Chapter Text
PART FIVE
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me
Derek doesn’t really spend too long thinking about it. There’s no point stewing over whatever’s being kept from him, not without more information. Something’s not right, it’s really is as simple as that. It’s not even particularly about John/Stiles.
Derek’s avoided home, avoided his family, for years, over this. He’d always assumed they were blaming him, secretly – rightly, his conscience whispers – for endangering their lives with his stupid teenage infatuation. There had been something in his mother’s face, his father’s voice, something in the way Peter watched him after Kate. And he’d been so angry and humiliated by turns that he’d just-
It had been easier to stay away. And when they’d never tried to drag him back, he’d taken it as a sign. As just punishment for his transgressions.
But now. He feels like he’s on the cusp of an answer. Something is changing. He’d stood there with his hand on the newly closed door and listened to Stiles, the broken-open sound of him saying He blames me, asking to go home, and Derek’s heart had leaped in his chest as if in answer.
I want to go home, Stiles had said, and Derek had thought, Yeah. Me, too.
He’d worked his shift that day, traded his next two shifts for an entire week of nights to that fucking vulture, Kowalski, and now he’s driving down the familiar narrow road to the house. He hasn’t called ahead, something is telling him to take that one slight advantage of seeing his family’s faces when they’re unprepared.
So he parks the SUV in Laura’s spot at the side of the house, because their relationship has always been equal parts loyalty and spite, and he starts for the front door. It opens just as he hits the top step and his mother is there, a tiny frown wrinkling her forehead as she says, “Laura? Is something-”
She stops mid-word and blinks, and Derek watches intently, sees the tiny lift at the corners of her mouth, hears the quick indrawn breath and then she says, “Derek? Honey-”
And he’s laughing, can’t help it, leaps forward and sweeps her into his arms and squeezes so hard she gasps, because he’d seen it, unmistakably. She was happy to see him, she’d lit up like a Christmas tree. Genuinely happy to see Derek, and he hasn’t felt sure of that for a really long fucking time.
“Mom,” he croaks out against her shoulder, “I’ve missed you. So much.” And it’s all he can manage before his throat closes up.
“Oh baby,” she says, and she’s crying too. “We’ve missed you, too.”
* * *
Derek makes his way through the woods without haste. He has a destination in mind, but he’s in no hurry to get there. His mind is still a jumble of confusion, all threaded through with that feeling of welcome, of belonging, of being truly part of the pack. He’d almost forgotten that feeling, and right now it’s over-riding everything else, no matter how important it might actually be in the grand scheme of things.
When he gets close to the Sheriff’s house Derek slows and focuses on his hearing while he’s still concealed inside the treeline. There are a few small sounds inside the house, domestic and familiar, breakfast sounds. He waits, and waits, and finally he hears it, Stiles’ voice greeting his father, the Sheriff’s voice replying.
They’re relaxed and easy with each other, close in a way that Derek automatically envies. The Sheriff’s voice is relaxed and matter-of-fact, but Derek can hear the concern underneath. He edges a little closer so he can get glimpses through the window, wondering what the Sheriff knows, what Stiles has told him.
“...don’t have to go in, you know that.”
“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles says. He’s out of sight, eating cereal at the table, probably, judging by the clink of spoon on bowl. “I’ll come and meet you for lunch, but you don’t need to miss work. My headache’s gone-”
“Really.”
“Mostly gone,” Stiles amends. “I’ll be fine, really.”
“Well I s’pose at least Scott’s not around to follow you into trouble,” the Sheriff says wryly. “Even the two of you can’t manage inter-state mayhem without some prior notice.”
“Hey!” Stiles says, but Derek can hear the smile.
There’s a pause, then. The Sheriff shifts and Derek gets a glimpse of him through the kitchen window. Now that his back is to Stiles he’s letting the worry show clear on his face. “I don’t want you to sit around brooding about things you can’t change, Stiles.”
Silence. Then Stiles sighs. “I won’t, Dad,” he says.
The Sheriff’s back must adequately convey the scepticism Derek can see on his face, because then Stiles says, “I’ll... try. I really will.”
The Sheriff seems to accept that, because he changes the subject, half-turns away from the window and says, “You going to drop in on the pack?”
“I guess,” Stiles says. “Probably not today, though. Might call Peter, later.”
The Sheriff nods. He seems to weigh things up, then says softly, “Maybe you should talk to Talia about this whole-”
“No, Dad,” Stiles replies, voice rising, “I told you, there’s no point.”
“And as I told you,” the Sheriff says pointedly, “you’re not the only person involved, and there are other opinions to take into account. You did a wonderful, generous thing, kid, but that doesn’t mean you know what’s best for everybody.”
There’s no reply, Derek’s pretty sure Stiles is giving a stubborn shrug to that. But Derek gives a slow blink. Was there anybody in Beacon Hills who wasn’t in on this secret?
Stiles sighs and unashamedly changes the subject. “So listen, um. There’s something I’ve been meaning to, uh.”
The Sheriff turns and crosses to what’s probably the coffee pot, judging by the scent now drifting through the window. When the Sheriff shifts, Derek catches a glimpse of Stiles in profile, though he’s watching the floor and scrubbing a hand over the back of his head as he says, “The Lieutenant took me aside the other day and-”
“Everything okay?” the Sheriff says, turning quickly.
“Yeah, uh, really great, actually,” he shoots a quick, slanting glance up at his father and says, “he uh, asked if I’m thinking about taking the exam at the end of the year, soon as I’m eligible.”
“Detective?” the Sheriff says, a grin beginning to spread over the older man’s face. “In minimum time? You’re kidding, ah, son that’s-”
“Yeah, I guess he liked the way I handled myself on the uh-”
“That narcotics bust? He’d damn well better-”
Stiles is rolling his eyes, but trying to contain his smile at the same time. It’s nice to see him happy and proud, for once. His and Derek’s interactions haven’t exactly been the stuff dreams are made of.
Derek watches the Sheriff take his leave of Stiles, the first clear glimpse he’s had of the younger man as he wraps his arms around his father in an unselfconscious hug. A few minutes later the police cruiser backs out of the driveway and Derek waits.
What he’s waiting for, he’s not sure.
Until he gets it.
Stiles moves around slowly in the kitchen, rinsing out dishes and putting away food, probably, cupboard doors opening and closing, water running. There’s the scent of coffee through the partly open window, and then the back door opens and Stiles emerges, mug in hand.
He moves slowly – head hurting more than he admitted to his father, Derek thinks disapprovingly – and sinks down onto the wooden garden bench that’s set against the wall. There’s a bunched up blanket of some description at one end, and Stiles leans forward – again, slowly – deposits his mug on the timber deck, then swings his legs up onto the bench and drags the blanket up over himself.
He doesn’t look terribly comfortable. The bench has no padding, for one thing, so Stiles’ back is resting against bare wood. But Stiles tilts the uninjured side of his head until it rests against the external wall of the house, and lets out a long, slow breath.
For a moment there’s nothing. Then Derek sees the faint tremble in Stiles’ jaw and realizes he’s holding back some huge emotion, frantically trying to press it all down inside. His eyes are wet – he’s not crying, but he could, easily, and then he just closes his eyes and lets one hand fist in the blanket.
Stiles doesn’t say a word. Not a tear falls. If anyone walked in on this scene – even a wolf, Derek realizes suddenly – they’d see an injured man getting some rest.
Whoever Stiles really is? He’s someone who’s learned to hide. And he’s a hell of a lot better at camouflage than Derek, the born wolf.
Derek eyes him thoughtfully, then fades silently back into the woods, and heads for home.
The run home clears his head so that Derek has enough sense to eat some breakfast, and drive to the Stilinski house like a normal person. He tucks his offering under one arm and knocks, listens to the sounds of Stiles pacing slowly toward the door.
Stiles drags the door open and his blank face freezes. He blinks in surprise at Derek, then blinks some more.
“Hi,” Derek says. Belatedly he remembers that Stiles has no idea Derek drove home yesterday, because Stiles has been minding his own business and not lurking around Derek’s family home.
Well, not this time, a snarky voice in the back of Derek’s head murmurs.
“Derek,” he says blankly. “At my- front door.” There’s an odd inflection in his voice.
“Hi,” Derek says again. There’s a pause, then he just keeps going, because Stiles is clearly going to need a little time to process... whatever it is that’s freaking him out. “I brought you something.”
“You... brought me something.” It comes out slowly, like Stiles isn’t sure he’s hearing things right.
“Yes,” Derek says, and takes a step forward. Stiles falls back automatically to let him in, and just as automatically, closes the door behind Derek and leads the way into the living room.
“I didn’t know you were...”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Felt homesick.” He shrugs, “Came home.”
Stiles nods, still more than a little stunned, Derek thinks. He looks shocky, actually, looks about as bad as he had an hour ago, on the back porch.
“I’m uh. Sure your family was happy to see you.”
Derek can feel the smile spread over his face unbidden. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out a lot deeper and with more emotion behind it than he’d meant it to. “They really were.”
Stiles blinks at him, seeming to emerge from the fog, and so Derek deflects. “Can we uh, go out back?”
“Out back?” Stiles repeats. “The backyard, you mean?”
Derek nods.
“Sure,” Stiles says doubtfully, but leads the way, out through the kitchen Derek had caught glimpses of this morning, because he’s a freaking lurker lately. Ever since he met Stiles... huh. He’s going to have to watch that before it becomes a habit.
Derek takes a long look around the backyard. It’s not exactly new to him, but he hasn’t seen it from this angle before, so... “Perfect,” he says, and makes for one huge tree that dominates the grassy area.
He lays his package down on the grass and unrolls it, winds the rope around the tree and secures the knot with a few quick tugs. It’s nice not to have to hide his strength, he thinks absently. Then he strides back to the other end and wraps the other rope around the thick post of the back porch. He steps back, checks it for height, and gives a satisfied nod.
“You brought me a hammock,” Stiles says haltingly.
Derek nods again. “It’s mine,” he says, then thinks, duh. “I mean, I left it here when I went away to college. I haven’t used it in years.” That’s what comes from only visiting for Christmas and Thanksgiving, he thinks guiltily. Even a ‘wolf doesn’t relish lying around outside in the middle of winter.
“Okay, but, why did you bring me a hammock?”
“They’re good for relaxing,” Derek says, as if to a particularly slow child. “You still need to be resting. And... being outside is good for you,” he adds, uncomfortable. “Fresh air and all that.”
Stiles is staring at him with a really odd look – well, it would be odd if Derek wasn’t starting to figure out what was behind that look.
“I recommend a pillow, and a book,” Derek says. “But make sure get them before you get comfortable.”
There’s a small smile playing around Stiles’ mouth. “Okay,” he says. “I, uh. I will. Do that.”
“Because these are a real bitch to get in and out of,” Derek adds. “Until you’ve had some practise.”
Stiles’ mouth twitches. “So you think I can be trusted to try it, though? I’m not the most graceful customer, I could hit my head ag-” he stops abruptly as they both remember the same thing at the same time.
Derek can feel his face go flat and blank. He looks away.
“Hey,” Stiles says. “Hey.”
Derek shakes his head. He hasn’t confessed that part of things to his mother yet. Though Peter might have already told her.
Stiles gives a tiny sigh, then says, “So. Maybe I should have a medical professional supervise my first foray into this hammock. Whaddya think?”
Derek turns back to face Stiles, who is watching him with a faint smile, no trace of fear or blame anywhere. Stiles forgives so easily, and it gives Derek a little burst of shame to think how quickly he’d held a grudge against his family for small slights committed years ago. How long he’d held on to his self-righteous anger. Derek hadn’t ever realized that about himself, and it’s not a character flaw he admires.
“Can’t hurt,” he says slowly, and thinks again, he forgives so easily. It makes Derek fear what else the man would forgive.
“Let me get my book,” Stiles says, and disappears into the house. Derek tracks his footsteps up the stairs and into his bedroom. “You should pour yourself some coffee,” Stiles says in a slightly louder than conversational voice, like he knows Derek would be tracking his progress through the house.
Derek blinks. It’s not something he’s ever had before, a ...friend who knew he was a ‘wolf. Everyone who knows his true nature is part of his pack, has known him his whole life. There’s an intoxicating kind of bubble of excitement in his chest at the thought of getting to know someone new, while already knowing he can trust them with his biggest secret.
Derek takes a deep breath, goes inside and pours himself a coffee. There’s enough in the pot, so he opens a cupboard or two, finds a travel mug and pours the rest inside for Stiles. There’s no point being in a hammock without swinging, in Derek’s opinion, but there’s less chance of spillage with a lid. Then he ducks out to the car and retrieves his iPad, and a book.
Stiles reappears with a book in one hand, and a pillow tucked under his other arm. Five minutes later he’s tucked into the hammock, head on the pillow, legs covered by the blanket from this morning. It’s just an old tartan thing, worn and threadbare, but from the way Stiles’ fingers run over it, Derek thinks it has some value, maybe connected to Stiles’ absent mother.
Derek sits on the steps, an arms’ length from the hammock, sips his coffee and listens to the steady beat of Stiles’ heart while he thinks about the things he knows, the things he has mistakenly believed, for years.
Stiles naps and reads, and Derek alternates between online journal articles on his iPad and working his way through The End of Poverty. Stiles’ own book is called Cod: A History of the Fish that Changed the World. Derek’s lips twitch every time he sees the cover, but Stiles swears it’s a page-turner.
They eat a quiet lunch together – an array of deli sandwiches the Sheriff brings home, having apparently heard from Talia that Derek was visiting. Stiles harasses his father about the mayonnaise on his sandwich, which has the rhythm of an age-old argument, and Derek watches with a small smile, barely listening to the not on my watch speech Stiles is currently laying down.
Over that first lunch Derek learns that Stiles is addicted to coffee and isn’t sure he actually wants the promotion to detective.
“I kind of like the look of the K-9, unit, to be honest,” he says, shrugging. There’s mustard at the corner of his mouth, and Derek is trying not to stare or think... thoughts in front of Stiles’ father. “And... I think it might not be all that great to be the youngest detective in the precinct.” His father gives a philosophical kind of head-tilt on that one.
Stiles swallows his food and adds, “I could specialise with the dogs for a while and try for detective later, I guess. It’s not like the chance is going to go away, and more experience can’t hurt.”
“I think the K-9 thing would suit you,” Derek offers, for what it’s worth.
Stiles glances up and offers a singularly sweet smile.
“I agree,” the Sheriff says. “It’s not all sunshine and roses, but I can’t say I wouldn’t mind knowing you’re searching for missing persons rather than leveraging drug dealers against their suppliers or breaking up organized crime rings.” Then he mutters, almost under his breath, “You’ve seen enough dark stuff for a lifetime, kid.”
Stiles freezes for a second, then says, “Uh. Yeah. The mean streets of Seattle.”
He and his father exchange a glance full of hidden meaning. And then the Sheriff shakes his head and pushes back from the table. “Well, it’s back to the mean streets of Beacon Hills for me.”
Derek says his own farewells and heads home for another long talk with his parents.
* * *
He comes back the next day.
This time Derek brings last night’s leftovers - meatloaf and mashed potatoes - from home and lets the covered plates heat up slowly in the oven while they talk. He’s dragged a chair outside today, so that he can see Stiles’ face and hands while they talk. The other man is so animated it’s like missing half the conversation if you face the wrong way.
Silence falls at the end of a summary of Sharktopus, a movie Derek is very, very committed to never watching, even as Stiles swears it’s so bad, it’s awesome.
“I really am sorry, you know,” Derek finally says. He hadn’t known he was going to do this until the words were already out.
“What for?” Stiles says, focusing bright eyes on Derek’s face. He raises his brows and gives Stiles an are you kidding me kind of look.
“This?” he gestures to his head. “Man, you gotta let that go. It was an accident.”
“Hitting your head was an accident,” Derek agrees. “And I never meant for that to happen. But Stiles, the shove was on purpose. And I shouldn’t have done it – not ever – but especially not when you were already hurt.”
“Dude-” Stiles spreads his hands.
“Don’t minimize this,” Derek snaps. “Just- don’t.”
They stare at one another in silence.
“I’m not just saying this because I’m stronger than you,” Derek says finally. “Do you get that? Pushing someone around in an argument like that – it’s not healthy. It’s not smart. It only leads to escalation. And it’s a thousand times worse because I have enough strength to really hurt you in a burst of temper.” He’s going to stop there, but in the interests of full disclosure he adds, “And I’m a thousand times more pissed off than usual because you keep playing it off like it’s nothing, like you’re used to being manhandled-”
Stiles jolts and his eyes fly to Derek’s.
Derek stares at him, openmouthed.
After a long pause, Derek says carefully, “You said. At the hospital. You said you knew you were safe with ...him. That he would never put you in harm’s way. And I’ve been feeling totally shitty because I couldn’t even spend a few hours with you without splitting your fucking head open. But Stiles- if he was... pushing you around? That’s-”
“Stop,” Stiles says abruptly. “Just. stop.”
Derek does. He waits, and lets Stiles gather his thoughts.
“I get what you’re saying,” he says slowly. He’s running a thumb along the fabric of his jeans as he speaks, eyes focused on it. “And... I agree. I’ve seen a lot of shit on the job, and you’re right. The small shit escalates, even when no-one particularly means it to.”
He takes a long, shaky breath. “My- my ‘wolf,” he says and swallows hard. “When we first met, we. Didn’t hit it off, you could say. He thought I was an annoying little shit,” and a ghost of a smile touches Stiles’ face, “and there was some... yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his head, avoiding the wound on automatic.
“Manhandling, I guess you’d call it. I specialised in antagonizing him, and he didn’t handle it well, especially because most of the time we were in real, actual danger. So I guess... my compass on this stuff is a little messed up? Because compared to-” And then he stops, clearly regathers, and Derek very, very badly wants to know what Stiles was going to say there.
“But when we got together. Once we were... us. No, he didn’t. Never. Never,” Stiles says, “even though we still argued and stuff, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. It would have hurt him more than he could ever hurt me, because-”and his heart is beating harder now, faint scent of sadness stirring. He draws in a long, slow breath, and he is clearly not going to finish that sentence, not if Derek waits all day.
“But I appreciate your concern,” Stiles finally says, formally.
Derek lets that settle, turns it over in his head. He can fill in some of those blanks, and while some of it makes him feel better, the main point stands. Derek lost control, when Stiles’ other wolf never did.
Maybe the simple fact is, no-one has really tested Derek’s temper until now, not in a personal setting. He’s avoided long-term relationships because it seemed simpler, because he had a secret he had no intention of sharing, and he hadn’t spent enough time around his family to ever get into a truly heated argument...
Derek’s going to spend a lot of nights tossing and turning over this, and he’s never going to forgive himself for what he did in Stiles’ apartment that night. But for now, this is about Stiles. And Derek can simplify a lot of things for the younger man with some simple honesty.
“You don’t have to worry so much about your secret, you know,” Derek finally says into the silence.
Stiles freezes, then turns his head just enough to reveal one huge, wary eye over the edge of the hammock.
“My mother.” Derek swallows. “She told me. Days ago, actually. About the Fae Queen, and what you did. About your old pack.” About me, he thinks, but he’s not ready for that stuff. Not yet.
Stiles stares unblinking. Then, “What?” he says, hoarse. Long fingers curl around the hammock’s strings, gripping tight.
“I asked her what was going on, and she told me. Said keeping the secret was hurting the pack. She said you’d travelled back in time to save all our lives, to protect us from-” he can’t help the way his voice falters, “-from Kate.”
“But. But she promised me,” Stiles stammers. “She swore-”
“She didn’t share her memories, or, the ones she took from you, I guess?” Derek clarifies. “She just... told me. What you did, all those years ago.” He slows, and adds, “Though, it wasn’t years ago for you, I guess.” This is really fucking confusing, Derek thinks, not for the first time.
Stiles lets out a strangled laugh. “Fine print,” he mutters. “It’s always the fuckin’ fine print.”
Derek shrugs. He doesn’t really know what Stiles means. The younger man’s heart starts to beat out of control, like the sound of that night from months ago when he’d seen Stiles crouched on the apartment floor, and he reaches out instinctively to wrap his hand around the other man’s forearm, trying to draw out the panic like he would draw out pain.
“But you-” Stiles is babbling now, “you’ve been- you’ve been coming here, you brought the hammock, and, and the meatloaf, and-”
“I’m still trying to figure it all out,” Derek says. “How I feel about it. What it... means, for me. For the pack. I’m kind of re-writing my personal history,” he says, and then a small grin sneaks up on him. “I guess you’d know all about that.”
Stiles is gaping at him, but his heart is slowing.
“But when I woke up yesterday I knew one thing for sure, out of all the other confusing shit. That you had saved my pack, my family, from something... something so horrible I can barely imagine it.”
He stares over at Stiles and knows the other man doesn’t want to hear thanks. Not now.
So Derek shrugs. “And the rest of it I can take the time to figure out. Later. And,” he takes a breath, “I hope there is a later, Stiles. Because I-” he falters. “I’d like to get to know you. The real you, or- all of you, I guess?”
“How can you be-”
He’s clearly barely hearing anything Derek is saying.
“Mom said you were worried I’d spiral into depression, or something, if I ever found out.” Dumbass, Derek thinks with some affection.
“You- you just, you’re just sitting there-”
“I’m not him,” Derek says simply. Stiles blinks, and his head jerks back a little.
Derek looks down at his hand where it’s been resting on Stiles’ forearm. He waits, giving Stiles the chance to pull away. But the younger man is still, the way he is so rarely, and Derek’s darkly tanned hand remains where it is, splayed out over the milk-pale, tender length of Stiles’ inner forearm.
He breathes in and out once, careful, then begins to slide his hand slowly along the soft skin as he speaks. Keeps his gaze locked on that pale, smooth expanse, tracking the faint pulse of blood beneath. “I’m not him,” he says again, more gently this time.
“Y-yeah,” Stiles says faintly.
“It’ll probably take some time for you to really get that, though,” Derek says. He’s been trying to imagine what it’s like for Stiles, to look at a face that’s so familiar and see- a stranger. “But- yeah, it’s important you understand that- I’m not him. I’ll never have his baggage, or his issues.” I have other issues, he thinks dryly, boy do I have other issues.
Stiles nods dumbly.
“But,” Derek risks a quick glance up, “I’d like us to be friends. If we can. Or- if you can, I guess. I know it’s not quite as simple as that, for you.”
Stiles is staring down at their hands, like there’ll be an answer there. Just as Derek’s palm reaches Stiles’ wrist he moves, shifting enough to grip hard, long fingers wrapping around Derek’s hand.
“I’d like that,” he says hoarsely. Then shakes his head. “My life,” he mutters, half to himself, and runs his free hand over his face. Derek lets the silence sit, watches and waits.
Finally, Stiles drops his hand. “I guess... this time around - it’s my turn to be the fucked-up one,” he says, with a slanting half-smile.
Derek smiles back. He doesn’t really get what Stiles means – which is half the problem, of course – but Peter had told him a little last night, enough to know that Stiles had been living in some kind of constant nightmare in his first timeline, that he likely has PTSD from the constant battles and threats. There’d been a kanima, which Derek had never even heard of until last night. And an alpha pack, apparently - Jesus. And that’s without counting the time-travel mind-fuck, and the still-healing broken heart.
But Derek can be patient. He can listen. If his job has taught him anything, it’s that.
Ironically, it’s probably one skill he has in this timeline that he apparently didn’t in the other. And he can try, at least, to understand some of the weight Stiles is carrying – a burden the younger man had earned in the defense of Derek’s pack, fixing Derek’s mistakes.
“And after a while. Once we get to know each other,” Derek adds, because Stiles is pack, and that means total honesty, and there’s no way he can hide how strongly he’s attracted to this smart-mouthed, amber-eyed man. “Maybe... maybe then.”
Stiles’ hand spasms on his at that.
“Yeah,” Stiles says after a moment, eyes locked on Derek’s face. There’s a slow, incredulous grin spreading over his face. “I guess we-” Then he snickers helplessly, and his hand tightens around Derek’s. “I guess we have... time.”
Derek groans and rolls his eyes. But then he smiles, unable to help himself. “Yeah,” he says. “There’s time.”
And Stiles smiles at him, soft and somehow shy, fingers tightening around Derek’s as he relaxes into the hammock and the inevitable aftermath of panic – exhaustion – hits. It’s only another minute before he begins to drift off into sleep.
Derek sits, and he waits, and he sifts through all the confusion he’s suddenly carrying, matching up a life he never lived and mistakes he nearly made. His mother had been light on detail as far as the other Derek’s relationship with Stiles, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess how Stiles had learned such familiarity with Derek’s body, why he’d sighed for Der in his sleep.
He lets his eyes roam over the face that’s familiar both from memory and from the events of the past week. The pale skin and amber eyes are ordinary, and yet they conceal a whip-quick mind and a heart large enough to save Derek’s world entire.
I could love him, he lets himself think for the first time. Stiles’ courage and his pain both call to the healer at Derek’s core. And the humour, the loyalty he’s already seen – he swallows hard, heart thudding at the thought that if he’s careful, if he’s lucky... He could have those to colour his days and fill his nights.
I could love him. If I was brave enough to risk it.
Stiles frowns a little in sleep and turns his head.
He’s suffered so much, taken such a huge leap – all for a man who no longer exists. And yet. Parts of Derek must be the same, surely? It would be a huge leap of faith for Derek to risk opening himself to someone who might never fall out of love with... Derek. He gives a little shake of his head at the insanity of it all.
He takes in one long breath, the uniqueness of Stiles filling up his senses, and the answer is all right there, in the familiarity and the newness.
I could love him, Derek thinks with certainty, and in that instant something brushes against his mind, the faintest scent, a sound at the very edge of his hearing.
A vibration running over his skin, a shift in the air- something Other.
It speaks, and as he looks up, over Stiles’ sleeping form to the treeline at the edge of Beacon Hills Preserve, Derek could swear he hears-
The debt has been repaid.
in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)
in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes
in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me
ee cummings