I’ve Been Out Walking (I Don’t Do Too Much Talking)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Summary: Sequel to Linear Equations and Of Sound Mind ; Dereks watches over Stiles while he copes.
Note: Title from “I’ve Been Out Walking” by Jackson Browne
I’ve Been Out Walking (I Don’t Do Too Much Talking)
...the woods are the only place I can see a clear path. - Captain Malcolm Reynolds, Firefly “Serenity” (1x01-02)
The first time Derek caught wind of Stiles, the moon was in its first quarter. The air was autumn crisp, blowing in on a soft breeze from across the ravine. On nights like these, sounds and scents carried well. On other nights, hot still ones, all he would catch were the strong notes, whereas on wets ones, everything came to him muted and wrapped in the scent of earth. On nights like these, though, the ripples traveling across the world reached Derek whole, full of nuances and sharp edges.
So when he leaned against a tree trunk, reveling in the feel of the woods and the night and the hum of the moon, and breathed deep, he got a noseful of Stiles. He caught the salt of cooling sweat and the dust of the Jeep, spiced deodorant and teenage boy and the ever-present werewolf tang of Scott. He caught new smells, too: a lemon-scented laundry detergent, the sting of hospital antiseptic and the musty smell of an unused room. The smells were all wrapped up with a hint of gun oil and aftershave that had always clung to the sheriff’s jacket.
Derek let his head fall back again the tree trunk and closed his eyes, trying to build an image up from the smells, imagining Stiles living with the McCalls, being the third wheel, the new son, the live-in best friend. He wondered whether the change - the absence of any memory of his father - was a blessing for Stiles or just another reminder of everything that was gone. He tried not to think about those first weeks in New York, how his chest tightened every time he caught the scent of smoke and ash that clung to his clothes, and how it hurt even more when he smelled nothing but soap.
Derek pushed himself off the the trunk and scented the air. This time he caught a whiff of stirred mud and wet jeans, putting Stiles’ location near the small creek. With a huff of annoyance, wondering what harebrained misadventure the boy was chasing now.
He found Stiles ankle-deep in the water, kicking out submerged stones and completely ignoring the fact that he was in the woods in the middle of the night. Even if the kid hadn’t known about werewolves, he sure as hell knew there were mountain lions. What was he even thinking?
Derek was just about to leap down the bank and haul Stiles by the scruff of his neck all the way back to the city when something in the boy’s stance made him reconsider. He moved forward quietly and crouched by a bush, watching Stiles as he made his way upstream. From this angle he could see the teen’s face, see the lips pressed in a tight line, the eyes glued to the muddied water. He took in the rest of the sight, the sheriff jacket hanging loosely on the boyish frame, the thin shoulders hunched underneath and the clenched hands thrust deep into pockets.
He waited until Stiles reached him, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye and barely paying attention to where he was going. Derek smelled the salt before he saw the smudged tear tracks. As Stiles walked past him, feet sloshing in the water, Derek stood up and followed.
The boy needed to walk, needed to kick at stones and drag his feet through mud. Needed to be alone with the jacket on his shoulders. That was fine. Derek understood grief. He was just going to make sure Stiles didn’t get himself killed in the process.
Stiles didn’t walk the forest every night, probably because the McCalls were reluctant to let him out of their sight, but he did come out to the woods often enough for Derek to sit out on a rocky outcrop and face the breeze, nose twitching for the teen’s scent. He stayed clear of the creek, probably having gotten hell over the ankle-deep mud he must have dragged back home, and took a new path each time, weaving through trees and slipping down hills. Derek followed from a distance, senses tuned to the noises and scents of the woods, glancing at Stiles every once in a while to make sure he was still healthy and whole.
After a few nights of this, Scott finally caught on to Stiles’ night walks and stormed up to Derek’s door, demanding that Derek drop everything and help him. The boy could never just ask for anything, instead opting for laying on guilt and threats, all bark and never any bite.
When he finally stopped, Derek explained that yes, he knew Stiles was wandering around his woods at night and that, no, he didn’t want Stiles to end up dying from exposure or breaking his neck, that he had enough suspicious activity happen on his property as it was. (That last bit didn’t go down too well with Scott, but then it wasn’t his backyard where arson and murders had been committed.)
Derek let Scott pretend he’d won and agreed to “start” following Stiles.
One week in to Stiles’ midnight wanderings and Derek was seriously considering doing something. There was giving someone space and then there was letting them walk themselves off a cliff. In the woods, the boy’s walks were spiraling into some sort of blind man’s bluff to the point that Derek found himself almost hovering, thinking at any moment he’d hear the snap of bone over a misplaced root. From what he could glean off Scott, Stiles wasn’t getting any better outside of the woods - “freakishly quiet” was Scott’s diagnosis.
Maybe it was the coming full moon itching beneath his skin, but if Derek thought that if he saw Stiles so much as stumble tonight, he really would grab him by the neck and haul him out of the woods. He hadn’t thought much further than that - where would he take the kid, what would he say - but he was tired of shadowing Stiles and seeing the same hurt every night.
There was no night breeze tonight and Derek wasn’t picking up any of Stiles’ scent. He had heard the Jeep’s engine, though, stopping as it always did somewhere on the edge of the woods on the long stretch of empty road, so he knew Stiles was walking tonight. Derek gave a frustrated flex of his fingers, feeling the claws straining against his control. He decided to run along the periphery of his territory, hoping to catch wind of Stiles before he did anything stupid.
When he finally caught Stiles’ scent, Derek frowned and picking up his speed, racing up familiar trails until he reached his own house. Stiles was sitting there on the porch railings, swinging his leg and picking at the charred wood with a thumbnail. Derek stood watching him for a while, too used to being Stiles’ forest shadow to take the first step out into the open.
When it was clear that Stiles wasn’t moving from the porch, Derek walked out of the woods and slowly made his way up to the house. Stiles’ foot missed a beat in its swinging but other than that, the teen didn’t acknowledge Derek’s presence. Derek leaned against a column and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Stiles, who still hadn’t looked up and instead kept digging his thumbnail into the soft burnt black wood. Derek watched him.
“I’m an orphan.” It was loud and sudden in the cold night air and Derek flinched. He waited for Stiles to say more, but the boy’s face was still. His leg kept twitching and his fingers kept prodding at the wood. Derek realized that there would be nothing else coming, not now, not tonight at least. This wasn’t Stiles breaking down. Derek shifted his weight against the column, his shoulders loosening, and said, “So am I.”
Stiles finally looked up at him then and for one moment they understood each other completely.
Summary: Sequel to Linear Equations and Of Sound Mind ; Dereks watches over Stiles while he copes.
Note: Title from “I’ve Been Out Walking” by Jackson Browne
I’ve Been Out Walking (I Don’t Do Too Much Talking)
...the woods are the only place I can see a clear path. - Captain Malcolm Reynolds, Firefly “Serenity” (1x01-02)
The first time Derek caught wind of Stiles, the moon was in its first quarter. The air was autumn crisp, blowing in on a soft breeze from across the ravine. On nights like these, sounds and scents carried well. On other nights, hot still ones, all he would catch were the strong notes, whereas on wets ones, everything came to him muted and wrapped in the scent of earth. On nights like these, though, the ripples traveling across the world reached Derek whole, full of nuances and sharp edges.
So when he leaned against a tree trunk, reveling in the feel of the woods and the night and the hum of the moon, and breathed deep, he got a noseful of Stiles. He caught the salt of cooling sweat and the dust of the Jeep, spiced deodorant and teenage boy and the ever-present werewolf tang of Scott. He caught new smells, too: a lemon-scented laundry detergent, the sting of hospital antiseptic and the musty smell of an unused room. The smells were all wrapped up with a hint of gun oil and aftershave that had always clung to the sheriff’s jacket.
Derek let his head fall back again the tree trunk and closed his eyes, trying to build an image up from the smells, imagining Stiles living with the McCalls, being the third wheel, the new son, the live-in best friend. He wondered whether the change - the absence of any memory of his father - was a blessing for Stiles or just another reminder of everything that was gone. He tried not to think about those first weeks in New York, how his chest tightened every time he caught the scent of smoke and ash that clung to his clothes, and how it hurt even more when he smelled nothing but soap.
Derek pushed himself off the the trunk and scented the air. This time he caught a whiff of stirred mud and wet jeans, putting Stiles’ location near the small creek. With a huff of annoyance, wondering what harebrained misadventure the boy was chasing now.
He found Stiles ankle-deep in the water, kicking out submerged stones and completely ignoring the fact that he was in the woods in the middle of the night. Even if the kid hadn’t known about werewolves, he sure as hell knew there were mountain lions. What was he even thinking?
Derek was just about to leap down the bank and haul Stiles by the scruff of his neck all the way back to the city when something in the boy’s stance made him reconsider. He moved forward quietly and crouched by a bush, watching Stiles as he made his way upstream. From this angle he could see the teen’s face, see the lips pressed in a tight line, the eyes glued to the muddied water. He took in the rest of the sight, the sheriff jacket hanging loosely on the boyish frame, the thin shoulders hunched underneath and the clenched hands thrust deep into pockets.
He waited until Stiles reached him, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye and barely paying attention to where he was going. Derek smelled the salt before he saw the smudged tear tracks. As Stiles walked past him, feet sloshing in the water, Derek stood up and followed.
The boy needed to walk, needed to kick at stones and drag his feet through mud. Needed to be alone with the jacket on his shoulders. That was fine. Derek understood grief. He was just going to make sure Stiles didn’t get himself killed in the process.
Stiles didn’t walk the forest every night, probably because the McCalls were reluctant to let him out of their sight, but he did come out to the woods often enough for Derek to sit out on a rocky outcrop and face the breeze, nose twitching for the teen’s scent. He stayed clear of the creek, probably having gotten hell over the ankle-deep mud he must have dragged back home, and took a new path each time, weaving through trees and slipping down hills. Derek followed from a distance, senses tuned to the noises and scents of the woods, glancing at Stiles every once in a while to make sure he was still healthy and whole.
After a few nights of this, Scott finally caught on to Stiles’ night walks and stormed up to Derek’s door, demanding that Derek drop everything and help him. The boy could never just ask for anything, instead opting for laying on guilt and threats, all bark and never any bite.
When he finally stopped, Derek explained that yes, he knew Stiles was wandering around his woods at night and that, no, he didn’t want Stiles to end up dying from exposure or breaking his neck, that he had enough suspicious activity happen on his property as it was. (That last bit didn’t go down too well with Scott, but then it wasn’t his backyard where arson and murders had been committed.)
Derek let Scott pretend he’d won and agreed to “start” following Stiles.
One week in to Stiles’ midnight wanderings and Derek was seriously considering doing something. There was giving someone space and then there was letting them walk themselves off a cliff. In the woods, the boy’s walks were spiraling into some sort of blind man’s bluff to the point that Derek found himself almost hovering, thinking at any moment he’d hear the snap of bone over a misplaced root. From what he could glean off Scott, Stiles wasn’t getting any better outside of the woods - “freakishly quiet” was Scott’s diagnosis.
Maybe it was the coming full moon itching beneath his skin, but if Derek thought that if he saw Stiles so much as stumble tonight, he really would grab him by the neck and haul him out of the woods. He hadn’t thought much further than that - where would he take the kid, what would he say - but he was tired of shadowing Stiles and seeing the same hurt every night.
There was no night breeze tonight and Derek wasn’t picking up any of Stiles’ scent. He had heard the Jeep’s engine, though, stopping as it always did somewhere on the edge of the woods on the long stretch of empty road, so he knew Stiles was walking tonight. Derek gave a frustrated flex of his fingers, feeling the claws straining against his control. He decided to run along the periphery of his territory, hoping to catch wind of Stiles before he did anything stupid.
When he finally caught Stiles’ scent, Derek frowned and picking up his speed, racing up familiar trails until he reached his own house. Stiles was sitting there on the porch railings, swinging his leg and picking at the charred wood with a thumbnail. Derek stood watching him for a while, too used to being Stiles’ forest shadow to take the first step out into the open.
When it was clear that Stiles wasn’t moving from the porch, Derek walked out of the woods and slowly made his way up to the house. Stiles’ foot missed a beat in its swinging but other than that, the teen didn’t acknowledge Derek’s presence. Derek leaned against a column and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Stiles, who still hadn’t looked up and instead kept digging his thumbnail into the soft burnt black wood. Derek watched him.
“I’m an orphan.” It was loud and sudden in the cold night air and Derek flinched. He waited for Stiles to say more, but the boy’s face was still. His leg kept twitching and his fingers kept prodding at the wood. Derek realized that there would be nothing else coming, not now, not tonight at least. This wasn’t Stiles breaking down. Derek shifted his weight against the column, his shoulders loosening, and said, “So am I.”
Stiles finally looked up at him then and for one moment they understood each other completely.