Fic: kismet
Author: tryslora
Title: kismet
Rating: PG
Pairing/s: Derek/Stiles
Character/s: Derek, Stiles, others, OCs
Summary: We met fifteen years ago,” Stiles says. “Then we met again a few days ago, and while it wasn’t exactly groundhog day, there were a lot of things that played out in an extremely similar way. We just had different roles.
Warnings: n/a
Content Notes: angst with a happy ending, references deaths (not Derek or Stiles)
Submission Type: Fic
Word Count: ~5k
Prompt: #87 - Fate, #178 - Second Chances, #205 - Amnesty
Author's Notes: It was mostly fate that inspired this one, the idea of kismet, bumping into something that unexpectedly turned into a positive experience. It was also inspired by this story I saw pass by on Facebook, about a soldier’s remains, and those who accompanied him and eased his way. I’m sorry for the angst, but it does have a happy ending, I promise, and right now, angst with a positive outlook seems like the right feel as we close out 2016.
Stiles loves watching out the window as the plane lands. He presses as close to the window as he can, both palms flat against the glass, fingers spread. There’s a choked sound somewhere behind him, but he ignores it. Some people don’t like to fly, and that’s okay. Stiles isn’t really all that thrilled with the idea of being up in the air inside of some machine, even if he’s read every article on the internet he could find about how wings and lift work. But the landing-the part where he can see civilization shifting from something doll-like back into recognizable buildings and places-that fascinates him.
He watches as the airport draws closer. The Beacon County airport is a small one. It says it’s international, but that’s mostly because it flies commuter lines up to Canada and down to Mexico. Mostly they fly short hops to San Francisco or LA, and sometimes longer flights to Detroit or Las Vegas. This is one of the longest he’s ever been on, direct from Pittsburgh, but the approach is exactly the same, sliding over downtown Beacon City and just barely over the corner of Beacon Hills, above the preserve. Then what feels like a straight drop down over the cliff’s edge until they’re skimming the end of the runway.
It’s a larger plane, and it feels like forever before he feels the thud-bump of the wheels hitting the ground, then the roar of the engines as the plane rushes to slow down.
His father’s fingers hook in the back of his collar, tugging him back into his seat, just as the plane taxis off the runway and comes to a stop. Stiles’s brow furrows. “Why are we stopped?”
So maybe at the not-so-advanced age of eleven he hasn’t flown all that much, but it’s been enough to know that you don’t stop until you get to the terminal and the jetway.
“Passengers of flight 1540, I apologize for the delay.” The captain’s voice is low and smooth, almost too calming. Stiles recognizes that tone after two weeks of I’m sorry being said over and over, and his body goes tense. He grips the arms of his chair, lifting his hand only when his father weaves their fingers together and holds on.
“We have a very special passenger on board today,” the captain continues. “A member of our armed services-Staff Sergeant Hale-gave his life overseas, and is traveling beneath your feet to return home to be buried near his family.”
Tears prick at Stiles’s eyes, and he dashes his free hand against them. He won’t cry, not again. Not now.
His father’s fingers tighten on his, holding on, and Stiles thankfully squeezes back.
“He is escorted by Sergeant Marshall, and Staff Sergeant Hale’s family is on board as well-his wife, and his three children. When we arrive at the terminal, my crew and I would request that you remain in your seats and allow this family to be reunited with their loved one as soon as possible.”
The hiccup behind Stiles’s seat is louder now. He tugs his hand free from his father and twists, turning to kneel on his seat and peer over. A girl about his age peers back at him, her hair hanging across her face, her eyes bright red and swollen. Stiles digs into his pocket and pulls out a tissue that he has stashed there, just in case.
“It’s clean,” he says, as he hands it to her.
She gulps and sniffles, taking the tissue and blowing her nose. It isn’t pretty or delicate, but it makes Stiles smile just a little because it’s real and he understands.
“I lost my mom a week ago,” he says softly. The teenage boy sitting next to her stares at him, green eyes dark and stormy. The girl smiles, just a little.
“I lost my dad,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and that’s all he has time for before his dad yanks to drag him back down into his seat, and the plane starts moving again.
No one moves when the plane stops at the terminal, the crowded plane silent as the jetway thumps into place against the side of the plane. The doors open with a whoosh, and five people stand.
There are two directly behind Stiles-the girl who was crying, and the boy from the middle seat who looks several years older. There’s another girl from across the aisle, a little older than the boy, and a woman who has to be their mother. The man in uniform who sits with them must be the sergeant accompanying them.
The girl looks to Stiles on the way by, and he hands her his last tissue, dug from the depths of his backpack. Her smile flickers before it drops away, and she trails after her brother, her head bowed.
Time freezes until they are gone.
The world seems to explode into motion after that, everyone standing at once, pulling luggage out of the overhead racks. Stiles’s dad hands him his jacket, and he shrugs into it before he wrestles his backpack onto his back. His dad makes his way into the aisle, then pauses, reaching into the row of seats behind them.
He holds up a small stuffed wolf. “She must have left it.”
Stiles holds out his hand, takes the wolf. “I’ll give it back to her. She needs it right now.” He doesn’t mention his bunny buried at the bottom of his own backpack, and his dad wisely doesn’t mention it either.
They make their way off the plane, following the crowd through the terminal and into the public areas. People greet their friends and family, but Stiles and his dad are alone, winding their way to the baggage claim. Stiles suspects he should’ve turned in the wolf at the front of the plane, but he carries it tucked to his chest, somehow certain that he’ll see the family again and be able to return it.
He’s partly right.
He spots the boy sitting on top of a suitcase off to one side. Stiles looks around, finds the older girl near the baggage conveyer belt, watching things go around. Stiles tugs on his dad’s hand, points at the boy, and is relieved when his dad lets him go without a question.
“Hey,” Stiles says softly, and the boy glares at him. Stiles holds out the wolf. “I think your little sister dropped this, and she’s probably going to want it tonight.”
The boy’s mouth drops open slightly, and Stiles is struck by how out of place his teeth look. Bunny teeth, just like on the stuffed bunny buried in Stiles’s pack. Stiles smiles slightly, and shrugs one shoulder. “Like I said. My mom died last week, and we went to see her mom and dad in Philadelphia because her mom’s too sick to come here. We just buried her here before we left on Friday. I’m really sorry about your dad. I know how much it sucks.”
The boy stares at him, grabs the wolf and clutches it to his chest, fingers white from holding on so tight. He swallows, then says, “I’m Derek. And thank you.”
“Stiles,” Stiles replies, and he has no idea what to say after that. “Um. You’ll give that to your sister?”
“Her name’s Cora,” Derek says, even though that isn’t really a reply. “My other sister’s Laura.”
It’s awkward then, as they stand there staring at each other. Stiles doesn’t want to move because he’s not sure exactly where his dad went, and it’s better to stay put and be found than to start searching and get in trouble for getting lost.
He startles when Laura drags two heavy suitcases over, dropping them next to Derek. She looks from Derek to Stiles, a frown starting. “You’re the boy from the plane,” she says. “Cora liked you. Which is impressive, because she doesn’t like anyone.”
“Stiles is okay,” Derek says quietly. He glances up, and a hand falls on Stiles’s shoulder.
“Time to go, son,” his dad tells him, and Stiles offers a rueful smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says, one more time for good measure. He’s heard it so often since his mother slipped away, and he knows it doesn’t really help. But at the same time, there isn’t really anything else he can say to this stranger that he hasn’t already said. “I understand,” is the best he can do, and by the way Derek nods, he figures it meant something to him as well.
#
It’s part of the reason Stiles becomes a pilot. He goes through two years in the community college in the forensics program, but by the time he’s done, he realizes that as much as he loves solving puzzles, he doesn’t want to solve crimes for the rest of his life.
He wants to bring people home. He wants to make those connections, and help people get to where they need to be. So he trains and becomes a commercial pilot and by the time he’s twenty-six, he’s pretty used to being in the air all the time.
He’s standing outside the cockpit in Pittsburgh, waiting for the pre-flight checklist to complete. He can hear them loading luggage into the belly of the plane, and he knows they don’t have long. He leans into the cockpit to discuss the flight with the pilot-he’ll be co-pilot today-then emerges again just as Alan approaches. Alan walks like a man on a mission, and having the lead flight attendant look so intent is rarely a good sign.
“What’s up?” Stiles tries for cheery to start out. It’s going to be a long flight, and he doesn’t want to start with bad news. The storms in the midwest are enough cause for worry, and he’s already heard that half his crew is coming from a flight up from Florida that’s running twenty minutes late. “Please tell me the rest of your crew isn’t going to be even later, or worse, not make it.”
“It’s not that.” Alan leans in close, lowers his voice. “We have an H.R. on the plane.”
H.R.
Human remains.
Stiles licks his lips, motions for Captain Russell to come out as well. “Are they military?” Stiles asks, and at Alan’s nod, he adds, “Is there an escort?”
“He’s been assigned a seat, and he’s waiting to board.” Alan pauses, adds, “There’s family as well.”
The memory hits without warning, leaving Stiles’s eyes watery, his cheeks warm. His breath is rough in his chest, and he pushes away from the wall, hands clenched. It’s all too easy to bring to mind sad eyes, rimmed in bright red, wet with tears. He hauls in a breath and holds it, lets it out with a slow whoosh, aware that Captain Russell is speaking.
“Sir?” he asks.
“I’ve asked Alan to let the sergeant know that he and the family are welcome to board early,” the Captain says. “You okay, Stilinski?”
“I just need a moment. We’ve got time, right?” Stiles wants air, and even though it’s stale in the airport, there’s more room than there is on the plane. He needs to escape, just for a moment.
Captain Russell claps him on the shoulder. “The rest of the crew arrives in fifteen, and we’ll be boarding twenty minutes after that,” he says. “Go on, catch your breath. Be back soon.”
Stiles nods and rushes down the jetway, emerges into the crowded waiting area. He’s aware of eyes on him, everyone anxious at the delays, and he nods curtly before walking along the windows.
It’s impossible to miss the sergeant and the family.
The sergeant is dressed in his crisp uniform, his hat tucked under one arm as he stands, back straight and stiff. His face is scruffed, like he hasn’t been able to shave in a day or two, definitely longer than military length. His hair is shaved short on the sides, a little longer on the top. Heavy eyebrows are drawn together tightly, lips pursed and sour. But he sways slightly, a young girl on his hip, his free arm cradling her carefully. She has her thumb tucked in her mouth, her head tilted to his shoulder. There’s a baby carrier on the floor, and a mother rocking it as she sings softly in a broken voice.
Stiles’s feet carry him there without his permission, until he stands before them awkwardly. He clears his throat, and they look at him.
“I’m the co-pilot on your flight,” Stiles says softly. “And I’ve heard that we’re carrying your-” He stops, because he has no idea what the relationship is. Alan never said.
“My husband,” the woman says. “His name is Camden.”
“That we’re carrying Camden home to rest,” Stiles finishes his sentence as if he’d never stopped. “I wanted to offer my sympathy, and to say that if there’s anything you need during your flight, just ask Alan. He’s our lead flight attendant, and he will make sure that you’re comfortable. All of you.” He includes the sergeant in the motion of his hand.
The little girl in the sergeant’s arms sniffles wetly, and she rubs her eyes. “Daddy’s sleeping,” she says, and Stiles’s heart breaks. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be so young and not really understand that Daddy’s never waking up again. At least he’d been old enough to understand what the loss meant, even if it ached brutally in his heart.
He digs into his pocket, comes up with a crumpled tissue, and carefully unfolds it before offering it. “It’s clean,” he says, and the little girl takes it and presses it to her nose, blowing it wetly. She holds the used tissue out, and Stiles takes it, uncertain what to do next.
There’s a soft cough, but when Stiles glances over, the sergeant has looked away.
“Here.” The mom takes the tissue from him, hands the little girl a fresh one while she tucks the used one into her bag. “Thank you so much, Mr. Stilinski. I’m Angela, and this little one is Becky. Cam’s asleep.” She nudges the infant carrier, setting it to rocking again.
“Call me Stiles,” he says, touching his name tag to remind himself that of course that’s how they know his name. “And remember, I mean it. Anything you need. This is never an easy time, not for any of you.”
The sergeant grunts and turns away before Stiles can see the name on his uniform. Becky hides her face against the sergeant’s sleeve, then peeks at Stiles with a small smile.
There’s a cheer from the crowd assembled in the waiting area, and Stiles realizes that the rest of the crew has arrived. He winces, turns away. “I’m sorry, I have to get back inside. But if you want to come with me, I’ll get you folks settled into your seats before the rest of boarding begins.”
“That would be wonderful,” Angela says. Stiles carries the baby seat while she carries her bags, and the sergeant still carries Becky. They walk through the crowd and onto the plane, and Stiles gets them settled in the first two rows.
Somehow Angela and Becky end up in the second row with both tray tables down and Becky spreading crayons everywhere. Stiles murmurs to Alan to work with them to make sure they’re safe for take-off and landing, but to keep Becky entertained and occupied as much as possible.
The sergeant is the one in the first row. He doesn’t have a table, but he does have extra leg room, and the baby carrier is strapped into the seat next to him. When Stiles glances at him a moment later, the sergeant has the baby in his arms, a bottle in his hand as the baby drinks noisily. Stiles withdraws slowly, and ducks back into the cockpit.
“Everything all right?”
Stiles huffs a sigh, straps himself in. “Everything’s going to be just fine. It’s just a long flight ahead, yeah?”
“Always is on this run, always is,” Captain Russell agrees.
#
Stiles handles the announcement after the flight lands, as the plane pauses on the tarmac, just past the runway. His voice catches when he speaks of PFC Lahey, and his family on board, but he outright pauses before he reads the part about Sergeant Hale who accompanies them. He asks for patience on behalf of the grieving family, then sets the paper down, switches off the intercom.
“Stilinski?” Captain Russell asks, and that’s all it takes to bring Stiles back to the task at hand. They have to taxi into their spot and wait for the jetway.
He listens as Alan escorts the family and Sergeant Hale from the plane, and his eyes drift closed, remembering another time more than half a lifetime ago.
“You look tired,” Captain Russell observes quietly. “Do you have another flight, or is this the end for a bit?”
“It’s the end for a few days,” Stiles replies, eyes still closed. “I’m visiting with my dad in Beacon Hills, then I’ll be taking the run down to LA and flying out from there. I think I need the break.”
“Forgot this was your home.” Captain Russell squeezes Stiles’s shoulder, and that simple touch takes him back, reminds him of his father’s touch. “Hopefully you’ll get the chance to catch up with family and friends while you’re here.”
“Yeah.” Stiles knows there’s one other thing he needs to do that he hadn’t planned on. But he’ll fit it in, somehow.
They disembark after all the passengers are gone. Stiles is halfway down the jetway when he bumps into Alan hurrying back toward the plane. “Something wrong?”
“The little one-Becky-lost her stuffed bear.” Alan leans over, huffing like he’s run the entire length of the airport. “She’s even more of a mess.”
“I’ll go get it.” Stiles heads back into the plane, walks back to the row where Becky had been seated with her mom. It takes some work to find the bear, but he finally manages to pull it out from where it’s wedged between the seats in front of her, pushed almost down to the point where it’s invisible. It’s not a large bear, and it’s old and worn, like maybe Becky isn’t the first child to love it.
His fingers tighten around it, and he remembers Cora’s wolf.
Stiles heads for the baggage claim area; it’s the only place he knows to look. He doesn’t see Angela or Becky and the baby, but he does see the Sergeant standing by the conveyer belt, one bag beside him and his arms crossed, shoulders tense. Stiles calls out, “Sergeant Hale.”
Hale turns, both eyebrows arching up as his mouth falls slightly open. Stiles recognizes those bunny teeth, remembers them from when Derek Hale was a lanky teenager.
Stiles turns his hand, holds out the bear. “I heard Becky lost this, and Alan was tired from racing across the airport once already. I volunteered to bring it back.”
Derek takes it, tucks it carefully into the outer pocket on the suitcase by his legs. “Is rescuing lost stuffed animals part of your job now?”
It’s the first indication that maybe Derek has recognized him, remembers him from that awful day so long ago. Stiles’s mouth quirks. “Nope, I’m just a pilot. But if there’s something I can do to help get someone where he’s supposed to be,” he motions from the bear to Derek, “then I’ll do my best.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, reluctant somehow to just walk away. “These trips are never easy.”
Derek flinches. “Camden was part of my unit. I know what it’s like to be the family, so I volunteered for duty. Seemed right.” He twists as he spots something, turns away to grab a bag from the belt before it can slide by. His hand drops to the top of it, and he touches first one bag, then the other. “This is all they’ve got. They’re waiting for me with Camden.” He ducks his head. “He’s a good soldier. His family are good people, too.”
“Are you staying in town?” Stiles blurts the words out, takes a step forward while Derek takes a step back. Stiles has no idea what he’s trying to ask, why he’s trying to make contact with someone he’s only met twice.
It seems like kismet, somehow, to meet again like this. It seems like it should mean something.
Derek’s lips press together thinly. “I’m staying with Cora until Camden’s funeral. I’m waiting for my reassignment. Not going back into the field.”
There’s an entire story there, behind those words.
It clicks in, then, what Stiles read when he made the announcement. “Camden Lahey,” he says slowly. “Is that Isaac Lahey’s older brother?”
Derek nods once. “He’s fond of Isaac. Spoke about him often. Proud of how well he’s doing, working with Dr. Deaton.”
“My best bud, Scott, works with Deaton and Isaac, too,” Stiles says. “So we’ll be there. At the funeral.”
Derek’s gaze narrows. “You don’t have to be.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I think I do.”
#
Stiles drives into the cemetery and leaves his car at the Lahey gravesite long before anyone else arrives. He parks out of the way, leaving plenty of room for the hearse and the funeral procession. He could have gone to the service prior to the burial, but there’s something else, something more important that he needs to do first.
He sets the flowers on his mother’s grave, poking the plastic stake into the ground so the flowers will stay upright, be watered by the rain that’s just starting to fall. Then he sits down on the grass, not caring about stains on his suit, and folds himself cross-legged, hands on his knees. “Hey, Mom.”
There’s no answer, of course. He’d be worried if there were.
“I did the Pittsburgh run two days ago,” he says softly. “I told you about that one the first time I did it as a pilot, remember? It’s the same leg we flew when we came back from seeing your folks after you died. It’s the same leg that carried that soldier then, Staff Sergeant Hale. I always felt like maybe I was supposed to keep in touch with the kids, like maybe I should’ve looked them up. I think Cora was around my age. Derek and Laura were older; it seemed like Laura was almost an adult, but hey, I was eleven, so I might’ve just imagined that. Anyway. The thing is… do you remember me talking about Isaac?”
This is far from the first time he’s sat on his mother’s grave, having a one-sided conversation. He remembers when Isaac Lahey first came into his life, getting between him and Scott, nearly destroying a friendship that had held strong since they were five. Stiles resented Isaac for a long time, and eventually came to see him as another brother, one that’s far more annoying than Scott could ever be.
Stiles sighs. “His brother died. I flew him home, Mom, on my flight, from Pittsburgh to Beacon Hills. He’s being buried today, and the Sergeant who accompanied him… it’s Derek Hale.” Stiles picks at the blades of grass. “I feel like it means something. It was fifteen years ago, right? It’s been a long time. But there we were, and there was even a lost stuffed animal, like we had to repeat every part of it. So here I am now, because it’s Isaac’s brother going into the ground, but also because there’s this guy I’ve met twice, and I feel like… I feel like I’m supposed to be here for him.”
Stiles presses his hands against the ground, digs his fingers into the dirt. “Am I crazy, Mom? I remember this one time you told me that if things are meant to be, they’ll come back again. And they’ll just keep coming back until you look at them and know, and this is only twice. But I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to be looking at. I just don’t see the pattern yet.”
A fat drop of rain falls on his head, rolls down the back of his neck and slips under his shirt. He reaches for his umbrella and opens it, shielding himself from the slowly growing storm.
“I love you, Mom.” He presses his hand down flat, then pushes himself to standing, starts walking back through the cemetery.
He spots Sergeant Hale, recognizing him by the crisp cut of his uniform. Stiles weaves between headstones, moving slowly until he reaches the crypt where Derek kneels quietly, head bowed. Stiles holds out the umbrella to keep the rain from his head.
The name Hale is engraved above the arched door, and names are listed down each side. Names and dates, both birth and death. Stiles sees Derek and Cora already there, only their birth dates and a dash, the death date still empty.
Laura has a date for her death, and it’s only a year past when Stiles remembers seeing them. It’s the same date next to several names-Talia, Peter, Jennifer… two boys who look like they were only a year old. Stiles reaches out to touch the engraving, jumping back when Derek abruptly stands in his way.
“It was a fire,” Derek says sharply, and Stiles lowers his hand.
“I remember it,” Stiles says. It was out in the preserve, on the edge of town. He remembers reading about the fire, realizing that’s why he didn’t really know the Hales-they were in a different school district, even though they lived in the same town. He’d thought about reaching out, but he was only twelve, and dealing with middle school and a still-grieving father, plus Scott’s dad walking out. It was all too much, and time slipped by and he did nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Derek stands there, just out of reach of the umbrella. Stiles tilts it, lifts it in offering, and Derek steps closer. It’s not quite big enough to shield them both completely, but it helps. Stiles smiles slightly.
“Have you been reassigned yet?” Stiles asks.
Derek nods. “Camp Parks. Just outside of Pleasanton.” His expression twists. “It’s not a busy base, but I’ll be doing training. They think I need some downtime.”
“If you were there when Camden died, you probably do.” Stiles doesn’t bother trying to be polite. He’s had his own issues with PTSD, even if he doesn’t want to talk about them. “It’s not that far from here, so you’ll be able to see Cora.”
Derek nods again, the movement short and sharp. His head tilts, and he looks across the grounds. “The procession’s starting to come in. We should go over.”
“Wait.” Stiles reaches without thinking, wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrist. Derek glances down, raises an eyebrow at Stiles, but Stiles refuses to let go. Not yet. He inhales, holds his breath for a moment and lets it out.
“We met fifteen years ago,” Stiles says. “Then we met again a few days ago, and while it wasn’t exactly groundhog day, there were a lot of things that played out in an extremely similar way. We just had different roles.”
“Your point?” That eyebrow quirks again, but Derek’s wrist is relaxed under Stiles’s touch.
Stiles swallows. “My point is that sometimes things happen for a reason. Sometimes things are obvious because we need to notice them. Because we’re being pointed in a particular direction. Sometimes we end up in places because that’s where we need to be.”
“And we needed to be on that plane?” Derek asks.
“And here,” Stiles says. “And you at Camp Parks, and me thinking about taking some vacation and staying with my dad in Beacon Hills.” At Derek’s silence, Stiles feels the need to backpedal. “It’s a thought, anyway.”
Derek huffs, and tugs his arm free. Stiles starts to put space between them, but Derek shifts his grip, comes back to him by taking his hand, a careful and cautious touch. Stiles refuses to look down, just squeezes gently, and his breath catches when Derek squeezes back.
“I told Cora I saw you, and about Becky’s bear,” Derek says slowly. “She’s going to be here today.”
“Have you met Isaac yet?” Stiles asks, and Derek shakes his head. “He’ll be with Scott and Allison in one of the family cars. They’re-” He stops, figuring it’ll be easier for Derek to meet them than to explain. “I’ll introduce you. After everything. We’re supposed to go back to Angela’s house. Isaac’s going to be staying with her for a while. Helping out.”
“And this?” Derek presses his fingers against Stiles’s.
“This is where the groundhog day imitation ends,” Stiles says quietly. “This is where we go off-script and figure the rest out. I’ll meet Cora again, and you’ll meet Scott and Isaac and Allison. We’ll go mourn for Camden, and celebrate a life well-lived. And maybe after we’ll get coffee. And exchange numbers.” He licks his lips. “We can see where we end up after that.”
Derek tugs, and Stiles steps closer, until they’re both squeezed under the umbrella, walking close enough that Derek’s hand slips from Stiles’s grasp, then slides behind Stile’s waist to hold on. It’s dryer, yes, and more comfortable as well, as Stiles leans into the heat of Derek’s body.
“Kismet,” Derek says.
“Or perhaps a kiss when we meet again,” Stiles quips.
He’s somehow not surprised when they stop where they are, and Derek turns toward him and touches his face, kisses him gently. “Kiss met,” Derek says, and yeah. This has to be fate.
Title: kismet
Rating: PG
Pairing/s: Derek/Stiles
Character/s: Derek, Stiles, others, OCs
Summary: We met fifteen years ago,” Stiles says. “Then we met again a few days ago, and while it wasn’t exactly groundhog day, there were a lot of things that played out in an extremely similar way. We just had different roles.
Warnings: n/a
Content Notes: angst with a happy ending, references deaths (not Derek or Stiles)
Submission Type: Fic
Word Count: ~5k
Prompt: #87 - Fate, #178 - Second Chances, #205 - Amnesty
Author's Notes: It was mostly fate that inspired this one, the idea of kismet, bumping into something that unexpectedly turned into a positive experience. It was also inspired by this story I saw pass by on Facebook, about a soldier’s remains, and those who accompanied him and eased his way. I’m sorry for the angst, but it does have a happy ending, I promise, and right now, angst with a positive outlook seems like the right feel as we close out 2016.
Stiles loves watching out the window as the plane lands. He presses as close to the window as he can, both palms flat against the glass, fingers spread. There’s a choked sound somewhere behind him, but he ignores it. Some people don’t like to fly, and that’s okay. Stiles isn’t really all that thrilled with the idea of being up in the air inside of some machine, even if he’s read every article on the internet he could find about how wings and lift work. But the landing-the part where he can see civilization shifting from something doll-like back into recognizable buildings and places-that fascinates him.
He watches as the airport draws closer. The Beacon County airport is a small one. It says it’s international, but that’s mostly because it flies commuter lines up to Canada and down to Mexico. Mostly they fly short hops to San Francisco or LA, and sometimes longer flights to Detroit or Las Vegas. This is one of the longest he’s ever been on, direct from Pittsburgh, but the approach is exactly the same, sliding over downtown Beacon City and just barely over the corner of Beacon Hills, above the preserve. Then what feels like a straight drop down over the cliff’s edge until they’re skimming the end of the runway.
It’s a larger plane, and it feels like forever before he feels the thud-bump of the wheels hitting the ground, then the roar of the engines as the plane rushes to slow down.
His father’s fingers hook in the back of his collar, tugging him back into his seat, just as the plane taxis off the runway and comes to a stop. Stiles’s brow furrows. “Why are we stopped?”
So maybe at the not-so-advanced age of eleven he hasn’t flown all that much, but it’s been enough to know that you don’t stop until you get to the terminal and the jetway.
“Passengers of flight 1540, I apologize for the delay.” The captain’s voice is low and smooth, almost too calming. Stiles recognizes that tone after two weeks of I’m sorry being said over and over, and his body goes tense. He grips the arms of his chair, lifting his hand only when his father weaves their fingers together and holds on.
“We have a very special passenger on board today,” the captain continues. “A member of our armed services-Staff Sergeant Hale-gave his life overseas, and is traveling beneath your feet to return home to be buried near his family.”
Tears prick at Stiles’s eyes, and he dashes his free hand against them. He won’t cry, not again. Not now.
His father’s fingers tighten on his, holding on, and Stiles thankfully squeezes back.
“He is escorted by Sergeant Marshall, and Staff Sergeant Hale’s family is on board as well-his wife, and his three children. When we arrive at the terminal, my crew and I would request that you remain in your seats and allow this family to be reunited with their loved one as soon as possible.”
The hiccup behind Stiles’s seat is louder now. He tugs his hand free from his father and twists, turning to kneel on his seat and peer over. A girl about his age peers back at him, her hair hanging across her face, her eyes bright red and swollen. Stiles digs into his pocket and pulls out a tissue that he has stashed there, just in case.
“It’s clean,” he says, as he hands it to her.
She gulps and sniffles, taking the tissue and blowing her nose. It isn’t pretty or delicate, but it makes Stiles smile just a little because it’s real and he understands.
“I lost my mom a week ago,” he says softly. The teenage boy sitting next to her stares at him, green eyes dark and stormy. The girl smiles, just a little.
“I lost my dad,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and that’s all he has time for before his dad yanks to drag him back down into his seat, and the plane starts moving again.
No one moves when the plane stops at the terminal, the crowded plane silent as the jetway thumps into place against the side of the plane. The doors open with a whoosh, and five people stand.
There are two directly behind Stiles-the girl who was crying, and the boy from the middle seat who looks several years older. There’s another girl from across the aisle, a little older than the boy, and a woman who has to be their mother. The man in uniform who sits with them must be the sergeant accompanying them.
The girl looks to Stiles on the way by, and he hands her his last tissue, dug from the depths of his backpack. Her smile flickers before it drops away, and she trails after her brother, her head bowed.
Time freezes until they are gone.
The world seems to explode into motion after that, everyone standing at once, pulling luggage out of the overhead racks. Stiles’s dad hands him his jacket, and he shrugs into it before he wrestles his backpack onto his back. His dad makes his way into the aisle, then pauses, reaching into the row of seats behind them.
He holds up a small stuffed wolf. “She must have left it.”
Stiles holds out his hand, takes the wolf. “I’ll give it back to her. She needs it right now.” He doesn’t mention his bunny buried at the bottom of his own backpack, and his dad wisely doesn’t mention it either.
They make their way off the plane, following the crowd through the terminal and into the public areas. People greet their friends and family, but Stiles and his dad are alone, winding their way to the baggage claim. Stiles suspects he should’ve turned in the wolf at the front of the plane, but he carries it tucked to his chest, somehow certain that he’ll see the family again and be able to return it.
He’s partly right.
He spots the boy sitting on top of a suitcase off to one side. Stiles looks around, finds the older girl near the baggage conveyer belt, watching things go around. Stiles tugs on his dad’s hand, points at the boy, and is relieved when his dad lets him go without a question.
“Hey,” Stiles says softly, and the boy glares at him. Stiles holds out the wolf. “I think your little sister dropped this, and she’s probably going to want it tonight.”
The boy’s mouth drops open slightly, and Stiles is struck by how out of place his teeth look. Bunny teeth, just like on the stuffed bunny buried in Stiles’s pack. Stiles smiles slightly, and shrugs one shoulder. “Like I said. My mom died last week, and we went to see her mom and dad in Philadelphia because her mom’s too sick to come here. We just buried her here before we left on Friday. I’m really sorry about your dad. I know how much it sucks.”
The boy stares at him, grabs the wolf and clutches it to his chest, fingers white from holding on so tight. He swallows, then says, “I’m Derek. And thank you.”
“Stiles,” Stiles replies, and he has no idea what to say after that. “Um. You’ll give that to your sister?”
“Her name’s Cora,” Derek says, even though that isn’t really a reply. “My other sister’s Laura.”
It’s awkward then, as they stand there staring at each other. Stiles doesn’t want to move because he’s not sure exactly where his dad went, and it’s better to stay put and be found than to start searching and get in trouble for getting lost.
He startles when Laura drags two heavy suitcases over, dropping them next to Derek. She looks from Derek to Stiles, a frown starting. “You’re the boy from the plane,” she says. “Cora liked you. Which is impressive, because she doesn’t like anyone.”
“Stiles is okay,” Derek says quietly. He glances up, and a hand falls on Stiles’s shoulder.
“Time to go, son,” his dad tells him, and Stiles offers a rueful smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says, one more time for good measure. He’s heard it so often since his mother slipped away, and he knows it doesn’t really help. But at the same time, there isn’t really anything else he can say to this stranger that he hasn’t already said. “I understand,” is the best he can do, and by the way Derek nods, he figures it meant something to him as well.
#
It’s part of the reason Stiles becomes a pilot. He goes through two years in the community college in the forensics program, but by the time he’s done, he realizes that as much as he loves solving puzzles, he doesn’t want to solve crimes for the rest of his life.
He wants to bring people home. He wants to make those connections, and help people get to where they need to be. So he trains and becomes a commercial pilot and by the time he’s twenty-six, he’s pretty used to being in the air all the time.
He’s standing outside the cockpit in Pittsburgh, waiting for the pre-flight checklist to complete. He can hear them loading luggage into the belly of the plane, and he knows they don’t have long. He leans into the cockpit to discuss the flight with the pilot-he’ll be co-pilot today-then emerges again just as Alan approaches. Alan walks like a man on a mission, and having the lead flight attendant look so intent is rarely a good sign.
“What’s up?” Stiles tries for cheery to start out. It’s going to be a long flight, and he doesn’t want to start with bad news. The storms in the midwest are enough cause for worry, and he’s already heard that half his crew is coming from a flight up from Florida that’s running twenty minutes late. “Please tell me the rest of your crew isn’t going to be even later, or worse, not make it.”
“It’s not that.” Alan leans in close, lowers his voice. “We have an H.R. on the plane.”
H.R.
Human remains.
Stiles licks his lips, motions for Captain Russell to come out as well. “Are they military?” Stiles asks, and at Alan’s nod, he adds, “Is there an escort?”
“He’s been assigned a seat, and he’s waiting to board.” Alan pauses, adds, “There’s family as well.”
The memory hits without warning, leaving Stiles’s eyes watery, his cheeks warm. His breath is rough in his chest, and he pushes away from the wall, hands clenched. It’s all too easy to bring to mind sad eyes, rimmed in bright red, wet with tears. He hauls in a breath and holds it, lets it out with a slow whoosh, aware that Captain Russell is speaking.
“Sir?” he asks.
“I’ve asked Alan to let the sergeant know that he and the family are welcome to board early,” the Captain says. “You okay, Stilinski?”
“I just need a moment. We’ve got time, right?” Stiles wants air, and even though it’s stale in the airport, there’s more room than there is on the plane. He needs to escape, just for a moment.
Captain Russell claps him on the shoulder. “The rest of the crew arrives in fifteen, and we’ll be boarding twenty minutes after that,” he says. “Go on, catch your breath. Be back soon.”
Stiles nods and rushes down the jetway, emerges into the crowded waiting area. He’s aware of eyes on him, everyone anxious at the delays, and he nods curtly before walking along the windows.
It’s impossible to miss the sergeant and the family.
The sergeant is dressed in his crisp uniform, his hat tucked under one arm as he stands, back straight and stiff. His face is scruffed, like he hasn’t been able to shave in a day or two, definitely longer than military length. His hair is shaved short on the sides, a little longer on the top. Heavy eyebrows are drawn together tightly, lips pursed and sour. But he sways slightly, a young girl on his hip, his free arm cradling her carefully. She has her thumb tucked in her mouth, her head tilted to his shoulder. There’s a baby carrier on the floor, and a mother rocking it as she sings softly in a broken voice.
Stiles’s feet carry him there without his permission, until he stands before them awkwardly. He clears his throat, and they look at him.
“I’m the co-pilot on your flight,” Stiles says softly. “And I’ve heard that we’re carrying your-” He stops, because he has no idea what the relationship is. Alan never said.
“My husband,” the woman says. “His name is Camden.”
“That we’re carrying Camden home to rest,” Stiles finishes his sentence as if he’d never stopped. “I wanted to offer my sympathy, and to say that if there’s anything you need during your flight, just ask Alan. He’s our lead flight attendant, and he will make sure that you’re comfortable. All of you.” He includes the sergeant in the motion of his hand.
The little girl in the sergeant’s arms sniffles wetly, and she rubs her eyes. “Daddy’s sleeping,” she says, and Stiles’s heart breaks. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be so young and not really understand that Daddy’s never waking up again. At least he’d been old enough to understand what the loss meant, even if it ached brutally in his heart.
He digs into his pocket, comes up with a crumpled tissue, and carefully unfolds it before offering it. “It’s clean,” he says, and the little girl takes it and presses it to her nose, blowing it wetly. She holds the used tissue out, and Stiles takes it, uncertain what to do next.
There’s a soft cough, but when Stiles glances over, the sergeant has looked away.
“Here.” The mom takes the tissue from him, hands the little girl a fresh one while she tucks the used one into her bag. “Thank you so much, Mr. Stilinski. I’m Angela, and this little one is Becky. Cam’s asleep.” She nudges the infant carrier, setting it to rocking again.
“Call me Stiles,” he says, touching his name tag to remind himself that of course that’s how they know his name. “And remember, I mean it. Anything you need. This is never an easy time, not for any of you.”
The sergeant grunts and turns away before Stiles can see the name on his uniform. Becky hides her face against the sergeant’s sleeve, then peeks at Stiles with a small smile.
There’s a cheer from the crowd assembled in the waiting area, and Stiles realizes that the rest of the crew has arrived. He winces, turns away. “I’m sorry, I have to get back inside. But if you want to come with me, I’ll get you folks settled into your seats before the rest of boarding begins.”
“That would be wonderful,” Angela says. Stiles carries the baby seat while she carries her bags, and the sergeant still carries Becky. They walk through the crowd and onto the plane, and Stiles gets them settled in the first two rows.
Somehow Angela and Becky end up in the second row with both tray tables down and Becky spreading crayons everywhere. Stiles murmurs to Alan to work with them to make sure they’re safe for take-off and landing, but to keep Becky entertained and occupied as much as possible.
The sergeant is the one in the first row. He doesn’t have a table, but he does have extra leg room, and the baby carrier is strapped into the seat next to him. When Stiles glances at him a moment later, the sergeant has the baby in his arms, a bottle in his hand as the baby drinks noisily. Stiles withdraws slowly, and ducks back into the cockpit.
“Everything all right?”
Stiles huffs a sigh, straps himself in. “Everything’s going to be just fine. It’s just a long flight ahead, yeah?”
“Always is on this run, always is,” Captain Russell agrees.
#
Stiles handles the announcement after the flight lands, as the plane pauses on the tarmac, just past the runway. His voice catches when he speaks of PFC Lahey, and his family on board, but he outright pauses before he reads the part about Sergeant Hale who accompanies them. He asks for patience on behalf of the grieving family, then sets the paper down, switches off the intercom.
“Stilinski?” Captain Russell asks, and that’s all it takes to bring Stiles back to the task at hand. They have to taxi into their spot and wait for the jetway.
He listens as Alan escorts the family and Sergeant Hale from the plane, and his eyes drift closed, remembering another time more than half a lifetime ago.
“You look tired,” Captain Russell observes quietly. “Do you have another flight, or is this the end for a bit?”
“It’s the end for a few days,” Stiles replies, eyes still closed. “I’m visiting with my dad in Beacon Hills, then I’ll be taking the run down to LA and flying out from there. I think I need the break.”
“Forgot this was your home.” Captain Russell squeezes Stiles’s shoulder, and that simple touch takes him back, reminds him of his father’s touch. “Hopefully you’ll get the chance to catch up with family and friends while you’re here.”
“Yeah.” Stiles knows there’s one other thing he needs to do that he hadn’t planned on. But he’ll fit it in, somehow.
They disembark after all the passengers are gone. Stiles is halfway down the jetway when he bumps into Alan hurrying back toward the plane. “Something wrong?”
“The little one-Becky-lost her stuffed bear.” Alan leans over, huffing like he’s run the entire length of the airport. “She’s even more of a mess.”
“I’ll go get it.” Stiles heads back into the plane, walks back to the row where Becky had been seated with her mom. It takes some work to find the bear, but he finally manages to pull it out from where it’s wedged between the seats in front of her, pushed almost down to the point where it’s invisible. It’s not a large bear, and it’s old and worn, like maybe Becky isn’t the first child to love it.
His fingers tighten around it, and he remembers Cora’s wolf.
Stiles heads for the baggage claim area; it’s the only place he knows to look. He doesn’t see Angela or Becky and the baby, but he does see the Sergeant standing by the conveyer belt, one bag beside him and his arms crossed, shoulders tense. Stiles calls out, “Sergeant Hale.”
Hale turns, both eyebrows arching up as his mouth falls slightly open. Stiles recognizes those bunny teeth, remembers them from when Derek Hale was a lanky teenager.
Stiles turns his hand, holds out the bear. “I heard Becky lost this, and Alan was tired from racing across the airport once already. I volunteered to bring it back.”
Derek takes it, tucks it carefully into the outer pocket on the suitcase by his legs. “Is rescuing lost stuffed animals part of your job now?”
It’s the first indication that maybe Derek has recognized him, remembers him from that awful day so long ago. Stiles’s mouth quirks. “Nope, I’m just a pilot. But if there’s something I can do to help get someone where he’s supposed to be,” he motions from the bear to Derek, “then I’ll do my best.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, reluctant somehow to just walk away. “These trips are never easy.”
Derek flinches. “Camden was part of my unit. I know what it’s like to be the family, so I volunteered for duty. Seemed right.” He twists as he spots something, turns away to grab a bag from the belt before it can slide by. His hand drops to the top of it, and he touches first one bag, then the other. “This is all they’ve got. They’re waiting for me with Camden.” He ducks his head. “He’s a good soldier. His family are good people, too.”
“Are you staying in town?” Stiles blurts the words out, takes a step forward while Derek takes a step back. Stiles has no idea what he’s trying to ask, why he’s trying to make contact with someone he’s only met twice.
It seems like kismet, somehow, to meet again like this. It seems like it should mean something.
Derek’s lips press together thinly. “I’m staying with Cora until Camden’s funeral. I’m waiting for my reassignment. Not going back into the field.”
There’s an entire story there, behind those words.
It clicks in, then, what Stiles read when he made the announcement. “Camden Lahey,” he says slowly. “Is that Isaac Lahey’s older brother?”
Derek nods once. “He’s fond of Isaac. Spoke about him often. Proud of how well he’s doing, working with Dr. Deaton.”
“My best bud, Scott, works with Deaton and Isaac, too,” Stiles says. “So we’ll be there. At the funeral.”
Derek’s gaze narrows. “You don’t have to be.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I think I do.”
#
Stiles drives into the cemetery and leaves his car at the Lahey gravesite long before anyone else arrives. He parks out of the way, leaving plenty of room for the hearse and the funeral procession. He could have gone to the service prior to the burial, but there’s something else, something more important that he needs to do first.
He sets the flowers on his mother’s grave, poking the plastic stake into the ground so the flowers will stay upright, be watered by the rain that’s just starting to fall. Then he sits down on the grass, not caring about stains on his suit, and folds himself cross-legged, hands on his knees. “Hey, Mom.”
There’s no answer, of course. He’d be worried if there were.
“I did the Pittsburgh run two days ago,” he says softly. “I told you about that one the first time I did it as a pilot, remember? It’s the same leg we flew when we came back from seeing your folks after you died. It’s the same leg that carried that soldier then, Staff Sergeant Hale. I always felt like maybe I was supposed to keep in touch with the kids, like maybe I should’ve looked them up. I think Cora was around my age. Derek and Laura were older; it seemed like Laura was almost an adult, but hey, I was eleven, so I might’ve just imagined that. Anyway. The thing is… do you remember me talking about Isaac?”
This is far from the first time he’s sat on his mother’s grave, having a one-sided conversation. He remembers when Isaac Lahey first came into his life, getting between him and Scott, nearly destroying a friendship that had held strong since they were five. Stiles resented Isaac for a long time, and eventually came to see him as another brother, one that’s far more annoying than Scott could ever be.
Stiles sighs. “His brother died. I flew him home, Mom, on my flight, from Pittsburgh to Beacon Hills. He’s being buried today, and the Sergeant who accompanied him… it’s Derek Hale.” Stiles picks at the blades of grass. “I feel like it means something. It was fifteen years ago, right? It’s been a long time. But there we were, and there was even a lost stuffed animal, like we had to repeat every part of it. So here I am now, because it’s Isaac’s brother going into the ground, but also because there’s this guy I’ve met twice, and I feel like… I feel like I’m supposed to be here for him.”
Stiles presses his hands against the ground, digs his fingers into the dirt. “Am I crazy, Mom? I remember this one time you told me that if things are meant to be, they’ll come back again. And they’ll just keep coming back until you look at them and know, and this is only twice. But I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to be looking at. I just don’t see the pattern yet.”
A fat drop of rain falls on his head, rolls down the back of his neck and slips under his shirt. He reaches for his umbrella and opens it, shielding himself from the slowly growing storm.
“I love you, Mom.” He presses his hand down flat, then pushes himself to standing, starts walking back through the cemetery.
He spots Sergeant Hale, recognizing him by the crisp cut of his uniform. Stiles weaves between headstones, moving slowly until he reaches the crypt where Derek kneels quietly, head bowed. Stiles holds out the umbrella to keep the rain from his head.
The name Hale is engraved above the arched door, and names are listed down each side. Names and dates, both birth and death. Stiles sees Derek and Cora already there, only their birth dates and a dash, the death date still empty.
Laura has a date for her death, and it’s only a year past when Stiles remembers seeing them. It’s the same date next to several names-Talia, Peter, Jennifer… two boys who look like they were only a year old. Stiles reaches out to touch the engraving, jumping back when Derek abruptly stands in his way.
“It was a fire,” Derek says sharply, and Stiles lowers his hand.
“I remember it,” Stiles says. It was out in the preserve, on the edge of town. He remembers reading about the fire, realizing that’s why he didn’t really know the Hales-they were in a different school district, even though they lived in the same town. He’d thought about reaching out, but he was only twelve, and dealing with middle school and a still-grieving father, plus Scott’s dad walking out. It was all too much, and time slipped by and he did nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Derek stands there, just out of reach of the umbrella. Stiles tilts it, lifts it in offering, and Derek steps closer. It’s not quite big enough to shield them both completely, but it helps. Stiles smiles slightly.
“Have you been reassigned yet?” Stiles asks.
Derek nods. “Camp Parks. Just outside of Pleasanton.” His expression twists. “It’s not a busy base, but I’ll be doing training. They think I need some downtime.”
“If you were there when Camden died, you probably do.” Stiles doesn’t bother trying to be polite. He’s had his own issues with PTSD, even if he doesn’t want to talk about them. “It’s not that far from here, so you’ll be able to see Cora.”
Derek nods again, the movement short and sharp. His head tilts, and he looks across the grounds. “The procession’s starting to come in. We should go over.”
“Wait.” Stiles reaches without thinking, wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrist. Derek glances down, raises an eyebrow at Stiles, but Stiles refuses to let go. Not yet. He inhales, holds his breath for a moment and lets it out.
“We met fifteen years ago,” Stiles says. “Then we met again a few days ago, and while it wasn’t exactly groundhog day, there were a lot of things that played out in an extremely similar way. We just had different roles.”
“Your point?” That eyebrow quirks again, but Derek’s wrist is relaxed under Stiles’s touch.
Stiles swallows. “My point is that sometimes things happen for a reason. Sometimes things are obvious because we need to notice them. Because we’re being pointed in a particular direction. Sometimes we end up in places because that’s where we need to be.”
“And we needed to be on that plane?” Derek asks.
“And here,” Stiles says. “And you at Camp Parks, and me thinking about taking some vacation and staying with my dad in Beacon Hills.” At Derek’s silence, Stiles feels the need to backpedal. “It’s a thought, anyway.”
Derek huffs, and tugs his arm free. Stiles starts to put space between them, but Derek shifts his grip, comes back to him by taking his hand, a careful and cautious touch. Stiles refuses to look down, just squeezes gently, and his breath catches when Derek squeezes back.
“I told Cora I saw you, and about Becky’s bear,” Derek says slowly. “She’s going to be here today.”
“Have you met Isaac yet?” Stiles asks, and Derek shakes his head. “He’ll be with Scott and Allison in one of the family cars. They’re-” He stops, figuring it’ll be easier for Derek to meet them than to explain. “I’ll introduce you. After everything. We’re supposed to go back to Angela’s house. Isaac’s going to be staying with her for a while. Helping out.”
“And this?” Derek presses his fingers against Stiles’s.
“This is where the groundhog day imitation ends,” Stiles says quietly. “This is where we go off-script and figure the rest out. I’ll meet Cora again, and you’ll meet Scott and Isaac and Allison. We’ll go mourn for Camden, and celebrate a life well-lived. And maybe after we’ll get coffee. And exchange numbers.” He licks his lips. “We can see where we end up after that.”
Derek tugs, and Stiles steps closer, until they’re both squeezed under the umbrella, walking close enough that Derek’s hand slips from Stiles’s grasp, then slides behind Stile’s waist to hold on. It’s dryer, yes, and more comfortable as well, as Stiles leans into the heat of Derek’s body.
“Kismet,” Derek says.
“Or perhaps a kiss when we meet again,” Stiles quips.
He’s somehow not surprised when they stop where they are, and Derek turns toward him and touches his face, kisses him gently. “Kiss met,” Derek says, and yeah. This has to be fate.