derek asks, reaching for the notes in Stiles's hand and trying to remember the specifics of that case.

"Same wound, same place, some weapon left on the scene," Stiles says. "Stupid ice picks. I know they're easy to get but come on, so uninventive."

"Would you prefer that the people we try to find get more original and make it harder for us?" Derek asks him with a hint of incredulity in his tone.

"Well, it wouldn't be dull," Stiles says, shrugging.

"We have cases from the past six years here," Derek points out, glancing at the notes. "They happened in so many different places that we don't have a pattern. Are you seriously bored?"

This time, he knows he's sounding incredulous but this doesn't sound like Stiles. He's usually intrigued by cases as complicated as this one -- the amount of notes on the table speaks for itself -- and loves nothing more than finding links between incidents that lead him to an arrest or an explanation.

"Wait," Derek suddenly says, looking at Stiles. "Are you frustrated because you don't have a solution yet?"

"No," Stiles replies firmly, though he sounds more than a little cranky. "I'm frustrated because I wasted a week trying to find a link between all these, including that one," he points to the notes that are now in Derek's hand. "But that one doesn't fit. It's not consistent with the rest of them."

"How?"

"There's an age pattern. And a gender pattern," Stiles tells Derek and starts lining up the notes on the table. "They're all in a sequence, the numbers aligning and the genders alternating."

Stiles continues moving the notes and grumbling about gender binary -- Derek doesn't risk asking -- until he has the notes in a tidy row and whoops with satisfaction.

"Here, look," he says to Derek but doesn't wait longer than a second before he starts rambling about the patterns he's found.

Derek sees it after only a few moments. There's a sequence in the birth years of the victims even though it doesn't align with the time order of the murders. But put into that sequence, the victims' genders alternate perfectly. Except for the last one. The one in Derek's hand. Which should have been a woman but instead was a man.

"Are you sure this wouldn't come up later in the sequence?" Derek asks, shuddering at the thought of any more murders satisfying whatever drive that the murderer has.

Stiles shakes his head. "No. Look, his birthday fits perfectly right into this part of the sequence but the genders don't. And the way this sequence works, there's no way the same number would come up again." he explains. "There's no congruence."

"So we can hand this one back to Rafael," Derek says as he drops the notes on the one tiny free spot on the table. "And then we're back to the drawing board."

"But with a better starting point," Stiles tells him after nodding.

"At least we have one," Derek sighs. "We had nothing when we got this pile."

"True," Stiles says, then he turns away from the notes and grins at Derek. "I still think Rafael's trying to test our limits."

"See how fast or if we can solve a cold case this old?"

"No. More like testing whether we can work together while we're also living together," Stiles says with a cheerful grin as he walks closer.

Derek smiles back. He agrees with Stiles: this case is a test. Rafael already knows that they can work together easily, there is plenty of proof of that in their past. But they weren't dating then and they didn't share an apartment. Derek is sure Rafael just wants to know whether he can safely turn a blind eye to the fact that his coworkers are a couple and that it won't affect their work.

He knows it won't. He and Stiles had plenty of discussions about their coworker relationship before they decided to take their personal one to a new level. It's been complicated for a while but now they're in a place where they can -- for the most part -- separate the two.

"Well, I hope we won't disappoint him," Stiles says with a grin that tells Derek that he's determined to prove Rafael's doubts wrong. "But it's just not going to be by solving this particular case," he adds, waving the notes on the case that doesn't fit.

"Something tells me that he either already has that case solved--" Derek starts but doesn't get to finish.

"Or it never existed in the first place," Stiles says what Derek's thinking.

"Well, shall we keep him waiting a little longer?"

Stiles lift an eyebrow but stays where he is.

"We've earned ourselves a break, don't you think?" Derek asks, returning Stiles's gesture with one of his own.

"Why, Agent Hale, are you implying we skip out on work for a different activity?"

"I don't know, Agent Stilinski, are you up for a distraction?"

"You know I always am," Stiles says.

Derek can't wipe the smile off of his face as he watches Stiles drop the notes on the pile on the table and saunter over to the other side of it until they're toe to toe.

"What did you have in mind?" Stiles asks, eyes sparkling with amusement.

For a beat, Derek doesn't say anything, just lets himself take in Stiles's expression and face. It's still new, them being together, him being this close and able to act on his wants and feelings. There's still a hint of doubt in his mind about relationships in general, his past not that distant a memory.

"Well," he starts when Stiles's smile starts fading and watches as it brightens again. "I was thinking I could use a nap," he finished.

"What?" Stiles's face morphs into a shocked expression.

It takes all of Derek's strength not to burst into laughter at how scandalized Stiles looks. But there's always a payoff for teasing and Derek has had plenty of practice in keeping his poker face unmoving.

"You're kidding, right?" Stiles asks, still looking incredulous.

"We've been at this all night," Derek tells him with a nod at the files on the table. "I think both of us would benefit from lying down for a while."

"Now, the lying down I am absolutely on board with," Stiles says, then shakes his head. "But sleep is not really on my mind at the moment."

"Now now, Agent Stilinski," Derek says, barely keeping his composure. "You're not about to suggest we behave unprofessionally, are you? When we're under scrutiny to prove that we can be professional."

He can feel the corner of his mouth twitching and knows the pretense is shattering fast. There's no way Stiles can miss that Derek's not being serious, that he'd ignore the twitch or the way Derek's shoulders are tense as he tries to stop them from shaking.

"Well, you know, you look a little tired," Stiles says, his expression back to a blank and serious one. "Maybe you should lie down here," he tells Derek, pointing at the couch in the middle of the room. "I'll just go upstairs and... relax."

Derek knows precisely what Stiles isn't saying. He doesn't reply though, not trusting his words and his brain's ability to filter them. Instead, he reaches out and tucks his fingers into the belt loops on Stiles's jeans, then tugs him closer.

"Wouldn't it be more fun to have someone help you with that?"

Stiles's eyes sparkle with amusement.

"I thought you were tired," he says. "What about your nap?"

Derek grins and tugs Stiles even closer, their bodies flush against each other's.

"I think the nap can wait... for after," he says in a breath and then leans in, pressing his lips against Stiles's waiting ones.

He feels the little gasp that rushes out of Stiles's mouth more than he hears it, the heat of their bodies combining and the way his own heart speeds up at the kiss. Before his mind completely blanks out and before he loses himself in the kiss, he thinks that no matter what tests anyone puts them through from now on,. they'll be able to make it out on the other side with their relationship as intact and strong as it could possibly be. The way Stiles's is kissing him back -- with hunger and want -- Derek knows that he's not the only one who feels that way.

"First of all, not all of it was bad," Stiles points out. "Second of all, we've encountered things that I feel would be worth having a record of, especially the parts about how to get rid of them.'

"Shitload of luck and a healthy dose of chance," Derek tells him with a snort. "With a few exceptions when we actually knew what we were doing. Most of those latter ones were also just humans fueled by anger-inducing irrational fear."

"Oh come on, Gerard would warrant an entire chapter all for himself," Stiles says.

He puts down the vial he's been staring at, right next to the tomes that he thinks are important documents, though maybe not quite as valuable as the bonds that were in a separate little safe and had been used to fund Peter's unintentional—or well, not deliberately conscious—deadpool scheme. Derek's already only a few steps away before Stiles starts moving toward him.

"But seriously, with the amount of crap that was thrown our way," he says, walking closer, "we really should put it all down on paper or something, for future generations."

"Are you expecting all those things to return?" Derek asks. "Because I honestly really hope none of them will, ever again."

"You know some of them will."

"Monroe is not that stupid, she won't set foot in California, let alone this town, again."

"Fair. But she does have minions who don't have such self-preservation. And I didn't mean the hunters either, I'm sure there's enough said about them in all the world's packs' records," Stiles tells Derek, reaching out to link their fingers. "I meant more things that go bump in the night. And not the fun kind of bump."

"So, what are we talking about? The Dread Doctors? Because we're several decades away from those being around again, provided someone who's currently human will decide to go down that route for immortality."

"No, I meant things like the Kanima," Stiles replies, his lips tugging into a smile. "We could absolutely get Jackson to help with that one, past and present."

"There's already all that information in the old Hale Bestiary," Derek points out. "Remember where we got it from when he was evolving? Into the creepy thing that I hope never to see again."

"But he didn't and I bet there's nothing in there about a Kanima becoming part werewolf. Or about the way its tail continues to be usable after that transformation," Stiles says with a grin.

"That face you're making is telling me that there are things I do not want to know about Jackson's tail. Ever. Not even if it would help in the future."

Stiles chuckles and tugs on Derek's hand, pulling him closer. He can feel the metal of the ring on Derek's finger against his hand and it makes his heart flutter, still. They've been married for over a year now and the thrill of it hasn't worn off yet. Stiles isn't sure it ever will.

"All I'm saying is, maybe it would be worth it to write it all down. There's stuff that's unbelievable enough that we could maybe disguise it as fiction, publish it as a book."

"The adventures of teen werewolves in a town sitting on top of an evil tree stump?" Derek suggests, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"That's a bit of a mouthful, but for all I know, it might just work."

"You might be on to something," Derek says then, his eyebrows scrunching.

"Really?"

Stiles can't help it, he's surprised that Derek seems to even remotely consider the idea. It isn't one that Stiles thought through, just something he said in the moment, his brain wandering off on a tangent. But it feels like it might be a way to preserve their experiences along with information that might potentially help not only Beacon Hills in the future but also packs around the world. It would definitely be easier to distribute a book that is presented as fiction than it has been trying to get hands on Bestiaries and other similar records of all things supernatural.

"No."

Derek shakes his head and Stiles's growing enthusiasm deflates like a flat tyre.

"There's no way you could put in all the information that you want to put in," Derek says, then holds up a finger when Stiles opens his mouth to protest, indicating that he's not done. "You'd need to have too much info dump and that doesn't make for good fiction. But I'll admit that no matter how much I don't want to go back through the memories of those years, we probably should at least add to the information that Peter already has in his laptop."

Stiles shakes off the disappointment about having his idea—one that he thought was kind of genius—shut down, because Derek agreeing to collect and record what they know is still a win.

"You still have Peter's laptop, right?'

Derek nods.

"Then we'll need to start looking through it."

"Right now?' Derek asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Not right this second, unless you have the laptop with you.."

"I don't. And we were down here for a reason," Derek points out.

"Right. Yeah. Reason."

Stiles steps closer and leans in to press his lips against Derek's.

"Would you like to go back to looking for my birth certificate? Or should we just forget about it?" Derek asks when he pulls away from the kiss a moment later.

"I would like to keep looking, yes," Stiles says. "We can't file for the adoption otherwise."

Because that's why they're here, in the vault, digging through piles of paperwork and—in Stiles's case—poking at all the treasures that generations of Hales left behind. They need Derek's birth certificate to apply for the adoption of Leah, a werewolf cub who found her way to them a few months ago, her pack decimated by hunters adjacent to Monroe's dwindling army. They've been taking care of her since, Stiles's father officially registered as a foster parent and in charge of her. But with multiple strings pulled and with Leah already attached to them both and to the pack, they want to make things official.

Derek is back across the room and looking for the necessary paperwork when Stiles gets an idea.

"Hey, Derek?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I could try and take some of the stuff that we survived and make it into a story book anyway?"

"You're not reading stories about the Alpha pack or the Nogitsune to a three year old werewolf cub," Derek says firmly.

"I would not—“

"You would. But you won't."

Stiles wants to argue, but the urge only lasts a few seconds. After that, his mind comes up with all the possible results of retelling the Nogitsune events to Leah and he balks at the thought of not only traumatizing her with some of the parts but also inspiring her with some others. Her curiosity is off the charts as it is, she really doesn't need encouragement. Which is probably why Derek's putting an end to the idea before Stiles can even try to make it happen.

"I won't," Stiles says in a defeated tone.

"We'll have our hands full anyway, there's no reason to make it worse," Derek tells him, confirming that Stiles was right about his motivation. "But maybe you're right."

"Wait, what?" Stiles asks, surprised at that last addition.

"About recording things. Putting all the information together. Maybe even doing it the way you said we could," Derek tells him, looking almost like it hurts to admit that Stiles is right.

It's a tone and expression that Stiles has seen many times before, Derek grudgingly admitting that Stiles has a good point. It never fails to be satisfying.

"I get to write a book?" Stiles asks instead of openly gloating.

"We get to write a book. All of us," Derek says. "There are things that some of us know that others don't, so we'll need to work on it together. With everyone."

"Not Peter."

"Yes Peter. Seeing as there are things he’s been part of that no one else was. Also your dad."

Stiles cringes but nods. There's no one person who has all the information that he wants to write down, no single member of the pack who would know everything exactly the way it happened.

"You're right."

"I am," Derek says with a grin and he turns to a folder with what looks like paperwork that's on a shelf right next to them. "I also found what we were looking for," he adds as he reaches for the folder and flips it open.

"Yeah?"

Derek turns a few pages, then triumphantly pulls out one of the sheets in there.

"Derek S--"

"No."

"Come on, you know my first name."

"And I don't know your middle name. So you're not reading mine," Derek says, holding the printed side of the certificate out of Stiles's line of sight.

"Genim," Stiles says easily. "That's the easy one. Now can I see?'

"No."

"Derek."

"Stiles."

"Is that your middle name? Because that would be weird," Stiles says, grinning when Derek levels him with a glare.

"I'll tell you when Leah's adoption is complete, how's that?" Derek offers.

Stiles nods because he can wait that long. Maybe if he's lucky he'll even get to see the documents before that, so it's a win either way. He's already won one thing today, the fact that they'll write down all the things that happened in their lives up to this point. He hasn't said it, but part of why he wanted to was so the future generations would have a record that would be easy to find, notes on all the possible dangers they could face.

"I won't," Derek tells him, eyes still on the map and fingers running over the notes that they gathered.

The whole pack was on reconnaissance missions for the past two days, snooping where they could without giving themselves away. It proved a lot easier than they were used to, since this group of hunters from out of town and out of state didn't seem to have done their research. That, in Stiles's extensive experience, didn't mean that it was true, but that was definitely how they were seen. Normally Stiles would be extremely suspicious of that—and he was for the first day—but this time there really seems to be a lack of information and awareness on the hunters' side.

They're young, barely old enough to be in the know. They're only just older than Stiles was when he found out about the supernatural, back in high school. He wonders how much training they could possibly have at that age but he saw them and found that whether they're well-trained or not, they're armed to their teeth and clearly mean business. The problem is that they don't seem to know what their business is.

It's a recipe for disaster already, let alone if Derek or anyone else decide to walk right to them and cause a reaction triggered by surprise. With the amount of weapons of all different kinds, there would most likely be innocent bystanders hurt at best and killed at worst. There is precisely zero need for anything like that to happen. It just means that Stiles will need to distract Derek from whatever half-baked plans he might have for the situation.

"I think you want to go now," Stiles says quietly. "I think you figured that these people are young and would be easily taken down. I think you want to do something before they do something to those we care about."

"I think you're assuming a lot and you know what that means," Derek replies, finally lifting his head to look at Stiles.

"I'm an ass, yes," Stiles says, corner of his lips twitching in amusement. "You love my ass."

"I appreciate your ass," Derek says in a completely flat tone. "That doesn't mean I need to tolerate you being one."

Derek grunts then and that's enough of an answer to tell Stiles that he's right. Not that he really needed a confirmation but he gives himself a moment to preen about it anyway, because it's not often that he gets an acknowledgment like this.

"Look, we'll figure out a way to get them," Stiles says, returning to the original conversation. "Marching in there without a plan has never worked out well for us, has it?"

He can see the moment that Derek remembers that one time when they had no plan and still got out unscathed and with the bad guys out of commission.

"Fine, one time is not a good enough sample though," he concedes.

The smirk on Derek's lips does classify as gloating, Stiles is pretty sure.

"We're almost ready with a decent plan, you know this. You've gotta be patient," he tells Derek.

"I am patient."

There's no way Stiles can hold back the snort at that statement, because the only person he knows with a bigger case of being trigger happy is, well, himself. Derek's patience has the length of about a mayfly's lifecycle considering the grand scheme of things in life. He does like a good plan but he prefers when it's done fast and ideally is ready without the actual planning stage. Stiles can't argue with that, though he does tend to enjoy the strategizing a little more than anyone else in their pack.

"Maybe you need a distraction," Stiles mutters, thinking out loud.

He's met with a wall of silence at that and it makes him look up from the maps that his eyes flicked to as he was musing over Derek's patience issue. When his gaze lands on Derek, he sees the raised eyebrow and an expression that's a strange mix of amusement and disapproval.

"We have a bunch of hunters in town, ready to take out someone just to prove themselves," Derek says when Stiles mirrors the raised eyebrow. "Do you really think any of us should be distracted right now?"

Stiles shrugs.

"Well, yeah," he tells Derek. "I don't mean anything major, just a little something to stop you from trying to get yourself hurt."

To his surprise, Derek doesn't do what Stiles expects him to, which is to shut down the whole direction of their conversation. Instead, his eyebrows both shoot up for a moment and then the corner of his lips twitches.

"Did you have anything in mind?"

Stiles is stunned into a very untypical silence. The thing is, they've been dancing around each other for a while now, both of them single again and both in Beacon Hills for a while, with no plans to leave anytime soon. It's no secret to anyone around them that Stiles has long found Derek attractive in several different ways. He just thought for an equally long time that the attraction was entirely one-sided. It's a very new thing that he started considering if he was wrong all these years and that maybe Derek isn't completely indifferent to Stiles's everything.

"That depends on what you think would take your mind off of rushing out right now," Stiles says, keeping his words deliberately vague so he can turn the conversation whichever way seems the most suitable.

Derek seems to ponder his options and the silence does nothing to keep Stiles's hopes down nor his nerves calm. He's not a blushing teen with a crush, those years are well behind him now, especially after he got to date the person he was infatuated with and found out that reality is a whole lot different than his imagination. He had crushes since Lydia, but not as consuming as that one was. Right now, he has a bit of a deja vu from the way his stomach feels like it's filled with butterflies—not an image he really likes but the best simile anyway.

"Maybe we should go somewhere," Derek offers eventually, just as Stiles's brain is starting to spin dangerously.

"Somewhere like, for a drive?"

"Somewhere like getting something to eat," Derek clarifies. "Have you eaten anything today at all?"

Stiles frowns as he tries to remember if he has because "yes" feels like a lie.

"There was breakfast," he admits. "And I had a power bar when Scott got here."

"Actual food, Stiles," Derek says with an exasperated sigh. "Come on, let's go get some burgers."

Without hesitation, Stiles follows him outside and doesn't protest when Derek nods towards his own car. Since they're going somewhere together, there's no point taking Roscoe too and Stiles does still get a bit of a thrill from being in Derek's current Camaro—he did lose count of how many Derek had through the years—even if it's only on the passenger side.

"So, Hot Wheels," Stiles starts when they pull away from the loft building where the pack still continues to meet for strategy sessions, "where are you taking me?"

"To the morgue, if you repeat the Hot Wheels thing again," Derek huffs in response.

"Oh come on, how can I? You're the one switching one Camaro for another," Stiles tells him, smiling.

"It's a good car."

"I know it is. But it was also one of the first Hot Wheels models," Stiles says.

"How do you even know that?"

"I was a young boy once, dreaming of a shiny hot rod of a car," Stiles grins and his mind wanders away to the calm and innocent days when that was true. Days before werewolves and hunters.

"Because you're ancient now," Derek says and Stiles catches him rolling his eyes.

"Feels like it sometimes," Stiles admits quietly, his mood dropping a fraction. "We've all definitely lived through more than others in their whole life. Some of us possibly are on the ninth life."

Derek only glances away from the road for a second but it's enough for Stiles to see the seriousness and concern in his face.

"Glad you made it this far," he says, to Stiles's surprise.

"Likewise," Stiles replies.

They both go silent then and inevitably Stiles's mind runs over the times when he wasn't sure that either of them was going to make it to the next day. There were way too many close calls for both of them, due to not only the dangers around them but occasionally also because of their shared willingness to dive into danger without a second thought. In precisely the same way that Stiles has suggested distracting Derek from tonight. He doesn't dare think about just how many times they should have had their lives end by now because the answer would probably terrify anyone with a shred of sanity.

"So, you didn't answer my question," he says a while later, twisting his body so he gets a better look at Derek.

"Huh?"

"You said we're getting food," Stiles clarifies. "Where are we heading?"

Derek pauses like he forgot their destination, then he glances at Stiles again for a moment before replying.

"You like the new shake place outside of town, right?"

It's a night for surprises apparently—Stiles doesn't remember mentioning the place more than maybe twice in the space of several months since he first went there—because he never expected Derek to know that tidbit.

"Yeah, the burgers are the best in town. And they do curly fries," Stiles adds because that's a deciding factor for him when it comes to a burger joint's quality.

"Of course they do," Derek nods in what's maybe supposed to be a serious expression but is betrayed by the way Derek's lip curls up at the corner.

"Don't you dare mock my love of curly fries, man" Stiles tells him, knowing that he can't pull off being serious.

"I would never," Derek tells him solemnly just before his face lights up with a smile.

"Liar."

"Good thing you can't tell," Derek replies fast.

Their conversation continues in a similar tone all the way through town and it's easy, simple. There were times in the past when Stiles wouldn't have dreamed of having this easy a conversation with Derek, but it's become the norm now, though the slightly flirty undertones are most definitely shiny and new. They're not obvious—to an outsider it probably just sounds like they're teasing each other in a friendly way—but Stiles knows now how Derek talks to friends and how he talks when he's flirting. Plus, he knows his own way of keeping the door open to double entendres in conversations that are intended to lead them outside of the friendship boundaries.

By the time Derek pulls up to the diner—restaurant, really, since it's a little more upscale than a diner—Stiles is questioning if he imagined where their conversation was going. It's almost like any other night when the pack decides to get food together, only this time it's Stiles and Derek alone. Which isn't all that new either, there have been a few times when everyone else decided to split up and head elsewhere.

Still, Stiles is fighting the urge to ask if this can be considered a date. Mostly because, if he dares being completely honest with himself, he wants it to be. And it shouldn't be awkward, it shouldn't be a big deal to be honest about things. Maybe it would be fine and if Stiles is reading too much into things, they'll just both brush it off and get on with life.

It's just that there's a tiny voice at the back of Stiles's mind that reminds him that getting this wrong might end up causing tension and make things difficult. After all, they do both live in Beacon Hills and the town has never been big enough to hide from anyone.

"You're thinking very loudly over there," Derek says as they find an empty booth.

Stiles freezes. It's not like he's saying his thoughts out loud without knowing it, that much he's sure of. But he's clearly not as good at keeping his face blank as he thought he was.

"Anything I can help with?" Derek asks, leafing through the menu without really looking at it.

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. I mean, if anyone can it would be you, but..." Stiles starts rambling, then he stops himself, bites his bottom lip to keep more words from falling out, and turns his gaze to the napkin box instead.

"Stiles."

"Yeah?"

When he looks across the table, Derek is looking right back, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes and a small smile on his lips. It's one that Stiles doesn't see a lot—it's fond, for lack of a better word—and it jolts something in Stiles's chest. There's nothing that would stop the question that pushes itself to the forefront of Stiles's mind then.

"Is this a date?"

His whole body tenses as the words spill out and Stiles watches every minute movement of Derek's face: the twitch of his eyebrow, the curling of the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes widen just a fraction. He doesn't miss the way Derek's cheeks darken a little under the harsh lights of the restaurant either.

"Do you want it to be?" Derek asks in return.

"You didn't answer," Stiles says automatically, as he always does when someone answers with a question. "But yeah, I do. Want that."

"Okay," Derek nods. "Then it can be."

That's it. It's that simple, apparently. Stiles's smile mirrors the one that he's looking at and for a blissful moment, his mind is blank. But then his thoughts come rushing back and he tries to remember what it is that people do on dates, besides small talk and eating. He can't imagine having a mindless conversation with Derek just to fill the silence and there's no food yet since they didn't order. Stiles wonders for a beat if he can summon the wait staff to their table before it gets awkward.

"Stiles."

Derek says his name like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking and how he's internally freaking out.

"Yeah?"

"You're thinking way too noisily again."

"We have met before, right?" Stiles asks lightly and a layer of his worries starts peeling away.

"It looks like you're panicking about this," Derek tells him, not bothering to answer the question.

"Maybe. A little," Stiles admits.

Derek smiles that soft and fond smile again and drops the menu on the table, then reaches across until his palm in on top of Stiles's hand. Without thinking, Stiles turns his hand over and his eyes drop down just as Derek's palm meets his own.

"Let's get food first," Derek says, glancing to the side.

Stiles follows the movement and sees a waiter approaching.

"Okay. I can do that," he says when he looks back at Derek.

He wonders if his heart will be able to handle seeing Derek's face the way it is now, soft and relaxed, happier than Stiles has seen him over the years. Most of his doubts vanish into thin air as his mind processes the fact that he is the cause of Derek's expression.

That was the plan originally—he'd leave Roscoe for Scott to use instead of his old dirt bike and he’d drive back to college with Lydia—but it didn't work out that way. There was a mutual decision to break up, a flight for Lydia back to Boston, Rafael springing for a car for Scott, and Stiles alone on the road in Roscoe, despite any and all reservations that everyone had about it. By everyone, Stiles means his father, of course. There was no other option though, since his visit to Beacon Hills—necessary as it was to get rid of the hunters—wasn't planned and neither his father nor Stiles had the budget to spring for the trip back to school.

"You couldn't have lasted until I got to a populated area, at least?" Stiles asks Roscoe, then glances around the emptiness around him.

He's not even on a highway, because he'd decided to take the scenic route where he wouldn't slow down the flow of traffic and where he would stumble upon more potential pit stops along the way. Not that he has a chance for one of those now, since he's on the one stretch of road where there's nothing for another few miles. He checks the map on his phone anyway, cursing as the coverage makes it take longer than he has the patience for right now. It proves that he's well and truly stuck, though at least it's still daytime.

Phone in hand, Stiles scrolls through his contact list and the recently dialed numbers, then sighs.

"Well, let's see if I can fix you up the usual way," he tells Roscoe and gets out, tucking his phone into his jeans.

There's no point calling any of the people he would normally call, he's too far away from any of them for it to do any good. So he pulls out the duct tape from the glove compartment once he rounds to the passenger side, then he pops the hood open and grumbles. There's no smoke, at least, but that means that it will take a little longer to figure out what he needs to tape up so that he can get back on the road again.

"What's wrong with you, baby?" Stiles asks as he checks the wires and pipes and everything else that's already covered in impromptu fixes from over the years.

There doesn't seem to be anything that he can wrap in tape to get Roscoe running again and Stiles wonders if it's just that the Jeep finally gave up and died for good. Considering where he is, he really hopes that's not the case. With the crappy insurance he can afford, he wonders if he can even get a tow from here, especially since he's not in California anymore.

That's when his phone buzzes against his thigh, startling him enough that he yelps. It vibrates again before he can pull it out.

I hope that's not you stranded in the middle of nowhere. Well, guess I should have known better.

The second message is obviously a reaction to the way Stiles jumped and almost hit his head on Roscoe's hood. Both of them are from a number that he doesn't have in his contact list, but he has a suspicion about the sender.

Should I worry about being stalked? Stiles texts back.

Just as he hits send, he hears the familiar rumble of a car he doesn't have to look for. A black Camaro shows up from behind the trees that obscure a bend in the road.

Also, how did you even see me? Stiles adds to his message.

He didn't hear or see the Camaro, but he knows what the answer will be. He doesn't get it until the Camaro pulls up behind Roscoe and Derek gets out, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Werewolf," he deadpans, which makes Stiles roll his eyes.

"Didn't know you learned how to see through trees," he tells Derek.

"Now you know."

For a beat, they stand there in silence, Stiles with the roll of tape still in his hand, Derek's eyes darting between him and Roscoe.

"You really shouldn't have dragged the poor Jeep on a cross-country trip," Derek tells him then.

Stiles snorts. "Thank you, Captain Obvious," he says with so much sarcasm dripping from his voice that he internally cringes at himself.

Part of him is really glad that Derek showed up, because he's not sure if he would be able to fix Roscoe by himself. Part of him is annoyed about having things that he already knows pointed out to him like this.

A tiny part of him did a tiny internal dance that it's Derek, of all possible people, who is here now. It's a tiny part that he has been pushing down and ignoring for years now, one he's refusing to acknowledge for reasons that he can't name. It's the same part of him that distracts him from the issue at hand—which is how he's going to get moving again with Roscoe dead in the water—because it focuses on the way Derek's leaning against Roscoe's side, legs and arms crossed in a way that accentuates the muscles Stiles can see under the thin layer of Derek's top and his skinny jeans.

It's the same tiny part that is very likely a reason for the way Derek's eyebrow is moving up as Stiles fights himself so he stops staring.

"So, are you here to gloat or help?" Stiles asks, pushing down everything else that he's feeling.

"I'm here," Derek starts, pointedly looking at the road and his Camaro, "to get back to New York."

"Doesn't look like you're going right now."

"I can, if you don't want my help," Derek quips but doesn't move. "But I think your father might find a way to kill me if I leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere."

"He wouldn't," Stiles tries to protest, but he's pretty sure Derek's right.

Well, right after his dad would lecture Stiles about the decision to drive Roscoe across the country without getting it checked over by a qualified mechanic beforehand.

"I don't know what's wrong," Stiles admits then. "Roscoe's just... dead. I mean, I looked the engine over and I don't know what needs to be fixed. I don't suppose you have been secretly running a garage? Or been trained as a mechanic? Or that you have a magic wand to make Roscoe work again?"

The moment the last question is out of his mouth, Stiles knows that it was a bad choice of words, before he sees Derek's smirk and his eyebrows raising again, this time in amusement.

"You're the one with magic," Derek says as he pushes away from the Jeep and starts walking to the popped hood.

"Not magic. Just apparently able to throw dust in the right way," Stiles mutters. "Don't think that would be any good here."

"Probably not," Derek says with a nod. "I don't think anything is going to be any good here," he says as his hands move to the engine and he starts poking at all the things that Stiles has already poked at.

"Don't say that," Stiles tells him with a hint of desperation in his voice.

It's partly because he doesn't want Roscoe to be completely gone, partly because it would mean he'd need to find a way to get back to school fast enough to not get kicked out because of missing too many classes. He's refusing to think about how bad it would be to miss the training classes in the agency.

"Well, would you like me to lie to you?" Derek glances up from Roscoe and levels Stiles with a glare. "It's a miracle that you got this far with the Jeep."

"I'm aware," Stiles says in a defeated tone. "I figured I'd need to scrap the whole car once I got to school, but I was really hoping I'd get there at least."

Derek stands up and looks at his grease-covered hands, obviously done looking for a fix to Roscoe's situation.

"You'll need a mechanic," he says, leaving no room for argument.

"I'm guessing that means that you aren't one?" Stiles asks with a hint of hope.

Derek shakes his head.

"I'll call for a tow, there's a garage a few miles back," he says. "I thought you would've seen it driving past."

"I did. But Roscoe was in motion then so I didn't think to take notes like phone numbers then," Stiles snarks weakly.

"Google, Stiles," Derek tells him with a scoff and a smirk, already swiping fingers across his phone screen.

"On that note, since when do you have a phone?" Stiles asks, brain redirecting from his current predicament.

"A few weeks," Derek says, not looking up from his phone. "Figured it was a better idea than having Chris track me down and potentially blowing my cover."

Stiles snorts, then watches as Derek makes a quick phone call.

"Tow's on the way," Derek says. "I can drive you to the garage."

"Don't you have places to go? People to see?"

"Yes, but I'm not in a rush. And no."

it's Stiles's turn to raise a questioning eyebrow in surprise. Last he knew, Derek wasn't single, at least.

"Cora's not in New York," Derek says.

Stiles figures that Derek knows what the questioning glance was about and that's answer enough.

"Thank you," he says instead of poking more, earning himself a nod.

But this was a fight that Derek was right in the middle of and nothing was going to stop Stiles from throwing himself into the fray no matter how prone to getting hurt he was. And how much he didn't have the same kind of healing abilities that his werewolf friends did.

"Stop moving," Melissa tells Stiles sternly.

She knows he's trying to twist to see the rest of the clearing -- she has him lying down on the edge, just under the cover of the trees surrounding it -- because that's where the others are. She glances in the same direction and sees that the fight is apparently done. Scott and Derek are standing side by side, the hunter who caused all this kneeling in front of them and clutching his stomach. Melissa cringes but she doesn't see blood there, which... is surprising. After Stiles's leg got nicked by a bullet, she expected that between Scott, Derek, and John -- who followed when Stiles decided to join the fight -- there would be retaliation of a more severe kind than just punches.

"He's alive," Stiles says.

It doesn't take much to figure out that he's not talking about his father, his best friend, or his boyfriend. There's a hint of disappointment in the statement that tells Melissa that Stiles means the hunter.

"Seems like it," she says in a flat tone. "I guess they're all over trying to cover up dead bodies. Or going to jail."

Stiles snorts and then cringes when Melissa pushes down on the wound more firmly. She starts wrapping gauze around his leg, satisfied now that she cleaned the gash enough.

"You'll need stitches," she states.

"Fell down and grazed my leg on a branch?"

It's a question because Stiles is asking her if it will hold up as a reason for his injury. They've been down this road before with others in the pack, with injuries that didn't heal on those who weren't werewolves. She heard it all by now -- falls, accidents, skirmishes that went bad -- and knows the best out of all of them what she can and can't use on hospital records.

"Yeah, that should do, considering where you were hit," she says as she ties the gauze neatly and smooths Stiles's ripped and blood-smeared jeans over it.

"Do I really need stitches though?"

"It's too deep, you'll end up with a scar if you don't get it stitched up."

"Don't tell him that," John says, coming up to them -- one glance tells Melissa that the hunter is now tied up, still kneeling on the ground. "He'll refuse the stitches just so he can have a battle scar."

"Not like he was in the fight."

"Stupid stray bullet," Stiles grumbles and starts getting up off the ground.

"Stay put," Melissa tells him. "Unless you want the wound to open up more and bleed all over the ground."

"Yeah no, I'm good," Stiles says and his shoulders slump.

"I'm gonna get this sorted," John tells both of them and then leans in to kiss Melissa's cheek. "We might not need excuses this time. I think I can get him on unlawful hunting."

Melissa sighs and scoffs, then nods.

"Let me know. I'll get Scott to bring Stiles to the car," she says as John starts walking away.

"I'm able to walk, thank you very much," Stiles protests.

"Not with your leg like that, you're not," Melissa tells him. "Now, your choice. Best friend or boyfriend?"

"Well, one of them already has experience carrying me," Stiles says with a grin, though she sees that he's still not impressed with the idea that he won't be allowed to walk by himself.

"Fine, Derek it is. Do not move," she says in a firm tone.

Derek's already turned towards her and Stiles when he starts walking to him, but he has one eye on the hunter. Melissa doesn't need to be a mind reader to know that he'd happily do more damage to the man than what's already done, but she also sees the flash of worry in Derek's face that is clearly distracting him from his anger.

"He's okay," she says, knowing she doesn't need to specify who she's talking about. "He need to get to the hospital though and I strongly discouraged walking."

"I'd say it was more than discouraged if he's still on the ground and not walking away," Derek says with a chuckle. "I'll get Scott--"

"He asked for you," she interrupts. "Go. We'll sort out this one," she adds, nodding to the hunter.

John is already putting handcuffs on the man while Scott's standing over him with a face like thunder. Derek nods and heads off to Stiles. When Melissa glances that way again, her gaze doesn't linger because she sees Derek picking up Stiles and kissing his forehead in a way that feels intimate and like she shouldn't be watching.

Instead, she turns to Scott and the lets her eyes scan across the clearing to make sure that no one else needs her medical skills. It seems like Stiles was the only casualty of this particular encounter and Melissa breathes out with relief.

"Come on," John takes her hand. "Scott's got this. I texted Derek," he says as he starts walking to where they left their cars. "We'll get the guy locked up for illegal hunting with a side of causing Stiles the injury."

"So he has been shot, after all," Melissa replies, smirking.

"For once there's no need to mess with the truth," John tells her. "It's a nice change."

"Why were you....?"

John sighs before she even finishes her question, like he knows exactly where she's going with it.

"Turns out that the guy is remotely related to the Argents. Not to Chris," John says quickly when she squeezes his hand, "but we'll have to tell him when he gets back."

"Yeah no, we're calling him the moment we get home.," Melissa tells John, leaving no room for argument.

"Fine." John seems resigned. "But anyway, he was close with Kate, apparently, and Derek was his target."

"Ah. Yeah. There's no way Stiles was leaving that one alone."

They get to the car and John leans against it and pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She feels the gentle kiss that he presses into her hair and she lets herself relax into the hug. All in all, today could have gone a lot worse than it did.

The first time he remembers clearly thinking about it was right after the fire. He recalls telling himself that it wasn't the right moment to stop his story because the ending wouldn't be happy. He'd thought about it after, when he was in New York with Laura. Wondered whether he should have done what she stopped him from—running into the burning house, trying to save them. He knows now that it would have been pointless, that the same mountain ash circle that kept his family in would leave him outside with no way of breaking through, not without the help of a druid or a human. He sometimes wonders why none of the humans inside broke it, but it's a futile exercise in self-torture.

He also thought about it later, when he found Laura dead in the forest and then when he discovered that it was Peter who killed her. There were many instances during those years when he reminded himself that it wasn't the end, that it couldn't be if he wanted to call it a happy ending. Even when he didn't believe that he could have one, the quote still kept coming to him without him trying to think of it.

But then the war against the hunters, the one that the werewolves didn't start but intended to finish, was winding down. There were almost no bloodthirsty hunters left in the country and those who were outside it were likely to stay there. Derek was along for the ride as Scott and Chris formed an alliance so strong that it convinced the majority of other hunter families that they could help instead of attacking packs that protected territories and never hurt anyone in anything other than self-defense.

It was during that time that he became close with the pack. He knew he would never really be a part of it, he'd never be Scott's Beta—not for lack of consideration—but he was at least pack-adjacent. At least that's what Stiles called him. Them, really. Because Stiles, regardless of his close friendship with Scott that survived more than most friendships ever do, didn't return to Beacon Hills permanently. Many of those who were on the outskirts of the pack stayed that way because they never came back for more than occasional visits. Jackson and Ethan in London where they were eventually joined by Danny. Isaac in France, where Chris found him a pack to call family, one with a strong alliance to the Argents there, similar to Chris's alliance with Scott. Cora in South America, with the pack that took her in after the fire, the one that welcomed her back with open arms when Derek and Peter dropped her off after she returned to Beacon Hills for a while.

Pater, of course, still harbored ideas of taking over, but as far as Derek was aware he kept those ideas in check. More so when he found a new partner and looked like he was going to settle down again, have a home.

Malia continued traveling, visiting places around the world and—Derek suspected—looking for her mother to get the answers she didn't get before. Ones she would never get from Peter.

There were those who stayed in Beacon hills, or who came back. Kira, for one, when her training was complete and she was in control of her Kitsune powers again. Liam, Corey, and Mason, all of whom left for college and then came back.

Others stayed the whole time, like Melissa, Chris, John, and Jordan. All of them found their own happy endings right there in town, some with each other.

The quote about those happy endings stayed out of Derek's mind for a while during the years when things weren't as hectic though still not completely calm. It felt like limbo—Monroe still on her mission to attack and eradicate werewolves, Scott's pack working on stopping her.

It wasn't until she was taken out by a hunter, of all people, when she attacked their family instead of a werewolf pack and more people realized that her goals were dangerous and unattainable. There were still factions of her former army around the world, but they were scattered and without a leader, which made them a lot less of a threat.

That was when Derek finally started looking for a place to settle down again. The land in Beacon Hills still belonged to him but he handed some of it to Scott, who was the territory's Alpha now, nd a small fraction to Peter to help him settle down close to what he used to call home.

But Derek wanted to find somewhere else.

In the end, he found his way to New York, to the apartment that Laura bought after the fire, the one where he spent years back then. It was still theirs in name and with her gone, the deed was transferred to Derek. The place held too many bad memories though so he sold it but then decided to stay nearby. He moved outside of the city, to a less inhabited area, on the territory of a pack he became friendly with in the process of trying to stop Monroe and her minions.

Then, as if by coincidence, it turned out that Stiles got assigned to the FBI offices right there, in the city. There was a whole new department in the agency, spearheaded by Rafael and Stiles—once he was done with training—to deal with the supernatural side of the world.

"So, you're dealing with X-files," Derek said once and got a whole lecture on how werewolves existing was reason enough to wonder whether aliens were around too.

When Stiles found out that Derek had a home in the area, he insisted that they keep in touch. Derek didn't mind, long past the resentment he carried with him about their initial meeting along with the reason for his arrest and many other things. Stiles turned into a good friend fast and they ended up spending a lot of their free time together.

That's why he's here now, in the house he's made into a home, with Stiles stretched out on the couch the morning after spending the night there. They kissed for the first time less than twelve hours ago, the tension that's been growing between them for the past few months finally making Stiles snap and ask whether he was the only one feeling more.

He wasn't, Derek told him.

Now, knowing that this is something he really wants to work, seeing Stiles perfectly comfortable in the house—unsurprisingly, he spends more time here than in his own apartment—makes him think of the quote again.

"If you want a happy ending," he mumbles under his breath, glancing out of the window once he pulls his eyes away from Stiles.

It's not him who says, "it depends on where you stop the story."

"Hey," Derek says, turning back to the couch.

Stiles is there, getting up and looking like he's still mostly asleep, but his eyes are glued on Derek.

"Are you trying to tell me this is the end?"

Derek shakes his head.

"It's just a thing I've been going back to for a long time. It never felt like a happy ending."

"And this does?" Stiles asks, walking up to him and reaching for Derek's hand.

"Maybe. The end of something. The beginning of something else?"

There's more hope in his voice than he intended to, more hesitation too. It's too soon to be talking about the future this seriously, he thinks, but the words are out there now and he can't take them back.

"You know, I've heard your quote before, many times," Stiles says, leaning against Derek's side as they both look out into the forest around the house. "But there's another one that fits right now"

Derek knows he doesn't need to ask, that Stiles will tell him anyway.

"Every end is a new beginning."

"I like that," Derek tells him.

"So, we stop the old story here and start our own."

Nine out of ten of his visits to the loft are fun and good. When the pack gathers, it's usually there—the loft has proven in the past to be a great spot for a party—and he doesn't get to think too hard about the past. He does, however, get to watch as the old furniture gets rearranged to better suit whatever purpose that it needs to serve.

Like when Stiles decides it's time for a movie night and he somehow manages to procure bean bags and cushions that end up laid out on the floor, the one undamaged wall serving as the screen once he sets up the projector. Or when Scott and Satomi use the loft for negotiating of territory borders and other pack dealings.

But then there are nights when, with everyone else gone home—wherever that is—Derek ends up in the loft alone.

Alone means that he thinks and he remembers. Alone means that he gets to relive the bad parts of the loft's past. He gets to think about the people he lost here, the ones he almost lost right there in front of the big windows that are no longer covered in grime. He gets to look at the cleaned floor and still see where the blood stains are, at the walls where pieces are missing and where there are holes from fists.

He's never along for too long though.

"You're not back to brooding again, are you, sourwolf?" Stiles asks every time, no matter how many times he's asked the same question before. "Because moping isn't allowed inside these walls."

"Maybe a little," Derek admits, then he taps the spot on the couch next to him.

He admits it now, but it's taken a long time for him to get to a place where he doesn't try to pretend that everything is fine even when it very clearly isn't. He still doesn't say it easily and not to just anyone. But Stiles has always been able to see right through Derek's smoke screen, always knew to cut through it and call things for what they were. It's a little ironic that the person who talks circles around his own problems and issues is the one who can get to the bottom of Derek's. It works both ways though, for them—Derek knows when Stiles's talking is there to hide what Stiles is really concerned about.

"We should do something about this place," Stiles says once he's sitting down and leaning right into Derek's space. "Take out of the flooring and change it, rebuild the walls that you've punched holes into."

"It wasn't just me," Derek says defensively.

"Well, no, I know that. I was here for Scott's and Liam's shenanigans. But I'm pretty sure several of those, " he points at the holes in the walls, "are your doing. I vividly remember that one," he says, looking at the big one, the wall that's still almost completely gone.

"Maybe we should do something about it,” Derek says. "Maybe the whole building needs to come down."

"Wow, overkill much?" Stiles tells him with a quiet chuckle. "I'm sure we can find a solution that's not all that drastic."

"Think the pack would be up for it?"

"Promise them a big screen and feed them,” Stiles says. "They're all easily bribed."

"Those sound like bribes more suited to you than any of the others," Derek says, chuckling.

Stiles twists his neck and looks at Derek, his expression probably meant to convey innocence but doing no such thing. Derek chuckles again and shakes his head when Stiles looks offended at Derek not believing him. Instead of falling into the trap of having the same argument that they've had a million times before, Derek leans in and presses his lips against Stiles's, then smiles into the kiss and turns around properly.

"Would you want to live here again?" Stiles asks when they pull away from each other.

Derek shakes his head.

"But you don't want to give this place up, fist-shaped holes in the walls and all."

"It feels right," Derek says, then adds, when Stiles looks confused, "to keep it."

He's rewarded with an acknowledging hum and a nod.

"But fixing the place up is long overdue," he continues, glancing at the battle-worn space. "We should look into the spaces on this whole floor. Maybe make one of them into an official training room and restrict the fisticuffs to that one?"

Stiles nods again and smiles, looking like he's already started making plans for the refit. Derek can't argue, he's already thinking about ways to rearrange the loft into a space more suitable for hanging out than it is at the moment. There are more spaces on the same floor and even more in the rest of the building that could be used for the pack's various activities.

When he first bought it, it was convenient. The warehouse district was abandoned for the most part, the loft itself in just enough of a shape that he could use it to live in, the electricity running as well as the water. He's still paying the—mostly nonexistent—bills, since he never got around to getting anything disconnected. He was glad, when he came back to Beacon Hills, because it meant less hassle with getting the loft functional again.

He glances at Stiles, who's got his phone out, scrolling through apps suitable for floor plans and design.

"New project?" Derek asks him, leaning against his side.

"Yeah. Sounds like fun," Stiles replies.

Stiles didn't always believe her, especially not when he realized that sometimes the herbs went missing and they weren't used in meals that she'd made around that time. Sometimes she'd use them for tea -- the ones appropriate for it -- when anyone around was ill. Other times he'd find pieces in the trash, cut off stems like she'd been using them for something, though he never figured out what.

It's easier to guess now. Or really, he doesn't need to because he knows. Because he has his own herb garden, bigger and more elaborate than hers ever was. It's right behind the new house, the one in the Preserve closer to town than where the old Hale house used to be. It makes sense that way, the pack is closer to the rest of the town than Derek's family was, for the simple reason that half of the pack now is human or at least not born wolves.

"How are the herbs growing?" Derek asks when Stiles walks in through the back door, finding himself in the kitchen.

"They're great," Stiles tells him, sitting down at the big table in the adjacent dining room. "We'll be able to use some of them soon."

"And the wolfsbane?"

Stiles sighs. He has a patch of it away from the herbs -- even a little cross-contamination can be dangerous -- but it's been behaving a lot less nice than the other plants.

"It's fighting me," he says, huffing with annoyance.

"Maybe you need to give it space," Derek says, walking over with two plates of leftovers. "Sometimes it's best to leave things be and let them grow."

"That's... oddly poetic."

"It's true. Mom used to grow some, even experimented like you're doing," Derek tells Stiles, eyes turned to his plate. "Wolfsbane is not fun for us, but she had this notion that she can find a strain that will be good."

"I'm guessing she didn't find one," Stiles says with disappointment.

Derek shakes his head.

Derek shakes his head.

"She gave up at one point though," Derek remembers, a fond and melancholy smile on his lips. "Marched into the house with resignation and declared that she'd mow it all down the next day just to stop it growing where she didn't want it to."

"What happened?" Stiles asks, because he's pretty sure that it wasn't what Talia intended.

"There was some drama around that time, I can't remember if it was Laura getting into trouble or a full moon," Derek says, forehead scrunched as he tries to bring back the memories. "But she didn't get back to the garden for over a week. When she finally got a chance to check on it, apparently the wolfsbane found it's spot and stopped expanding into the patches with all the other herbs."

"So you're saying I should let it go?"

"Give it a week. Leave it be. If it's not better by then, we'll cut it all down and plant something else," Derek suggests. "Maybe not anything edible unless we completely change the soil."

"Well, seeing as the goal is not to poison the werewolves in my life--" Stiles yelps when Derek tugs him closer, then leans into him and smiles. "Okay."

"Really? I expected more of a fight," Derek tells him, clearly both amused and pleased.

"I can, if you want me to," Stiles says, smirking in return. Then his face drops. "Really though, I'm tired of trying to fight it. It's clearly something that has a mind of its own and I'm probably better off just letting it do its thing."

"Kind of like it's usually better to leave you to do whatever you're doing, because in the end it has a point?"

"Laugh it up, fuzzbutt," Stiles responds to the chuckle accompanying Derek's question. "We'll see if you're still laughing when I'm testing the effects of the different strains."

Derek huffs, but it's without heat or annoyance. Stiles knows by now that Derek's always going to be the one who volunteers, unless he absolutely doesn't meet the criteria of the wolfsbane's target. Those are usually just "werewolf", so Stiles doesn't even bother asking anyone else, with the exception of needing more than one test.

"Right, I'm gonna go wash up properly," he says, pulling away from Derek. "I'm not really in the mood to eat soil. It's bad enough that I spent hours breathing it in."

"You love it."

"I do. And I love you, fuzzy butt and all," Stiles shoots back and then dashes into the bathroom before Derek can retaliate.

---

"I didn't hate you. I still don't hate you."

Derek is looking at Stiles with the most sincere expression in his face, with a softness and fondness that is unfamiliar. At least to Stiles, who vividly remembers the permanently closed off face and the "stay away" vibes that Derek used to radiate when they first met. This is nothing like that.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Stiles asks because he doesn't understand. Sure, he and Derek struck up a friendship at some point, but Stiles has always been convinced that it was only because he was attached to Scott's hip. He hasn't talked to Derek in several years -- not since Derek got into a car after the war with hunters and drove off into the sunset.

"I wasn't very fond of you when you got me arrested, or for some time after, but I never hated you," Derek says. "If anything, I thought we were friends now."

"Dude."

"Or at least close acquaintances," Derek adds, looking a little disappointed. "That's what I was assuming. But if even that is too much, then that's fine. I'll deal."

"What do you mean that you'll deal? I didn't even think friendship was on the table, let alone anything else," Stiles tells him, feeling a little hysterical. "Is there anything else on the table?"

--

Of course the pack showed up before Derek managed to respond. So now Stiles is sitting on the couch and staring at the screen without watching the movie and his mind is reeling. The air continues to feel thick and he starts wondering if it would be super rude to leave right now.

There's also the fact that he's absolutely sure that no one else in the room feels the tension that he does, that they're all oblivious to the way he wants to jump out of his skin -- something he hasn't felt in years. They're all happily watching the movie and are completely clueless. Except Derek.

Derek looks like his claws are about to pop -- Stiles sees it when he dares to glance in that direction every once in a while -- and there is a distinct flash of color in his eyes that isn't supposed to be there. Again, Stiles notices when he looks at Derek and finds him staring back, like he's trying to read his mind.

I want to know what you meant, Stiles thinks.

Of course, he can't say it out loud, not with everyone else scattered around the seats and floor around them, several people between the corner of the couch that Stiles claimed and the recliner that's always Derek's place during movie nights. But he's craving solitude in a way that he usually doesn't, a one-on-one conversation about what could be and about all the things he'd want and didn't think he'd ever have.

Because Derek's words from earlier reignited Stiles's hopes, lit a fire under the attraction to Derek that was the gateway to exploring his sexuality and eventually settling firmly on bisexual. The words were an echo of those that he used to dream of hearing, the ones he hoped for years ago and for a long time after. It's only recently that he made himself accept that they would never happen.

And yet...

Stiles glances over again and bites his lip when Derek's eyes are already turned to him, when he finds that neither of them are following the movie. He squirms on the couch when Derek doesn't look away, when his eyes flash with the red that he's gained back since the war ended.

"Oh my god, would you sit still," Jackson -- who's sitting next to him -- groans in Stiles's direction. "Didn't you grow out of that?"

"Sorry," Stiles mutters, genuinely apologetic not because his movements are distracting Jackson but because he got called out on being like this.

"Go walk it off or something," Jackson suggests.

Stiles has a quick retort on the tip of his tongue but then he realizes that Jackson's idea is good. That maybe walking away is the answer right now, even if it's only to head out to the balcony and try to work through all the thoughts that are whirling in his head. He throws one more glance at Derek as he gets up and circles around the couch, then he heads out to the side door, taking a deep breath the moment the cool air hits his face.

He shuts the sounds of the movie out by closing the door and replaces them with the muted noises of the town below. They're far enough up that he can't hear anything clearly and that alone -- the fact that everything sounds like he imagines a blurred artwork would -- is helping already. His mind is still spinning, sure, but 's easier to sift through the newly acquired information this way.

I never hated you.

Stiles spent too long being wrong about what people thought about him, how they felt about him. Hell, he misjudged his father's feelings, not that it was surprising for a kid dealing with grief and with his dad's way of coping at the same time. He was wrong about more, but he'd been absolutely sure that at the very least right at the start of the werewolf chaos, Derek did genuinely despise Stiles. Not so much later on, of course, when they struck up what could be seen as an alliance, if not friendship.

But this sounded like something else. These were words that were used to say that the person felt the complete opposite instead of the assumed. So did Derek actually like him? And if so, in what way? And why had he never said anything?

"Communication issues," Stiles mutters. "We could all probably write books on those."

There's a creak behind him, the noise of the movie for a beat, then silence again, but Stiles knows he's not alone anymore.

"I think there are enough books that will tell us how dumb we've been," Derek says quietly from behind Stiles's back. "It's not like we'd write anything that hasn't been written yet."

"True. But clearly just reading wouldn't help," Stiles mumbles, still looking at the town instead of turning around. "Also, listening in is not fair."

"I wasn't trying to," Derek says. "I wanted to make sure you're not trying to scale the wall to get away."

"If I wanted to leave I'd have used the front door."

"Except scaling the wall would nicely redirect questions from everyone else," Derek points out.

Finally, Stiles turns around and feels the corner of his mouth tugging. "You're starting to think like me," he tells Derek. "I don't know if I should be proud or worried."

Derek gives him a pointed look and then shrugs his shoulders.

"So, you're here for a reason. Is it because of what I said?"

"No."

"Lie."

"Again with the unfair things," Stiles grumbles. "Why do I have to be friends with walking lie detectors? It's very inconvenient."

"I didn't listen to your heart. I just know your lying face," Derek tells him.

"I don't have a lying face," Stiles protests.

"Wanna check with your father and Scott about that one?"

It's a challenge and Stiles could if he wanted to. He'd lied to both of them more than he liked to admit and neither knew all the smaller lies that Stiles told through the years. There were fewer since college, but the ones during his high school years were plentiful and varied.

It's also a distraction from the topic they were on and Stiles is half tempted to continue in the new direction. But there's also temptation to resolve the tension he feels.

"Okay, yes, it's about what you said. What the hell, Derek?"

He didn't plan on sounding angry, but he's frustrated from trying to figure it out on his own and he wishes that they'd had this conversation years ago.

"I never thought you liked me," Derek says, leaning against the wall by the door, out of sight of anyone who's bother looking through the huge windows.. "Back at the start, I dismissed you as a kid who didn't know what he was getting himself into. Then I was pissed because of Laura."

Stiles winces because that's one thing he still feels like apologizing for, though he already did several times.

"But you turned out to know pretty well what you were getting yourself into, eventually," Derek continues, ignoring Stiles's reaction. "I really did not hate you at any point after the Gerard thing."

"Original or 2.0?"

"Original."

"Oh wow. I thought you still couldn't stand me then," Stiles says. "Even the summer when we were looking for Boyd and Erica."

"I know. I didn't think you were my biggest fan and that you just tolerated me because I could help Scott," Derek tells him. "But still, didn't hate you. The opposite, actually."

"You liked me?" Stiles asks and winces again, this time at the way his voice hitches in a way that makes him sound almost hysterical.

Derek nods. "You were still a kid though, but after the Nogitsune--" he says but leaves the thought hanging in the air, unfinished.

"We all grew up pretty fast then," Stiles says. "None of us was the same by senior year."

They both go silent for a little while then, until Stiles's curiosity wins over.

"So why didn't you say anything?"

Derek looks at him and smiles faintly, looking wistful.

"I left, after Mexico."

"I'm aware. You came back."

"And you were with Lydia."

"Ah."

Stiles understand a little. Everyone, Derek included, knew about his feelings for Lydia. About how long he'd been in love with her. How much of a dream come true their relationship was. But that was the past -- they lasted a few months after the big crisis, then realized how much better they were as friends.

"That was years ago," Stiles says. "You've been back here for years, Derek."

"And you didn't show a hint of interest in me at any point," Derek says.

"Okay, lie detector status revoked, you have no idea how to read my face apparently," Stiles tells him. "I spent all those years thinking I'm doomed to an unrequited crush."

"You... what?"

Derek's face is amazing to look at. He goes through several expressions -- shock, confusion, amazement, anger -- before he settles on something that looks like a mix of hope and bafflement.

"Dude, you are why I figured out I'm bi. You're more of an unattainable dream than Lydia ever was."

God, I sound sappy, Stiles thinks, but he lets it go. The words are out, there's no going back. If his guess about where this conversation is going is right, he will never have to.

"So we could have...."

"Done this years ago?" Stiles asks, then he shakes his head. "Yeah, apparently so."

"We're idiots."

"Can't say I disagree," Stiles tells Derek, then he pushes himself away from the railing he was leaning on. "Now, to avoid any further confusion and miscommunication," he says as he steps forward to close the distance between them, "I'm going to kiss you. If you don't want me to, speak now, or--"

Derek chuckles as he reaches forward, grabs Stiles's hand with his own and pulls him in until they're only an inch apart. Then he wraps his free arm around Stiles's waist and tightens his fingers around Stiles's for a beat.

There's no mistaking the expression in his face now, Stiles can read the hope in Derek's eyes clearly. So he closes the last inch of a gap and tilts his head just enough so he can brush his lips over Derek's.

At 7am sharp, while Stiles was stumbling out of the door and into his Jeep so he'd get to a class on time, the front door across the street opened and out walked... Stiles's wildest dream and his worst nightmare all rolled into one man. Who was obviously heading out for a jog, if his skin-tight shorts, loose tank top and trainers were anything to go by. He didn't say hello, didn't seem to even acknowledge Stiles's presence and he set off into a run, leaving Stiles watching his tanned back and the flashes of a black tattoo on the man's back. Stiles absolutely did not glance below the man's waist to see the curve of his delightfully bubbly ass.

That would have been extremely rude.

It's also why he's sitting on the couch in the living room now, curled into a slightly uncomfortable position, instead of taking advantage of the perfectly positioned desk and the chair that makes hours spent in it seem like nothing.

Because the desk is right at the front window. The same window that faces the house across the street. And while it's not 7am—their new neighbor is punctual with his morning jogs—it seems that it's perfect lawn-mowing time instead. Just as it was car-washing time the day before, house-painting time a few days earlier, window-washing time another afternoon. There's been something every single day, as if the man across the street knew when Stiles had to be sitting at his desk and having the perfect view of his muscled back and wide shoulders, the dark swirls of the tattoo on his back—a triskelion, as Stiles found out on the window-washing day when tank tops were apparently unnecessary—and the swell of his ass whenever he bent over.

"I must have been an awful person in my past life," Stiles mumbles to himself, the empty house offering no sound of consolation.

It's been the longest week, catching glimpses of their new neighbor no matter how much Stiles tried not to. He didn't even know the man's name—Rafael only remembered that there used to be a family years ago, then he mentioned something about a fire and how the house was rebuilt—but he did see the tall and beautiful woman who made an appearance one of the mornings. She'd been in casual clothes and kissed the man's cheek as he left for his jog, then she got into a shiny Jeep—a model way newer than Stiles's—and drove off.

"No wonder he's taken," Stiles muttered then, any dreams of a meet-cute with the potential of getting to know the man in every way possible dashed into smithereens.

He's about to give up on the essay and grab himself something to drink when he hears the rumbling of Scott's bike.

Dinner time, Stiles thinks.

He sets down the laptop and heads towards the kitchen, figuring that now that Scott's home, they might as well figure out something to eat. Stiles is looking at an all-nighter the way his essay is going, so he's going to need the energy. His head is stuck in the chest freezer as he rummages through whatever they have that's easy enough to make when the voices from the front door carry all the way to his ears.

"It's not a bother at all," Scott says to someone who's obviously coming into the house with him. "We should have that spare bulb. Anytime you need anything man, just knock. Stiles is home most of the evenings, I'm home in the mornings, one of us is bound to be around."

"What's a Stiles?"

It's a soft voice, one that Stiles doesn't recognize, but a vague sense of panic washes over him. He knows all their other neighbors by now and since this is someone new, it can only mean...

"Hey Stiles, where are you?" Scott calls out from the living room when he finds it empty. "Come meet our new neighbor Derek!” Then he adds more quietly, clearly to Derek, their neighbor: "Stiles is my housemate and best friend."

"Is he the one who owns the death-trap Jeep?" Derek asks, amusement ringing through his voice.

"Yeah, it's one he had since he learned to drive," Scott says, then adds something more quietly.

Stiles figures it's the fact that the Jeep used to belong to his mom, if the acknowledging hum from Derek is anything to go by. Scott calls his name again and Stiles hisses when he startles and hits the back of his head on the chest freezer's lid.

"In the kitchen," he replies just so Scott doesn't call him again.

The thing is though, he's been home all afternoon, trying to write his essay. And his studying clothes are very much comfort over style, so he's in his pajama bottoms—the soft and worn out ones—and a T-shirt that has more holes and stains than fabric. Which is not really the best first impression he wanted to make on their hot new neighbor. Then again, said neighbor already noticed Stiles's old Jeep and clearly had reservations about its functionality or looks or whatever, Stiles doesn't care. He loves Roscoe and would go to bat for him, especially to snobby owners of shiny Camaros who—

He doesn't get to finish the thought because Scott strolls into the kitchen with Derek right behind him, still in his sweaty and loose tank top and the running shorts that have been driving Stiles to distraction. Who even wears running shorts to mow the lawn? Stiles has been asking himself that question every time he glanced out of the window.

"Hey, Stiles, this is our new neighbor from across the road, Derek," Scott says with his usual cheerful demeanor. "Derek, this is my housemate Stiles."

"Hey," Stiles says, glad that he managed to at least open his mouth without making a complete idiot of himself.

Then again, the day's not over yet.

"Hey," Derek replies, eyes roaming up and down Stiles's body, eyebrow rising as he takes in the state of his clothes.

Stiles can't help it, he returns the same look to Derek, pointedly looking at the clothes he is wearing. To mow the lawn. Because what the hell.

"Derek's lightbulb in the garage blew, so I offered one of our spares," Scott says, glancing between the two of them as they continue their glaring stand-off. "Are they still in the hall cupboard?"

It's only reluctantly and with yet another pointed glare at Derek that Stiles looks away and turns to Scott instead.

"No, the shelf in the garage, above the washing machine,” he says. "Remember your dad moved all that crap so we had space in the hall?"

"Right, yeah," Scott replies, then he glances at Derek. "I'll be back in a moment."

Then he looks at Stiles and gives him his patent what are you doing? look. Stiles knows that one, it's been a constant presence in his life throughout high school, usually when he was lying to his father about something. He disappears before Stiles can—even just nonverbally—defend himself.

And it's Derek and Stiles in the kitchen, alone. With Derek and his tank top and his dark hair and big expressive eyebrows and tanned skin and why is Stiles even looking into his eyes like a creep and trying to figure out what color they are?

"So, uh, you all moved in?"

It's the only question he can think of, most of his mind spinning around the fact that the hot neighbor whom Stiles thought was completely unapproachable is now in his kitchen and probably judging Stiles's dress sense. For a good reason, really, not that Stiles is about to admit that out loud.

"Yeah," Derek says, then he smiles and glances towards the window.

Oh my god bunny teeth! Stiles’s mind supplies very unhelpfully when his eyes land on Derek's smiling mouth.

"My sister will probably say that my interior design skills are severely lacking and she'll redo everything," Derek keeps talking, "but the house is livable now, at least."

"Sister?"

Stiles's mind is reeling from the lightness of Derek's tone, such a a contrast to the distant man he seemed to be whenever Stiles saw him heading out for his runs in the mornings.

"I think you might have seen her a few days ago," Derek says, frowning. "You were headed to... school? Work?"

"School, yeah," Stiles says, then his brain catches up. "That was your sister? And I didn't think you noticed me, like, ever."

"Yeah, that was Laura. My older sister, as she likes to point out frequently, though it's only by a few minutes," Derek says, sounding a little grumbly, like siblings tend to be about each other.

Stiles would know, that's been his relationship with Scott even before their parents started dating and made their brotherhood official. There's fondness in Derek's tone though and Stiles remembers the news he saw about the fire at their house and the amount of casualties that there were. If his internal math is right, Laura is the only family Derek has left.

"I did notice you," Derek says. "At the risk of sounding creepy, you have classes—" he pauses and there's the most adorable blush rising in his cheeks and down his chest, "—on Tuesday and Wednesday morning. And you tend to be barely awake that early in the morning. You probably shouldn't be driving like that."

"I've been driving since I was fifteen, I'm good," Stiles says defensively. "And not everyone is up and jogging at an ungodly hour like that. Every day."

Oh shit, Stiles thinks, realizing that Derek only knew about the mornings when Stiles was actually outside and leaving his house at the same time as Derek was heading out for his run. But now he knows that Stiles is aware that the runs are daily. Which he clearly realized, if the way his eyebrow shoots up is any indication.

"Have you been driving that Jeep since you got your license?” Derek asks instead, then he pauses and narrows his eyes. "You're Mrs Stilinski's kid."

Stiles's eyes widen in surprise because he hasn't heard his mom being referred to that way in years. Since before she died, really, because she hadn't been teaching for the last few years.

"You knew her?"

"She was my year's homeroom teacher, when I was in Beacon Hills," Derek says quietly.

"Oh. And yeah, I've been driving Roscoe from the first day I was allowed to," Stiles says, not wanting to dwell too long on the past and memories that probably aren't pleasant for either him or Derek.

"Does it still run on duct tape and prayers?" Derek asks, smirking.

"How do you know about that?"

"From her, actually," Derek tells him. "She used to refuse any help from the guys who were fixing their own cars and offered to look at it. Said getting it fixed properly would ruin the car's integrity."

Stiles smirks to himself and feels a pang in his chest accompanied by fondness.

"That sounds like Mom," he says, quietly.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Derek says then, just as quietly. "She was my favorite teacher."

Stiles nods. There's not much else he can say—it's been years since his mom died and he still gets the occasional comment like Derek's, from people who remember her—and he's a little thrown by the link that Derek has to Stiles's past. But then he can't help it, his curiosity too strong to just let it go.

"It's weird, I didn't realize there was anyone in the area who knew Beacon Hills," he tells Derek. "Just Scott and I. And Rafa," he adds, then explains when Derek's eyebrow lifts in confusion. "Scott's Dad. He owns this place, we're just renting."

"Ah. Not many renters in the area, usually," Derek remarks. "We moved here before I finished high school. Mom's job pulled her out."

Stiles doesn't ask about her. Or about the fire. It's not a "just getting to know you" conversation, despite the fact that they've already touched on Stiles's loss of a parent.

"So, you'll be here for another few years?" Derek asks then.

"Two more, probably, depending on how college goes," Stiles replies. "Scott's in vet school, so he'll stick around."

"You won't?"

"Depends on which academy I get into," Stiles says, then realizes that he needs to elaborate. "Police academy. Following in Dad's footsteps, hopefully. Or at least a similar direction. Might be Quantico, for all I know."

"High hopes," Derek says, smiling. "So, will it be weird to ask you out?"

Stiles's mind screeches to a halt.

"What?"

"Coffee. Maybe dinner, if you'd be up for it," Derek says, like he didn't just completely blow Stiles's mind. "If it's not something you want to do, forget it. And I hope it won't make things awkward."

"Only if you don't really mean it," Stiles says. "You're not like, pulling my leg because you know that I noticed you beyond what's casual and normal."

"Why are you talking about normal?" Scott asks, just walking into the kitchen. "That can't be about you."

Stiles groans in frustration. Like it's not bad enough that his first few impressions were less than stellar, Scott's now driving the stake into an already shaky image. Which Derek obviously didn't hate. Until now.

"Normal is overrated anyway," Derek says and grins. "So, coffee?"

"Oh no, did I walk into something?" Scott asks, looking alarmed and apologetic. "Here's the lightbulb, don't mind me, I'll just go... park the bike or something."

Stiles watches his best friend stumble out of the kitchen and towards the already perfectly parked bike outside—Stiles knows this because he's never seen Scott not be careful with it—leaving Derek and Stiles there, in awkward silence. That doesn't last too long though.

"So, coffee," Stiles says, forgetting to make it a question.

"If you want to," Derek tells him and he looks hesitant and like he's bracing himself for a rejection.

Which makes zero sense at all, because who would refuse an offer like that? Not Stiles.

"That would be great," Stiles says, maybe a little too fast.

He's way past trying to look like a regular and well-adjusted person though. All things considered, it's pretty pointless anyway.

"Tomorrow? Or is that too soon?" Derek asks, his hesitation turning into a hopeful expression.

"I want to say yes. I really do," Stiles tells him, apologetic. "But I have this essay due tomorrow and I'm pretty sure that I'll need an all-nighter to finish it because I got nothing done this afternoon."

Since you were outside, mowing the lawn and being a distraction, Stiles doesn't say.

"Well, good luck with that and... let me know when you're free?"

"I know where you live," Stiles blurts out, then he feels his cheeks heat up. "I mean, in a completely non-stalkery and non-creepy way, because you're right across the street and I see you all the time. Because you're always outside, doing things."

Derek chuckles.

"I'll see you soon," he says. "Maybe in the morning? Around seven?"

Then he walks out of the kitchen while Stiles is still looking at him with an open mouth and wide eyes.

—

They get coffee the next day, when Stiles stumbles to Derek's front door right after he gets home from handing in his essay. He's barely awake, his hair looks like a mess and his clothes are only a step above what he was wearing when they first met properly. But there's the promise of coffee and getting to look into Derek's eyes and well, Stiles's sleep-deprived brain thinks it's the best idea ever.

He hasn't been, he realizes when a particularly loud firework's explosion makes him jump a little and he feels panic rise in his chest. But where normally he would already be flashing his eyes and having trouble holding back his shift, this one's just mild surprise.

What is more surprising is that through all the explosions in the distance, while the fireworks are still lighting up the town below the Preserve, he can clearly hear the familiar rumbling of a baby blue Jeep as it approaches through the woods.

Stiles.

Because Derek's not the only one who returned to Beacon Hills. He's not the only one who came back to his roots and decided to set up camp and settle down. Sure, Scott's still around, as are all the parents, but the rest of what was once a pack is scattered across several countries and continents. Lydia is on the east coast, Jackson and Ethan in London, Isaac found a new home in France and Cora is, to the best of Derek's knowledge, still in South America. Kira's parents took an extended leave and went to Japan, with Kira herself following them once she finished college.

They meet up, but most of their communication is through emails and phone calls, not in person.

Derek likes it that way, somehow. He knows that if he needs anything, there are people only a call away, and he's finally getting to the point where he's not afraid or hesitant to make it.

But then there's Stiles. The mystery, the enigma, the continuous presence in Derek's life, no matter where he is or what either of them are doing. He's there, whether Derek asks or not, like he has a link to Derek that tells him when he's needed.

Like now.

Stiles stumbles out of the Jeep the same way he used to back when he was a teenager and chuckles at himself because he's nowhere near as uncoordinated these days. Then he strides over to where Derek is standing on the new porch and stops right at the foot of the stairs.

"Hey there," he says, smiling.

"Hey. Happy new year," Derek replies quietly, with an answering smile of his own.

"So, why are you here all by your lonesome?" Stiles asks. "You're not reverting back to your lurker wolf ways, are you?"

Derek shakes his head. "It seemed right, to start the new year in the new house."

"Ah yes, you're a homeowner again," Stiles says, glancing around and up at the house behind Derek. "Permission to join you?"

This time, Derek nods and Stiles is up on the porch barely a beat later.

"Nice view," he says, looking up and above the trees.

"You could see the fireworks from here," Derek tells him, but he keeps his eyes on the forest.

"Maybe I'll get to watch them from here next year," Stiles says.

It's a question, but it's also not. It feels like he's leaving it to Derek to decide.

"I'd like that," Derek says, finally looking away from the trees and at Stiles, who's already turned to him.

"So. New year? New start?" Stiles asks.

"New beginnings," Derek says.

It doesn't take much courage or internal debate to reach out and cup his hand around Stiles's cheek. It's been a long time coming, wanting this, trying for them. When he sees Stiles's head move in an almost imperceptible nod, it's the easiest thing in the world to lean in and kiss him.