Chapter Text
The morning sunlight streaming through the big windows wakes Derek up. He knows it’s early because there are no other sounds coming from the rest of the house. Houses full of sleeping people have sort of an absence of movement to them. Almost like the house itself is in hibernation mode.
For a brief moment, he thinks about throwing his sh*t in the rental and getting the hell back to New York. Just leaving a note and walking away. But it’s only a brief thought that’s immediately squashed. He couldn’t do that to Stiles. A goodbye is the least he can do. If that’s what he’s going to do.
Climbing out of bed, Derek pulls on a pair of sweats and a shirt but leaves his feet bare. He pads silently down the stairs, starting all three coffee pots like he’d watched Cora do yesterday before going down to the basem*nt pantry. Even when it had just been the eight of them living here, they’d had to use the basem*nt for a pantry. Eight people eat a lot of food. Now something like twelve people live here full-time. It’s like cooking for a football team and Derek isn’t positive he’s up for the challenge. He barely cooks for himself back home.
Once he hauls up a 10 pound bag of potatoes, he remembers the schedule Cora had shown him yesterday. He goes over to a shelf and pulls down the binder marked “breakfast.” There’s a calendar of the entire week, listing who’s head chef for the meal, who the prep/line cook is, and who is on clean up. Cora told him their mom had come up with the system once there were so many teenagers underfoot. And Stiles and Lydia had taken it from being a handwritten calendar pinned to the wall to a complicated Excel spreadsheet with binders and color coding.
On the schedule for this morning, it’s Boyd and Isaac for cooking and prep with Erica and Jordan on clean-up duty. They’re scheduled to have scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and spiced breakfast potatoes. The recipes and instructions for each menu item are in laminated sheet protectors in the binder. There’s even a list of small tasks that Sammy, Sarah, and even Emma can be asked to do so they feel like they’ve contributed.
Heading back to the basem*nt, Derek trudges up with three flats of eggs, six pounds of bacon, two mason jars of premixed dry pancake batter, and a basket of fruits and veggies.
“Potatoes first,” Boyd says from where he’s pouring his coffee as Derek makes his last trip up from the pantry. “Isaac should be down in a minute but it’ll go faster with the three of us if you want to stay and help.”
Derek nods and starts scrubbing the potatoes clean.
They work well together, the three of them. Boyd is quiet and purposeful. Isaac isn’t as shy as he pretends to be, occasionally dropping a witty remark or snappy burn. Derek could see himself being friends with both men. They scrub and chop the potatoes, soak them in water to get the starch off, toss them in oil and seasoning, and then Boyd lays them flat on two trays and slides them into one of the ovens. They have two, thankfully, or they’d never get to all eat at the same time. Next, the bacon gets laid out on baking sheets to go into the second oven.
One stove has a traditional stove top, the other has a large professional-style griddle. Derek commandeers that area to mix up the pancake batter. On the outside of the jars is a label that says “In a separate bowl, add 2 ½ cups of milk, six tablespoons of melted butter, and two eggs to the dry mix. Pour about ¼ of a cup of batter on hot griddle, flip when it’s covered in bubbles.” Isaac hands him two cups of chocolate chips for half of the batter and two cups of blueberries for the other half.
“So this schedule thing is pretty impressive,” Derek says as he waits to flip the first set of pancakes.
“It is. When they first all got bitten, everyone lived at their houses on the weekdays but here in the pack house from Friday to Sunday. Bonding, learning new skills, learning control,” Boyd tells him as he’s cracking eggs into a bowl for scrambling. “Isaac and I weren’t pack or even involved yet, but Laura told me that your mom had to make a schedule because punishing people with dishes meant they ran out of dishes to wash.”
Isaac snorts, “I bet - with that group? Scott was probably the only one not in trouble. Unless Stiles had talked him into it.”
Thinking about that group - Jackson, Cora, Stiles, Erica and then Laura when she was home from college - yeah, that’s a lot of aggro there. “That explains you two, then. Mates usually level each other out,” Derek points between them.
“Don’t you mean ‘us three?’” Boyd cracks another egg in the bowl and Derek starts flipping his pancakes to avoid answering. “You’re pretty quiet and level-headed - whereas Stiles is a . . . let’s say wildcard .”
Derek snorts as he turns to flip over the first set of pancakes. It sure seems that way but what do they have in common? He doesn’t know anything about Stiles, honestly.
While Derek starts pouring the second set of pancakes out, Isaac dumps washed fruit out onto a cutting board and starts chopping. “The schedule was a good way for us to bond with other people in the pack too. Like Jordan and Erica being on clean-up today instead of Jordan and Laura or me and Cora. If I hadn’t been assigned so often with your dad, I probably would never have gotten interested in baking and never opened the candy shop. I made my first set of chocolates with your dad.”
“Huh, that’s pretty smart actually.” Especially since most of them didn’t grow up together or even spend full-time here until later in their teen years. He feels a twinge at having missed out.
A few minutes later, the pack starts to trickle down the stairs in various states of dress. All three kids are still in their pajamas and head straight for the den to watch cartoons. Laura waddles slowly down the stairs in a pair of loose sleep pants and a cardigan over a tank top and follows them to the couch. Jackson comes down looking like he’s going to a photoshoot with GQ which is annoying. Cora practically floats down, pulling Isaac in for a sloppy, and probably unsanitary - “this is a kitchen, Cora!” - kiss.
Jordan comes downstairs looking like he’s freshly showered and is fully dressed. Erica follows but is the opposite. She looks like she slept in a train car and heads to the fridge to pull out the orange juice, glaring longingly and murderously at the coffee pots with their sweet forbidden caffeine. Derek does not laugh at her plight. Because he values his life.
Together, Scott and Stiles literally thunder down the stairs like two over-excited puppies who don’t care if they trip and fall as long as they get to be right in each other’s pockets. Stiles actually does stumble on the last few stairs but Scott catches him without even pausing in his monologue about some video game. It seems like a practiced move that is so subconscious that neither of them is even aware. Derek finds himself watching them fondly. He shakes it off and looks away before anyone catches him though.
Like every meal in this house, it’s rowdy. They eat buffet style with the sideboard filled with trays filled with food. If they had to pass trays around, he’s pretty sure the last person in line would starve the way this pack eats. Seating is more relaxed than it would be at a formal meal, so Derek ends up between Stiles and Boyd with Laura across from them.
”What’s the plan for today?” he asks once most everyone has settled down in their chairs.
“You and I are going to wander around and do whatever we want while everyone else runs errands for Cora,” Stiles tells him. Yesterday he might have grinned while he said it but today he seems more reserved. Derek hates it. Hates that it’s probably his fault even more.
“Sounds good,” he says anyway, spearing a forkful of eggs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Boyd looking around his plate and on the floor. “Lose something?”
“My fork,” Boyd says, sounding confused. “It was right—oh, here it is. Weird.”
“I was thinking we could just kind of drive around, see how much is different,” Stiles says, bringing Derek's attention back. “Have lunch at the diner. I need curly fries.”
Nodding, Derek gets distracted when Isaac lifts up his plate looking confused.
When he meets Derek’s eyes, he shrugs. “My fork must be visiting Boyd’s.”
He finds it less than thirty seconds later.
It keeps happening. Both twins lose their forks, then Boyd again.
When Laura’s fork goes missing, she brandishes her spoon at Stiles, “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but I know it’s you, Stilinski. Give me my fork back.”
A fork the size of a small trowel appears next to Laura’s plate. She growls, but when she goes to grab it and probably threaten Stiles with it, it’s just a regular fork again. “How?” she demands.
The mischievous grin on Stiles’ face makes him look elven with his cute nose and his bright eyes. “I’m working on glamours. Turning things invisible, changing their appearance. I wonder if I could make your car invisible. Or make the cars in the driveway all look like black Camaros. Ohhh or turn the twins into quadruplets!”
Everyone at the table groans. Including Derek. He can’t decide if the warmth in his belly is from annoyance or happiness that he knows Stiles well enough already to know that’s not an empty threat.
“Let’s cross here, just don’t tell my dad.”
Derek quirks an eyebrow at that.
Huffing out a laugh, Stiles clarifies, “We’re jaywalking - it’s illegal.”
Turning his head first right, then left, Derek scans the relatively empty road before quirking his eyebrow again.
Laughing, Stiles says, “Listen, man, I can’t exactly insist that he follow his diet plan if I’m not following the letter of the law.”
“Your dad gave me so many speeding tickets.” Derek shakes his head, then something occurs to him. “Hey, did he . . . know? About—?”
They’re walking through the center of town, library on one side, official county building on the other. Derek doesn’t remember what it is, planning office or town hall or something. He’s not really looking at the buildings anyway, he can feel the motion of Stiles walking but they’re, of course, not touching. The urge to take Stiles’ hand is so strong that Derek has to clench his fist on that side.
“Yeah. Your mom told him everything while I was recovering. She kind of had to.” He stuffs his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, the motion pulling his graphic T-shirt tight across his chest and stomach. Both of which Derek knows are toned with strong muscles and a scattering of kissable moles. He’s suddenly so glad that Stiles can’t scent like a werewolf.
“He was checking up on me?”
Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, he was trying to keep you safe. In his own way. Like me, watching his diet.”
They round the corner to a street that had been lined with shops when Derek was younger. It still is and most of the parking spots are taken up by shoppers even on a Friday morning. Unlike the last block which was kind of deserted, this one is bustling with movement.
“Must have been weird for him,” Derek muses, tilting his face up to the sun for a few seconds, “Pulling over a seventeen-year-old driving like something was chasing him that he knew was supposed to be responsible for his eleven-year-old.”
It takes Derek a few feet before he realizes that Stiles has stopped walking, “Responsible for? What were you - my babysitter?” He’s clearly annoyed but not angry. “No, Der, you were a child. I was a child. Neither of us was meant to be the other’s keeper. We were meant to be partners.” He yanks his hands out of his pockets and flails them about, muttering, “Well, maybe.”
Derek keeps his mouth shut, waiting for Stiles to move again.
Stiles huffs and starts walking. “Soulmate bonds are a type of magic. It innately knows which souls need to be connected. Maybe that was it,” his voice is strained and he’s looking steadily ahead as he walks up the block, arms crossed protectively across his chest, “Maybe that one moment in time was all you needed me for. Maybe . . . maybe we’re not meant to . . .“ His voice trails off and they walk in silence for a few feet.
Derek can feel his pain. Like an ache, deep in his chest. It’s his, too, though. “It doesn’t feel like that,” he admits, though he’s still trying not to promise anything he’s not ready to give.
Stiles turns to look at him, waiting for clarification.
“Like, that’s all it was for.” Tip of the iceberg. He should say that it feels like the bond is desperately trying to pull Stiles in and never let him go. To hold on for forever. But he doesn’t. “Like that’s all it needed you for. It doesn’t feel like that.”
The determination in Stiles' scent that Derek hadn’t even realized was building, falters and sadness seeps through the cracks of it but Stiles smiles, ducking his head before he nods, turning toward the little shop behind him. “This is Isaac’s shop.”
It’s confusing, the way that Stiles’ scent makes sudden right turns. Derek can’t figure out when he’s saying something wrong. Or even if what he’s said is wrong. So he turns his attention to the shop. “Sweet Solstice” is what the sign says. On the door is a sign telling everyone that Isaac and Cora are getting married and the store is closed until the end of next week. On the ground inside the shop is a pile of envelopes that are clearly congratulatory-type cards that were dropped through the mail slot.
In New York, someone would have smashed this door and robbed the place. Here, a child has drawn a picture of a stick figure with too long legs and a mop of curly yellow hair handing a stick figure in a wedding dress a huge diamond ring. It’s taped to the door under the sign.
Once they’ve walked past the new bookstore and the florist, visited with Mr. Cooper and Mr. Riley who’ve been playing chess in front of the coffee shop for as long as Derek can remember, they wind up at the diner for lunch.
Just like on the street, everyone seems to know Stiles. Their waitress gives his shoulder a squeeze as she goes off to get them coffee. Derek bites back the involuntary growl but Stiles lifts his eyebrow knowingly.
Clearing his throat, Derek asks, “So, do you work?” Ugh, small talk. He hates it.
“Oh. Um . . . I’m a consultant. And a trainer - teacher, sort of,” Stiles hedges, but it’s more like he’s trying to be humble than avoiding the question.
“And what does that entail?” Derek prods.
“Packs without an emissary pay me to consult for them. Packs with new magic users pay me to train them.”
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll use their powers against you?” Derek’s sure that his mom was always helpful to other Alphas but it still seems like a risk.
For a moment, Stiles plays with the cuff of his plaid overshirt, then, “Not really. I’m pretty powerful,” this feels like he might be understating it, “but more importantly, magic used like that has a price. It eats away at a person’s soul. I’d rather help them and understand who they are than be taken by surprise by a darach sacrificing virgins or something.”
“I’m not even gonna ask,” the waitress states, setting down a coffee cup for Stiles, who grins at her, and an iced tea for Derek before taking their orders.
“Thanks, Heather,” Stiles says as she walks away but his eyes don’t leave Derek. “Want to play twenty questions?”
There’s an internal debate while Derek quickly weighs having to answer twenty questions against Stiles answering twenty, “Sure.”
“Favorite color?”
Derek laughs because it’s so basic and Stiles is grinning, “Green. Yours?”
“I’m the boy who runs with wolves Derek, red obviously.” He rolls his eyes dramatically before sipping his coffee.
The boy who runs with wolves. Feels like a legend in the making. Except that the man across from him tripped over the threshold walking in and just spilled coffee on his shirt. Derek hides a smile behind his tea.
“Hmmm, let’s see.” He taps a finger against his chin. “If you could have any career, what would it be?”
“You mean if I wasn’t a Spark?” When Derek nods, Stiles says quickly, “Profiler for the FBI.” Huh. “What about you, if you weren’t an architect, what would you be?”
“I’d probably have majored in art history. They overlap in places and it was one of my favorite electives.” The image of Stiles spending all afternoon looking at buildings or art with him makes him feel warm again. “Maybe work at a museum.”
Nodding, Stiles says, “My turn, what’s your favorite thing about New York?”
“That’s an easy one–”
“And you can’t say the buildings,” Stiles cuts him off, giving him the stink eye.
“I like that they deliver anything, anytime,” Derek shoots back, giving him a challenging look. “Why don’t you make your bed when you get out of it?” Because he hasn’t meant to but he’s been thinking about Stiles all warm from sleep, buried in that nest of blankets and pillows he’d seen on his bed for the few seconds Derek had stood in the doorway of his room.
Stiles barks out a laugh. “I’m not an anal retentive recluse and I don’t have time for hospital corners on my bed sheets. I’ve got places to go, magical things to do.” Sticking out his tongue for a brief moment, he fires back with, “Do you own any shirts that aren’t black or gray or dark blue?”
“I own several white button-ups,” Derek replies haughtily.
Their food arrives and Stiles immediately steals an onion ring off of Derek’s plate. Then his mouth drops open in surprise with the onion ring halfway to it when Derek makes a happy rumbling sound in his chest.
He immediately grumbles to cover it, pretending to be very interested in his burger, which is just as good as he’d remembered, actually.
Stiles isn’t fooled if his smug expression is anything to go by, but they’re both interested in their food for a few minutes, happily eating quietly. Derek tries to rein it in when Stiles moans into his burger and his body goes a little loose with his obvious contentment. They both ignore the little whine Derek makes in his throat, though Stiles’ eyes do seem to dance with mirth.
“Okay, okay, your question, big guy.” He stuffs a handful of curly fries in his mouth, moaning around them that they’re the best in the whole world.
“If you could only take one movie with you to be locked in a cabin for a year with, what would it be?”
With his hand halfway to his mouth again, Stiles stalls out, saying in an impressed tone, “ That is a really good question. Fellowship of the Ring–no wait, Empire Strikes Back– no wait,” Derek has to put down his burger to laugh, “Emperor’s New Groove– well–maybe, no, Fellowship, final answer.”
“You sure?” Derek grins.
“Yeah, I think so? What about you?”
“What movie would I pick?” Derek clarifies, licking a small bit of stray ketchup off of his finger. When he looks up at the sudden snap of arousal in the air, Stiles is watching his mouth. Derek has the almost overwhelming urge to drag him away from prying eyes, pull his shirt off, and lick his way up those moles until he can kiss Stiles breathless.
It must show on his face because Stiles’ pupils dilate and his breath comes in shorter gasps. He bites his lip when their eyes meet. “Would I be alone in this mythical cabin or would you be trapped there with me?” Stiles asks.
Someone drops a plate in the kitchen and the cook, a large burly man, yelps “Fiddlesticks!” like he’s a Victorian lady. They both look toward the noise. “Sorry, sorry!” The guy apologizes over the warming counter. Most of the patrons laugh, including Stiles. They spend the rest of the meal talking about their favorite movies and books but Derek can feel an itch under his skin now, demanding to be scratched or at least acknowledged.
When he and Stiles get back from town, Derek escapes upstairs, spreading out the totes from his old room and sitting in the middle of them on the rug. Most of it is probably going in the garbage or the donation box but it might be enlightening to see who he was before that night.
As soon as he pulls the lid off of the first one, he’s hit in the face with the smell of not just his old room but also of Stiles. It’s mostly old clothes that he wouldn’t wear anymore even if they did fit but it all smells like Stiles wore every article so many times that the smell of Derek is almost completely evaporated.
When he brings a sweatshirt to his face he can smell sadness under the thick smell of honey and molasses cookies and lightning. Not just any sadness - loneliness . He pulls out another shirt and it’s the same. They’re all the same. Shirt after shirt of molasses cookies and a loneliness so intense that it makes Derek’s bones ache. When he finds his letterman jacket, he has to fight the urge to cry over the smell. It can’t be washed in a washing machine so the evidence of Stiles’ tears is soaked into the collar. Like Stiles curled up in it and cried many times.
The tote of books all smell like him, too. Like Stiles read every single one, looking for some part of Derek in them. The tote of knick-knacks have all been touched by Stiles, painstakingly wrapped in tissue paper even though none of them are that valuable or that breakable.
The last tote is stuffed full of rolled-up band posters and pictures of friends he barely remembers from his walls. All with a trace of Stiles on them. At the bottom of the tote is a shoebox that Derek knows is not his because it’s for police boots. It’s been taped shut over and over like someone just wrapped and wrapped and wrapped until they ran out of tape. The whole box reeks of Stiles.
Slicing through the tape on both sides with a claw, Derek lays the lid off to the side. It’s crammed full of sealed envelopes. All addressed to Derek’s school dorm room or his college apartment. All from “S. Stilinski,” and all stamped, though they’ve clearly never been through a post office.
Getting up off the floor, Derek closes and locks the door. He’s not even sure who’s here and who’s still out running errands but he doesn’t want to be interrupted. Scooping up the box and plucking his letterman jacket off the pile, he climbs onto the bed. The jacket is a bit snug in the biceps and the shoulders when he pulls it on but he keeps it on, swaddling himself in the smell of tears and molasses cookies.
Each letter is dated on the back of the envelope and it looks like they’re stuffed in the box in the order they were written. He pulls the first one out, the writing is chicken scratchy and messy, clearly that of a twelve-year-old boy:
Dear Derek,
I can’t send this. I know I can’t. You don’t even know who I am. Talia says you’re not ready yet. That you had therapy (me too!) and spent high school healing and that college will be good for you. That you need it. That you’ll come back for breaks and summer and we’ll be able to meet then. When you’re ready.
It’s okay that you need time to heal after what she did to you. I’m not mad. And I have a lot to do anyway! A lot to learn (wink wink magic). Deaton is driving me crazy . I think he’s trying to Mr. Miyagi me or something. Pretty sure he’s just in this for the free labor. I had to clean dog cages today! What does that have to do with magic? He didn’t even laugh when I kept saying “wax on, wax off” as I was cleaning but really, he has no sense of humor. You’ve seen The Karate Kid, though, right? Not the remake - the original . . .
Derek laughs as the letter goes on to detail everything that Stiles was forced to do or learn that day and how it compared or didn’t to the original Karate Kid movie. He smiles sadly, fingers trailing over the “ Yours, Stiles ” at the end. The next letter is much the same. It looks like Stiles wrote a letter to him once every week. Derek reads every word.
“Dear Derek,
Talia said you got a summer job at school so you won’t be coming home. I know I can’t actually miss someone I don’t know but…I miss you. It feels like part of me is missing. Deaton says that might be the reason for the vines. I hadn’t told you about those yet because it freaks me out. And I know you don’t want to hear about my gross scars growing tattoo vines out of them. Like, what even is that? Deaton says I need to get control of my magic. What is he talking about? I have so much control . . .”
The picture in Jackson’s room flashes in Derek’s mind - the Stiles in it couldn’t have been more than sixteen and the vines were already half as big as they are now. Stiles had distracted him from asking but he should have known they weren’t real tattoos.
Some of the letters have little splotches on them and smell like the salt from tears.
“Dear Derek,
A rogue alpha has been attacking people in town - not people - kids. She got some of my friends. Plus this asshole Jackson who’s, like, the biggest bully. He’s seriously the worst. I can’t believe he’s in our pack now. UGH. He still didn’t deserve to be bitten against his will though. And he turned into, like, a lizard monster. What is that about? No one knows but honestly, it feels fitting. I’m gonna call him Lizard Boy just to piss him off.
Your parents, my dad, and Peter handled it but I’m going to figure out a way to know when something dangerous comes to town . . . ”
The letters move through the years almost like yearbooks. Stiles writes about his friends becoming his pack, about the Hales becoming family, about him juggling school and magic training, about outgrowing Deaton when he was only fifteen, about the Argents moving back to town and Stiles confronting and eventually forming a treaty with them.
Through the letters, he learns who Stiles is. He’s intelligent and sarcastic. He’s sharp-witted and funny. His jokes and observations are never cruel but they always get to the core of the thing. Sometimes his letters are five pages on the history of circumcision, sometimes they’re detailed arguments about why his chemistry teacher should be fired for harassment (Derek agrees). As Stiles’ writing matures, Derek learns that he’s a closet romantic. Sometimes the lines read like prose. Like a boy pining. For the first time in his life, Derek pines, too.
At one point, Laura knocks on his door to tell him dinner’s ready but he tells her to go away please. She must hear something in his voice because for once, she actually does.
Through the letters, he learns about how they found Isaac and saved him from his dad. About the immediate flip from enemies to best friends for Stiles and Jackson. About Erica’s tenacity and shared love of DC comics - that Stiles calls her Catwoman not because she’s sexy but because she’s scary. About Boyd’s quiet strength and deep longing for a family after losing his own. Through Stiles’ letters, Derek learns about his own sisters and who they were in the years he didn’t know them. In the later letters, he learns about Lydia, the strawberry-blond goddess who led them to dead bodies. And about the huntress with something to prove.
Some of the letters have photos of Stiles and his friends folded inside. One has a dried and flattened flower that Stiles grew with magic when he was ‘ daydreaming about when we finally meet .’ Some of them have doodles of runes or flowers in the margins, Dorito dust on the edges, more than one has the faint scent of come and makes Derek blush knowing that sixteen-year-old Stiles was probably thinking of him. Some of them stink of anger, all of them smell of some level of sadness.
“Dear Derek,
I know I should be grateful for the pack. I used to be an only child and now I have my best friends as my sisters and brothers. We have such a big pack now but . . . they’re not you and sometimes I’m just so lonely. I can’t help it. And I know they can smell it and it upsets them that they can’t help me. My dad says it’s the “Derek-shaped elephant in the room.”
Your mom says she’ll do everything she can to get you to come home after college ends next year but I just . . . can’t let myself hope for it. Every Christmas and every summer and every holiday, I tell myself not to but I still get so hopeful and you never come home. You never come for me. How could you forget me so easily, Derek? Why don’t you smell me on Laura when she visits you? Or when your parents do? Because you don’t want to. You don’t want me . Well, maybe I don’t want you either! My power is driven by belief, you know. One day, I’m going to believe that we aren’t mates and then I’ll be free. I’ll find someone who will love me back. Someone who won’t want to forget me.
Not Yours, Stiles.”
It’s silly and juvenile for Derek to be hurt by how angry Stiles is in a few of the letters. Not only because Stiles was a child when he wrote these but because Derek didn’t know and he couldn’t remember what wasn’t there. It wasn’t his fault. But then he thinks that if Stiles were to write him a letter tonight, it would be much of the same. Here he is, finally, within reaching distance, and Derek isn’t doing anything to make Stiles think he wants him.
Because he does. He does want Stiles.
When Derek gets to the final letter in the box, it smells like it was drowned in despair. If there was ever any anger on it, it was washed away by sorrow long before it was put in the box.
“Dear Derek,
I’m packing up your room today. I’ve been living in your room part-time (the other part I’m at my dad and Melissa’s house) since you left for college. So for four years, I’ve had to smell you all around me, I’ve dreamed about you, I’ve fantasized about you. About us and our future. And what it means to have a mate. But it’s been a long time. Your clothes don’t smell like you anymore. Your bed doesn’t smell like you. None of it belongs to you anymore. Like me, it’s been abandoned. Left behind like trash. Like something that doesn’t matter. Something you don’t want or need.
This is my last letter.
Jackson says I need to let you go. That I need to put myself and the pack first. To focus on my magic. I will. Not yet though, okay? Just a little longer. Two more years - when I’m eighteen. I’m writing it down so it’s real. I’ll make myself give you up then. Because letting you go is impossible. You were never mine to let go, were you?
It always felt like you were though. Like you were mine, you just didn’t know it yet. That if you knew - if you could just have that memory back - that you would be here. That nothing would keep us apart. That you would love me like I’ve always loved you.
Sometimes I hate Talia for taking the memory of me away from you. And I hate you for asking her to. Sometimes I tell myself it’s because you saw me and didn’t want me. Sometimes I’m afraid for you to come home because what if you get the memory of me back and you still don’t want me? What do I do then, Derek? What do all these years of waiting mean if you’re not there at the end of them?
When I use my magic, it reaches for you. You’re my anchor. It’s always trying to find you to ground itself. But you’re not there. You’re never there. What if you never are? What happens to the magic then? What happens to me then? Because sometimes it feels like it wants to consume me. Like a forest fire, raging and destroying everything until there’s nothing left but a husk. Like it will just burn out the light inside me.
When I cast something big or something new, I feel the memory of you. That single moment when we existed together. When you knew that I was your mate. I can feel the magic reaching for it, for the bond. I always tell myself that if I could just cross that distance, stretch a little further, like if my magic was just a little more powerful, it could reach across time and give you back the memory and you would ground us. In those moments, I tell myself that I’m not the one waiting, that you’re waiting for me.
That’s stupid, though, isn’t it? You’re not waiting for me. You don’t even know that I exist.
I’m still yours though, always. Stiles.”
Derek reads it twice, swiping at his eyes to get through it the second time. He isn’t even aware of how he gets there but one moment he’s in the guest room and the next he finds himself standing outside of his old bedroom door. It’s not that late but they have a wedding tomorrow so everyone is in bed already. Through the door, Derek can hear the slow steady beat of Stiles’ heart. So much different from when he’s awake.
He doesn’t rush in because if he does this, there will be no going back. Dangling the mate bond in front of Stiles and not honoring it would be unforgivable. It would devastate him. Derek knows that very well after reading his letters. So instead of rushing in like his wolf wants, Derek takes a minute. He breathes deeply, smelling Stiles all over his door.
Honey . Nature’s purifier. It never goes bad, it never turns, never rots. The sugar in it crystallizes, hardens, but when you put it in the sun, it turns to molten gold again.
Molasses cookies. Molasses is a binding agent. Brings things together. It’s also earthy and dark, rich, intense. Baking it into a cookie softens its bite, makes it sweet and warm. Like hearth and home.
Lightning . Magic. Spark. Stormbringer. The scent is like a warning. Of someone who can both destroy and create. Of power that cannot be harnessed by anyone but the wielder.
Stiles.
Soulmate.
Derek pushes the door open, closing it softly behind him, and pads across the carpet on near-silent feet to stop next to the bed. His mate is sprawled out on his stomach, shirtless, sleep pants slung low on his hips so the swell of his ass is just visible above the sheet where it’s been dragged down his body.
The moonlight dances across his shoulders, making the vines look like they’re writhing across his skin. The letter that Derek is still holding crinkles in his trembling fist and Stiles stirs. “Huh? Cora? Already told you everything’s fine. G’ to bed so you don’t look like sh*t tomorrow.”
“Not Cora,” Derek whispers and Stiles jerks up, rolling over and going up on his elbows to stare at Derek.
“Der’k?” he mumbles, confused, blinking blearily. “Are you wearing your letterman jacket?”
Looking down, Derek finds that he is. He shrugs out of it, dropping it on the floor and leaving the crumpled final letter on the nightstand before sliding into bed with Stiles. He’s still wearing his jeans but it’s too late to worry about that now.
“What’s happening?”
Pulling Stiles against him, Derek cups his cheek and brushes their lips together. It’s their first touch of skin on skin and Derek’s wolf is practically frolicking. Stiles gasps and sighs, eyelashes brushing Derek’s cheeks as his eyes flutter shut and he melts into Derek’s hold. He kisses Stiles like he wants to make up for all the years he missed. Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, slipping his tongue into Stiles’ mouth. When Stiles lets out a little whine, his wolf goes crazy, mate mine claim ! Derek presses himself against Stiles, sliding his knee between Stiles’ thighs and wrapping his hand around Stiles’ hip to pull him even closer.
Both of Stiles’ hands slide up between them, one clutches at Derek’s shirt, the other delves into his hair at the back of his head. Stiles is making sweet, desperate noises into Derek’s mouth. It aches when Derek thinks about all the people he’s kissed and how none of them had felt like this. Like he’s wasted years of kissing. This is like fireworks and heat and coming home.
When Derek pulls away to duck down and nuzzle Stiles’ neck, engulfing himself in the smell of freshly baked molasses cookies, Stiles murmurs desperately, voice trembling, “Please be real. Please, don’t be a dream.”
Whining low in his throat, Derek promises, “Not a dream,” before he licks up to Stiles’ ear and bites along the hinge of his jaw. He just wants to curl around Stiles and keep him safe from everything but he also wants to splay him out and kiss every inch of skin until Stiles begs for release.
“Oh god,” Stiles whimpers, rolling his hips into Derek’s. Derek pushes him onto his back, climbing on top of Stiles to straddle his hips. “Oh f*ck, yes. I swore I’d play it cool if this ever actually happened but I lied. I’m a liar. Please. Plea–”
Chuckling, Derek swallows whatever Stiles is going to say, cupping his cheeks and invading his mouth again while Stiles runs his hands up under Derek’s shirt, clutching at his back desperately. He moans and gasps again when Derek slides down so he’s lying on top of Stiles, pressing the hard lengths of them both together through their clothes.
Stiles keens, “Wait, wait.”
Pulling back to sit up on his knees, Derek stammers out, “I-I’m sorry–”
“No, shut up,” Stiles insists, shaking his head. “Claw?” Derek must look confused because Stiles pulls Derek’s hand up and presses on the palm like a cat’s toe beans. Derek rolls his eyes at that but grows out one claw and Stiles pricks his finger on it making Derek whine.
Twisting around to reach his beadboard, Stiles draws a symbol in his own blood and then slams his hand down it. The rune lights up for a brief moment and then goes dark. In the process, Stiles’ naked back has been bared to Derek and he gives in to the urge to lick a stripe up it from the waistband of his pants to the back of his neck.
“Oh f*ck,” Stiles moans.
Derek lays his weight down along the back of Stiles, pressing the hard length of himself against Stiles’ ass. Into the shell of his ear, Derek growls, “Was that your sound ward?” He rocks forward, pressing Stiles into the bed.
“Unh, fuu-yeah, yeah, it’s just the b-bed though, the one for my, uh, room is all the way over by the…the thing that opens and closes,” Stiles struggles to say as Derek presses himself between Stiles’ ass cheeks.
Smiling smugly, Derek supplies, “The door?”
“Yeah, that. Was afraid if I got up out of the bed, you’d just be something I dreamed up. Oh god, don’t stop,” he moans again, pushing himself up against Derek. “Couldn’t risk waking up.”
Lifting himself up on his hands and knees, Derek growls, “Roll over for me.” When Stiles rolls and settles on his back, staring up with his big Bambi eyes with such earnest adoration, Derek almost chokes on how much he doesn’t deserve this. “I read your letters.”
“Letters?” Stiles asks, head tilting to the side where it lays on the pillow.
Nodding, Derek says, “The ones you wrote to me while I was in college.”
Stiles’ scent goes embarrassed but Derek shakes his head. “I’m glad you wrote them. Glad you kept them. I needed to know how you felt. Needed to see what my choice had done to you. How much I hurt you.”
“I almost sent them all together when you moved to New York. That’s why they’re packed like that. I was going to.” Stiles reaches up to trace along Derek’s eyebrows with one of his long dexterous fingers. “Kept psyching myself up to do it, then you met Jennifer . . .” One hand drops between them, fingers trailing over the flower closest to the bullet hole like he knows exactly where it is. “I buried the box at the bottom of one of the totes instead and forced myself to forget about it.”
With a low whine, Derek turns his head to kiss Stiles’ palm softly. Then he lowers himself back down and kisses Stiles until the other man is arching up and whimpering urgently again.
When he slides down Stiles’ body, dragging the sleep pants down and freeing Stiles’ co*ck, the scent of mate is so strong that Derek has to nuzzle into him, breathing deeply while Stiles buries his hands into Derek’s hair and arches his hips off the bed.
“Oh Jesus,” Stiles swears, “I am not going to last. You are every sexual fantasy I’ve ever had and– ohhhhhhh f*ck! ” Derek takes most of him down in one mouthful, licking and swirling his tongue as he bobs up and down while Stiles makes desperate, frantic noises.
It’s everything Derek thought he would never want again.
Stiles is falling apart beautifully for him. Derek wants to catch him and put him back together. He wants to keep him safe and - f*ck - love him, he wants to love Stiles. Taking the full length of Stiles into his throat, Derek sucks the org*sm right out of him.
“Der-derek, I’m go-I’m gonna–” Stiles cries out, hips lifting off the bed but Derek presses him back down, taking all of him so the head of Stiles’ co*ck bumps the back of Derek’s throat as Stiles comes, twitching and shuddering, babbling incoherently in a way that makes Derek rumble with satisfaction and nip at one of Stiles’ hip bones as he crawls back up his body to drop kisses across his collarbone.
Stiles is limp like a ragdoll as Derek curls him on his side so he can spoon up behind him. When Stiles tries to protest that Derek needs to come too, Derek tells him, “Next time, this one was just for you.” Then he shucks out of his jeans and T-shirt, pulling the sheet up to cover them as he curls protectively around his mate.
“Well, this is cozy.”
Derek doesn’t move but next to him, he feels Stiles stretch with a long groan and the bed shakes likes he’s rubbing his eyes. Without looking, Derek can smell that it’s Erica sitting on the end of the bed. When Stiles rolls over to get a better look at her and maybe figure out why she’s here, he rolls into Derek and jerks away surprised.
“Oh my god!” he practically screeches, flailing his arms and legs and pulling the sheet haphazardly, revealing more of Derek’s bare back and almost exposing himself to Erica at the same time.
Derek growls and opens one eye just enough to watch as Erica grins wickedly, reaching out to tug the sheet slowly toward herself.
“Hey, hey!” Stiles whisper-shouts, sitting up to slap her hand away while pulling the sheet back over them. “Why are you in here disrupting what could have been morning sex?” he hisses. Derek pushes his face into the pillow to smother his snort of laughter.
“Because you couldn’t hear us calling for you. And once I sat on your bed, I realized I couldn’t hear anything outside of it either.” She points at the headboard. “Probably shouldn’t do magic during sexy times. I think that sound ward goes both ways.”
“You go both ways!” Stiles tells her.
She just stares at him silently until Stiles nudges her with his foot, almost toppling himself off the bed. “Shut up. Get out so I can touch Derek’s dick.”
Derek grabs one of the pillows Stiles isn’t laying on and puts it over his own head, groaning about Stiles not being a horny teenager.
Erica cackles. As she’s jumping down from the bed, the sound of her laugh cuts off.
“Oh that’s creepy and I probably shouldn’t do magic during sex but I’m having sex so who cares!” Stiles shouts, throwing himself onto Derek, kissing across his bare shoulders and sliding his hand down into Derek’s boxer briefs to cup his bare ass. “I never got to be a horny teenager so you should probably prepare yourself - actually scratch that, prepare ME because I need to be railed like immediately.”
Pushing the pillow off of his head, Derek co*cks his head to the side and stares at how ridiculous but determined Stiles is. He comes to the decision that he’s into it though so he rolls over onto his back, pulling Stiles down on his chest for a better angle to lick into his mouth.
“--etting married today and you both need to get up and help.” Cora is suddenly saying from right next to the bed. She’s leaning over and scrubbing the rune with a Lysol wipe. The sound of the world comes crashing back into their little safe haven.
“I am naked here, Cora!” Stiles squawks, yanking the sheet up to his chin.
“A. I’ve seen you naked before. B. I can smell how gross you guys are. And C. I don’t care. You can sex each other up after the ceremony.” She reaches over Stiles and punches Derek in the shoulder. “Good job big bro!” Then she leans in and kisses Stiles on the forehead, saying softly, “Congrats, I’m very happy for you.” Then she shouts, “Now get up!” And flounces out, leaving the door open behind her.
“She’s definitely my least favorite sister,” Derek growls, burrowing back into the pillows and nipping at Stiles’ bare shoulder gently.
Stiles snorts but then pulls himself out of bed and slips on his boxers and a huge grin.
After quick showers, they join everyone in the kitchen. There’s four dozen donuts, boxes of muffins, fruit, coffee, juice, and more. It’s a breakfast buffet because they have a yard to decorate before they all shower and get fancied up.
Clapping his hands a few times as they enter, Stiles announces to the entire kitchen, “I just need to say that if any more unicorns wander over here, don’t send them to me, I can’t help them anymore.” His self-satisfied grin is blinding. Derek ducks his head and gets very busy making himself a cup of coffee.
“You’re welcome,” Jackson says, grabbing a banana and a blueberry muffin from the counter spread before hopping up on a stool.
Derek rolls his eyes but before he can tell Jackson that it had nothing to do with him–
“Something’s different,” Sarah announces loudly, crinkling up her nose and making loud sniffing noises.
Beside her, Sammy also crinkles up his nose, taking deep breaths but looking less sure than Sarah.
She leans toward her dad, sniffing but shaking her head. The adults all chuckle so Derek assumes the twins have been training their noses to scent. Sarah jumps down from her booster seat, taking huge sniffs as she follows her nose around the room until she stops in front of Stiles.
Werewolves don’t have many boundaries and kids tend to just assume that the smells of sex are “adult smells” and leave it at that but Derek’s never been around little kids so he’s starting to freak out that they’re going to have a discussion about the birds and bees over donuts when she puts her hands up for Stiles to pick her up and wraps her arms around his neck, squeezing a little too tight for a human hug. He doesn’t seem to mind though, and when she pulls back, they smile at each other.
“You don’t smell like sadness anymore, Uncle Stiles,” Sarah says in that way that children have of ripping your heart out with their brutal honesty.
Stiles’ scent goes a little bittersweet but he grins at her, leaning in to blow a raspberry into her neck while she squeals and struggles to get down. He returns her to her seat and ruffles Sammy’s hair while the other twin insists that he knew what the smell was, too. Laura catches Stiles by the hand, squeezes it gently as something passes unspoken between them.
The rest of breakfast passes quickly, albeit loudly, and before too long, the entire pack is standing on the front lawn next to a truck that’s unloading chairs and tables. Lydia and Allison are there, both with a Bluetooth clipped to their ear and an iPad in hand.
“They run an event planning company,” Stiles tells him. “Jackson is their photographer and Lydia is all things fashion, decoration, and organization. Allison is the muscle and the stage manager.”
Between the two women, they quickly and efficiently get the workman going on set up, they’ve got tables, chairs, and archways to put up. Allison directs a few of the wolves into helping to set up the giant tent they’re raising over the dance floor that had been delivered and set up earlier this morning by a different company. The rest of the pack is tasked with decorating, putting out the tall vases of flowers, or running gopher for Cora who is slowly mutating into a bridezilla.
Laura and Erica left earlier to take the kids to a movie and then to the park so they can run off some energy before they come back to get ready.
After two hours, everything seems ready to go, the workmen drive off with their trucks, waving that they’ll be back tomorrow morning. Allison gathers the pack all together and divvies up locations to shower and get changed. She hands out an actual schedule because Lydia has analyzed shower and makeup routines to optimize their prep time. All of the girls, the kids, and Stiles and Derek are staying at the pack house to get ready since it has more bathrooms. And Stiles and Derek are in Cora’s wedding party. Jordan, Boyd, Jackson, and Scott are taking Isaac to the dowager house to get ready so Isaac and Cora won’t see each other until the altar.
The first gunshot cracks like a whip, echoing in the clearing. There’s a split second of silence before several guests yell, “Get down!” It’s followed by a burst of rapid-fire and chunks of lawn spraying up into the air as the bullets make contact with the ground near the front row of chairs.
It’s chaos for a few minutes as everyone runs for the nearest cover. Most of the pack is part of the wedding party so they’re standing at the altar. They close ranks around Laura as they rush her away from the gunfire. Once they have her behind a table that’s been flipped up for cover, Derek realizes that Stiles isn’t with them anymore.
There are more rapid-fire gunshots, the glass bowl centerpieces start exploding on the table tops not flipped over for cover, wax from the candles and chunks of river rocks flying all different directions with the impact. There’s more screaming, people ducking for cover behind tables and chairs not providing enough coverage. Someone yells for everyone to get to the house and Derek is suddenly sixteen again, smelling smoke and fire.
As the non-pack guests start running toward the house though, there’s a line of fire that keeps them from running the long stretch across the lawn. For a moment they panic but then Stiles waves them toward the tent over the dance floor. It’s further back from the shots so hopefully, safer because the canvas of the tent won’t provide any cover. Derek starts to head toward Stiles but he sees the sheriff running away from Stiles toward his cruiser where Jordan and most of the pack are and decides that taking the shooters out will help Stiles more than being in his way.
“Shots were coming from the tree line just there,” the sheriff is already saying when Derek jogs up. “You five circle around from the west and come in behind them, you four take the east, the deputies and I will try to see if we can get a sight on them from undercover here. Derek, son, you don’t have any training yet - are you sure you don’t want to stay with Stiles? He’s going to keep the humans safe,” he asks, strapping his gun belt on over his dark blue suit and handing rifles to Jordan and two of his other deputies who must be in the know because they’re not surprised by his use of the word ‘human.’
“I’m going with them, sir,” Derek says, determined to help keep his pack safe. His mate.
“You’re with Cora then.” Derek looks over at the sound of something tearing and sees Isaac and Cora using their claws to cut away the bottom half of her beautiful gossamer wedding gown so the ragged edges fall around her thighs. She’s wearing white Converse like the rest of her bridal party.
Once she’s freed, she turns and helps Jackson where he’s cutting away Allison’s dress. She’s wearing combat boots and a wicked-looking knife strapped to her thigh. The men are all dropping their suit jackets and pulling off their shiny dress shoes so Derek follows suit. A middle-aged man holding a bow and quiver in one hand and a sniper rifle in the other jogs up, handing the bow to Allison with a nod, and then tells the sheriff that he’ll stay with the deputies.
As soon as she’s freed Allison of the last of her dress, Cora takes off at a run, Isaac, Derek, Jackson, and Allison following her. Their parents, Peter, Boyd, and Scott go the other way. The sound of gunfire hasn’t abated at all but there’s no screaming so the shooters must not be hitting anything alive.
In less than five minutes, they’re circling around the backs of four men and one woman in ghillie suits laying face down at the tree line. The woods are dim in the setting sun but it’s like the shooters aren’t even worried about getting caught. They don’t even hear them approach and there’s not much of a fight.
“This was too easy,” Talia says, her face lined with worry as she disarms the last of the hunters.
“Listen, we were just hired to do a job, okay?” one of the men says and his heart doesn’t stutter.
“How did you get past the wards?” Jason asks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The old guy said he didn’t want us to harm anyone, just shoot the ground,” one of the other men says, and then when he sees scales shudder up Jackson’s arms where his sleeves are rolled back, he almost falls over trying to pull away. “What the f*ck are you?”
Jackson arches an eyebrow, rolling his neck so it cracks loudly, “Adopted.”
“Okay, okay, let’s get them back to the clearing, make sure they didn’t actually shoot anyone,” Talia says, waving the way toward the clearing and the chaos left in the wake of so much gunfire.
“We told you - we weren’t supposed to shoot anyone, just keep people from running to the house or their cars,” the woman says like she’s concerned that they think she’s a poor shot and suddenly Derek gets it. They were herding the humans together and drawing the wolves away.
At the same time, he and Jackson both say, “Stiles.” And take off at a sprint.
They’re halfway there when Jackson sprouts f*cking wings and overtakes Derek, screaming, “Stiles! Get out of there, it’s a–”
The explosion rocks the ground under Derek’s feet, hot air burns his skin and throws him several feet into the air. When he crashes down onto his back, he’s wolfed out, bleeding and disoriented. Jackson has suffered the same fate but he’s back up on his feet quicker with the help of those terrifying f*cking wings and he runs forward again. When Derek pulls himself to his feet, he follows Jackson to the fiery inferno that was the dance tent.
Everything is engulfed in flames and black smoke. Derek’s eyes water and his throat is hot where he’s screaming for Stiles. Arms encircle him from behind, pulling him away from the smoke and heat. It’s his dad. Talia and Boyd are pulling Jackson away. And Derek doesn’t know why. Why aren’t they doing anything? Why aren’t they saving him? Get Stiles out of the fire, help him!
“Derek, Derek, it’s all gone. Shush, I got you,” his dad is saying. Cora and Isaac have their arms wrapped around him. People are doing the same to Jackson. Someone is screaming and when Derek becomes aware of it, he realizes it’s him. “Shhh, we’re here. We’ve got you.”
“Why? Why?” Derek asks, over and over as he rocks in the strong arms holding him.
“For Kate,” a voice calls out angrily.
“Dad?” the older man who’d handed the bow to Allison says.
“It’s Gerard to you, now. Traitor,” the old man sneers, and when Chris Argent steps toward him, he shoots the ground an inch away from Chris’s shoe. “Ah ah ah, stay back. I want the Alpha and Derek. Everyone else can go free which is mighty nice of me since you’re all f*cking monsters.”
Talia stands up but Gerard sneers at her, too. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I know your daughter is the Alpha now.”
“She’s pregnant!” Cora snarls, lunging for Gerard who shoots her in the leg. “f*ck!”
“You’ll heal,” he shrugs then pulls out another handgun. “Not from this one, though. These bullets are wolfsbane. Next time, it’s going in your chest.”
Isaac pulls her back as she curses and tries not to put weight on the injured leg.
Gerard drops the gun with normal ammo, pulling another out of a holster on his leg so now he’s got two with wolfsbane. He points one at Laura who lifts her chin defiantly and starts to walk over.
“Right there, that’s close enough.” He stops her before she’s close enough to attack him. He’s pointing the gun right at her stomach. She might survive a hit but the baby would not. “Now the mongrel,” Gerard sneers, not taking his eyes off of Laura since she’s so close.
“Why?” Derek whispers, can hear the tears in his voice even though he can’t feel himself crying. “Why would you kill so many humans? And–” His voice chokes off.
“The humans were collateral damage,” Gerard snaps. “It was the boy I was after. He’s the reason my Kate is dead. He got what was coming to him.”
Jackson screams then, it’s guttural and inhuman, he struggles against Boyd, Scott, and Peter as they try to hold him still. His wings snap open aggressively, causing them all to lose their grip as he hurls himself across the clearing at Gerard. In the confusion, Derek pulls away from his father and throws himself at the old man too. Trying to draw his fire away from Laura.
The old man gets two shots off. Derek feels the burn in his right bicep and hears Jackson grunt and cry out when he gets hit, too. Then he drops both guns, mouth open in a soundless scream with Laura behind him, her face twisted up in anger and one hand slapped against the back of Gerard’s neck, staticky light flashing all around it.
Laura flickers away and it’s Stiles leaning in close so Gerard can see his face. “Give Kate my regards.” The smell of lightning and burnt skin permeates the air and Gerard sizzles, screams in agony and then probably has a heart attack because he crumples to the ground and stops moving.
“Stiles?” Derek croaks out, reaching out his uninjured hand to see if his mate is real. Stiles reaches out, too, taking two steps before he gasps, crying out painfully. The vines twist, growing down his forearm and out over the back of his hand as if reaching for Derek. Then he, too, crumples to the ground.
The other guests are all safe, too, and Derek is sure that the sheriff and his deputies and everyone handles that well but he doesn’t care about any of it. Deaton has them move Stiles to his bed so he can examine him. Melissa and Scott are taking care of the small injuries the guests have gotten from flying rocks and glass. Scott has already dug the wolfsbane bullets out of him and Jackson. Burning out the poison with some of Gerard’s bullets.
Apparently, Stiles hadn’t trusted the dance floor. He’d led the guests there but then cast one of his new glamour spells to hide that they’d actually moved the guests all into the house instead. Like a wall of illusion to protect them as they ran to the house.
“The shots were herding the guests to the tent, Stiles and I recognized what they were doing right away. Figured the dance floor was actually rigged with something to kill the fleeing humans,” the sheriff had told them before they’d brought Stiles upstairs.
“Deaton, what’s wrong with him?” Derek asks in a hushed voice as Deaton cuts the dress shirt off of Stiles to reveal that the vines have covered that entire arm down to the fingers and have reached all the way across his abdomen and chest, allowing the flowers, now visibly purple instead of black to grow up and over his sternum. As they watch, a small purple bud emerges over his heart. Stiles coughs and makes a pained sound as the spindly barb digs its thorns into the vine etched into his skin.
“You’re what’s wrong with him,” Jackson snarls angrily but his hand is soft where it brushes Stiles’ hair off his forehead.
Derek growls.
“Stop fighting,” Stiles says softly, eyes fluttering open as he makes another pained sound.
“You knew this would happen if you tried something that big without working up to it first,” Deaton scolds Stiles but he smells like regret…and grief. “It’s wolfsbane, Derek. Stiles’ body has been killing him for a very long time.”
“Wh-How?” Derek asks in a hushed whisper.
“Magic needs an anchor, too,” Deaton tells him as he goes over to one of Stiles’ many bookshelves and pulls down a small wooden box.
Stiles struggles in the bed, to do what, Derek’s not sure because he’s barely strong enough to lift his head, “No, no, no, D-Deaton, pl-please.” He lets out an anguished, pitiful cry, “Please, don’t.”
The door to the bedroom opens and Laura comes in. Her eyes flick from the box in Deaton’s hand to Stiles and fill with tears. She nods, though, as she approaches the bed on Derek’s side, taking Stiles’ hand.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Derek says and he’s starting to freak out. Stiles doesn’t smell right and everyone else smells like grief.
“There’s not much time,” Jackson says, “that flower is almost open.” He reaches out, touching the small bud whose petals are just starting to unfurl on Stiles’ chest and hisses. When he pulls back, the skin on his finger is red. Deaton shakes his head and hands him a wet wipe.
Wolfsbane.
“Jax,” Stiles cries, squeezing his hand, “Don’t let them do this. Please.”
As Derek watches, tears stream down Jackson’s cheeks and he leans over to press his forehead to Stiles’.
Deaton hands Derek a charm much like the one he’s wearing under his dress shirt. “Take off the one you’re wearing and put this one on instead.”
“Derek, don’t, d-don’t,” Stiles begs, reaching out for the charm with trembling fingers, “Ple…please.” His voice is barely above a whisper and when he’s racked with coughs, he coughs up two purple petals. They float in the air for a few seconds before falling to his chest. Where they land the skin sizzles and Derek grabs them, burning his own hand in the process.
Deaton hands him a wipe too. In his other hand is a charm that matches the one he told Derek to wear. “I’m not putting it on until you tell me what it does,” he states. Stiles sobs until he’s racked with coughs again. Purple petals explode from his mouth, flying out into the air. Deaton, wearing nitrile gloves, grabs them all, dropping them into the wastebasket he’s moved closer to the bed.
Sighing, Deaton says, “Twelve years ago, Stiles’ magic manifested - it was like an avalanche of magic. Way too much for a little boy. And he met his mate - which normally wouldn’t matter for a human but Stiles is a Spark so your soul was recognizing him, his soul was recognizing you. And this huge, powerful magic that had just been unleashed, it had to find a way to ground itself.” Deaton looks at the vines and then at Derek.
“Me? I’m Stiles’ anchor?”
Deaton shakes his head sadly, “No, that would be too easy. The mate bond is Stiles’ magic’s anchor. And your first act as his mate was to kill him.”
“But he lived–”
“No, Derek,” Laura says forlornly, putting her hand on his arm. “Stiles died on the operating table. We think the magic used the mate bond to bring him back.” She releases a long breath and then seems to steel herself. “He was dead for five minutes. They declared a time of death. He should have at least had brain damage but he was fine.”
“Then - how?” Derek waves at Stiles who looks like he’s about to die, making Derek whine in his throat.
“My magic is belief,” Stiles whispers. Tears slip out of the corners of his eyes and dampen the pillowcase under his head. “I believed in the mate bond. I had felt it, touched it with my magic, I believed in it and it saved me.”
“We didn’t figure all of this out until the vines started to grow, as Stiles’ magic grew. We think it's the magic trying to find its other half. Trying to find its anchor,” Deaton says.
“The wolfsbane is his magic killing him because I wasn’t here?”
Laura puts her arm around him. “The flowers started when you moved to New York.”
Stiles moves his hand sluggishly to trace the same flower he did last night, quietly he says, “Wolfbane, commonly known as monkshood. A sign that danger is nearby. A foe lurking in wait for you. Kate,” he touches the round bullet scar, “Jennifer.” His fingers trail across the many flowers decorating his abdomen.
“When you told us she was a witch, we realized her magic must have corrupted the bond, even this far away . . . So Stiles made you a charm and the flowers turned black, dormant we thought,” Laura tells him, then with a shrug she adds, “We tried to get him to let us tell you.”
“He didn’t want you to love him just because he was dying,” Jackson sneers but the effect is ruined by his trembling lip and watery eyes. “He was afraid you’d get the memory back and leave anyway.”
Stiles begins to cough again, purple petals exploding into the air, this time dotted with blood.
“Stiles!” Derek cries out, wanting to hold him but he’s covered in wolfsbane. “How - how do we stop it? We’re together now. We were together last night.”
“Too little, too late.” Jackson glares at him, expression going hard again. “Put your charm on.”
“What does it do?” Derek asks but pulls the old charm off, dropping it on the bedside table where Stiles’ last letter still sits, all crumpled up and saturated with sadness.
“It severs the mate bond,” Deaton finally admits. He nods at Jackson who lifts Stiles enough for Deaton to slip his charm over his head and lay it right over his heart on top of the flower that’s nearly open now.
Crying, Stiles tries to reach for it but at some point, Derek had taken his hand and Stiles doesn’t seem to want to let go. Jackson is holding the other but Stiles isn’t pulling away from him either. “Please,” he cries, “please don’t take him away from me.” His sobs turn into coughs and petals rain down like bloody confetti.
Derek can’t believe that he ever doubted his connection to Stiles. That he ever thought New York or freedom from his guilt would be a replacement for the bond. He can feel it even now, drawing him to Stiles. And more than that. Stiles is funny and snarky, smart and genuine, beautiful and brave. Perfect.
But there’s blood on Stiles’ bottom lip and splatters of it across his chest from his coughing.
Jackson is right - he’s too late.
Leaning down, Derek kisses Stiles’ forehead, whispering, “Shhh, just because we won’t be mates anymore, doesn’t mean I won’t still love you. It’ll just be because I want to love you. The bond brought me here but I don’t need it because I choose you. I’m not going anywhere.” He slips the leather tie over his head, the charm resting almost hot against his heart.
Stiles lets out a pained cry; a coughing fit racks his whole body; a flurry of flower petals and droplets of blood sprinkle across his naked chest.
Derek looks at Deaton, “It’s not working! I can still feel the mate bond. Why isn’t it working?”
There’s a long rattling breath from Stiles’ chest and under the charm, the flower is fully open, all the flowers along his ribcage suddenly glow violently purple, eerily beautiful in the full moon's light that spills in from the window. “How could I ever believe you weren’t my soulmate?” Stiles says softly on an exhale and then his eyes flutter shut and his heart beats one last time before going still.
It’s the worst sound that Derek has ever heard. Silence. The lack of Stiles. How? How did he ever exist in a world without that heartbeat? Without the scent of honey and molasses cookies and lightning? How will he go on knowing he’ll never have those things again? That the world doesn’t have Stiles in it?
There’s a canyon of emptiness where the mate bond was and Derek has the horrible realization that it was always there, even if he didn’t recognize it, it was always there, keeping him safe, loving him, protecting him. Now . . . it’s an echoing cavern of nothingness and he wants to lean over and fall into it.
Behind Derek, there’s a commotion where he’s vaguely aware of someone dragging a screaming Jackson out of the room but Derek can’t be bothered with it.
Pulling his charm off, he drops it carelessly on the floor. Cutting Stiles’ charm off with his claws, he drops it to join his on the floor. Derek climbs up to sit on the bed next to Stiles, leans over him, and kisses him on the lips, tasting blood and wolfsbane but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
Pressing his lips to the flower blooming over Stiles’ heart, Derek tastes the wolfsbane, feels the burn on his lips, but knows it's not enough either. When he pulls back, the flower withers and dies. It’s still not enough. He kisses the next flower. The burn of wolfsbane tickles the back of his throat and he pulls back to watch as that blossom withers and dies as well. The barbs and vines are cracking, turning to dust where they’ve curled around the vines across Stiles’ chest. Dully, in the fog of loss, Derek moves on to the next.
Methodically, he kisses each flower, leaving a trail of tears and blood as his lips and throat and chest burn more with each flower that he consumes for Stiles. When Derek kisses away the last one, high up on Stiles’ collarbone, his vision swims, and his own heartbeat is sluggish, the poison pumping from his lungs to his heart and he hopes that they’ll get to be together wherever they go next.
Breath rattling in his chest, Derek reaches out across Stiles with his left hand to hold Stiles’ right, threading their fingers together. He must be hallucinating because the vines on Stiles’ hand seem to grow across to his own. With quiet detachment, he watches them wrap around his forearm, sliding along his skin, up under the rolled-up sleeve of his dress shirt - had the wedding only been this afternoon?
It feels like the vines are extending all the way up his arm, twisting around his shoulder, reaching for something but his thoughts are too muffled to comprehend it. His chest aches with the wolfsbane in his lungs, his head is heavy and slow. It feels like it takes everything in him to pull in another breath and he lets his head fall on Stiles’ chest, closing his eyes as he lets go on his last exhale.
