crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous

It takes a full year. Sourcing parts on the internet. Staying late most nights to tinker with it. Driving half way across state because someone, somewhere has the exact model of carburetor that Derek needs. Spending more money than he’ll ever be comfortable admitting getting things exactly right. It’s just as big a job as he knew it would be when the Sheriff first handed him the keys to the damn thing. 

But it isn’t a hardship. 

It’s a love letter. The only one Derek’s ever written, and one Stiles will likely never read. That’s okay, though. It’s better like this. Nothing good happens to the people Derek cares about. Let Stiles stay away from Beacon Hills. Pursuing the career that he’s always wanted with the woman of his dreams at his side. Happy. Safe. Derek wants that for him — owes him that much.

Derek has this little piece of him, and that’s enough. 

Romance isn’t Derek’s thing. He doesn’t waste time imagining hypotheticals. Pining for a house with a white picket fence and two kids, or whatever bullshit thing normal people want, just isn’t his style. Kate burned that kind of thinking out of him years ago — and the little kernel that remained was sacrificed on the altar of Jennifer’s schemes. By the time he met Braedon he was a pragmatist — it suited both of them. It still suits him now.

Derek loves Stiles. He can acknowledge it. Loves him marrow-deep, right to his core. It’s as natural and easy as breathing. As compelling as the prickle of the full moon under his skin. It’s part of him. It’s been part of him for a long time. Only difference is, now he knows it. Accepts it. Even indulges it in small ways that make him happy.

There’s the Jeep obviously. But then there’s the fact that every week he texts Stiles on a Friday after work to check in and make sure he’s okay. The first time he even tried they hadn’t spoken in well over a year. And Derek, desperate to forge some kind of connection, but not wanting to appear obvious, had battled with himself for three hours before texting: Hey how are you?

Once he sent it he’d berated himself for being an idiot - and prayed to any gods that might be listening that Stiles would lose his phone, or break it, or delete the text unread, or something. It hadn’t happened that way though. Half an hour after Derek sent it, Stiles had finally read it and then phoned him in a panic convinced that someone must have died. 

“No one’s died, Stiles. Jesus.”

“Well what does it mean then? Is it code? Wait, are you in trouble? Have hunters captured you? Cough twice if you’ve been captured—”

“Look, forget it.” Five seconds talking to Stiles and Derek already wants to hang up on him. There’s no way any kind of relationship could ever work between them. Not ever.

“What—”

“I said forget it.”

“But. So—” Stiles pauses, and Derek hates that he knows the exact expression Stiles has on his face, even though he can’t see him. He hates it and he loves it, but he’d give anything to get off this call right now. 

“So you were actually asking how I was?” 

The tone of unflattering disbelief almost makes Derek smile. Almost. Instead he coughs twice, loudly and exaggeratedly. “Oh my god! I knew it!” He can hear Stiles scrambling to his feet. “Fucking hunters. I’ll—”

That’s when Derek starts to laugh. It’s just a gentle huff — he’s never been one for belly laughs, but Stiles picks up on it immediately.

“Oh fuck you, dude.” The relief evident in Stiles’ voice makes something warm and tender unfurl in Derek’s chest. Stiles still cares.

It’s enough.

“You’re an idiot.” Is what Derek says out loud.

“Me? I’m the idiot? Let’s just take a moment to review some of your decisions shall we? Derek Hale’s greatest hits.” And just like that the last vestiges of awkwardness fade; they bicker for half an hour.

Next week around the same time he texts Stiles again:

Captured by a rabid wendigo. Please send help.

You’re not funny, Stiles texts back. What if one day you’re really in trouble. Remember the kid who cried wolf?

Actually yes. I knew him personally. He was a friend of my mothers.

That nets Derek another phone call. Stiles brash and irritable, opening with, “I can’t tell if you’re joking. Are you joking?”

Anyway, they text each other regularly. Phone each other at least once a month. Derek quietly works on the Jeep. And honestly? It’s good. Derek’s happy. He thinks he’s happy. As happy as he has any right to be. Life is pretty much perfect.