Fic: Here at the End of All Things [3/3]
Fic: Here at the End of All Things
Rating/warnings: Teen and up. This is slavefic, with references to torture and terrorism, plus minor character death.
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, with background Scott/Allison and Danny/Jackson
Previous: Part one, Park two
Notes: Thanks again to harmonyangel and lielabell, who are both wonderful. (This is the end, but on the offchance you want to know more about any of the world building, backstory, or whatever, you're welcome to ask on tumblr.)
Stiles vaulted out of bed and over towards him, trailing blankets and sheets behind him, and landed kneeling next to Derek. Derek was half-lying on the floor, propped up against the wall under the window frame. He looked awful, not just older but so thin he must have been starved for ages. His face was lined, his hair graying at his temples, his skin paper-white and colored only bruises that weren't healing at all.
"Derek, wake up, please wake up. Derek, Derek, oh my god, open your eyes, please. Please."
Derek's hand shot out and wrapped around Stiles's throat. He felt claws and screwed his eyes shut, but ---
"Stiles?"
The clawed hand released him. Derek was blinking, his eyes fading from glowing blue to regular hazel, and he didn't look like he knew what was going on.
"Yes, it's me," Stiles confirmed. "What do you need? Where are you hurt? How are you hurt? Tell me -- tell me something, damn it, how can I help you?"
"Wolfsbane." Derek heaved a breath. "I was -- slow. They had a wolfsbane gas bomb, it knocked me out."
"Shit," Stiles breathed. "Do you need, like...an oxygen tank? To get the rest of that shit out of your lungs?"
"No, no, you don't... you don't understand." Derek was wearing someone else's clothes, clearly; they didn't fit and it wasn't his usual leather jacket. It was someone's old sweats and a hoodie. He pulled the neckline away from his body.
It was hard to see with just the light that streamed in from the alley, but Stiles could make out a harsh, pink scar around Derek's neck.
"I don't remember -- I don't know -- it's like I've been in some kind of fog. There was a bomb, and then... I can't... Chris Argent was pulling a collar off me and telling me to run, and... I think we were by a lake. I've been... I've been... I smelled lycans in a group, followed the scent back to the city."
"They were on a camping trip," Stiles said. The group from Beacon Tower had gone out to learn to scent in the fresh air, how to run at full speed, how to stalk and hunt. There had been enough of them for the scent to linger for weeks.
"Camping?" Derek stared at him.
Stiles started to answer, but his jaw dropped instead. "You don't know about the bill passing, you missed -- oh Jesus, Derek. Are you hurt now? Show me. Come on."
Derek pulled the hoodie off. There was no undershirt beneath it, and his shoulder and back were badly burned. The flesh wasn't healing like it should have, and he obviously hadn't stopped to wash the mess away. And in the middle of it all was one bloody, unhealed gash.
"Come on. Let's get that cleaned out." He hauled Derek up, and it was actually terrifying to have Derek lean on him like he might collapse. He grabbed a towel and the first aid kit they kept under the sink. Derek braced himself, hands gripping the edges of the counter so hard that the plastic cracked, as Stiles dabbed away blood and pus. Cleaning the cut actually made it bleed more, but Derek relaxed as it did.
"That's better," he breathed. "So much. I think the knife blade was poisoned. It'll heal now. I can feel it."
Sure enough, as Stiles watched, the flesh on Derek's shoulder began to smooth, the burn fading, the wound closing.
"You seem more alert," Stiles hazarded. "Can you tell me anything more? About what happened?"
Derek heaved a breath. "Yeah. Yeah. Let me go make some coffee."
"No," Stiles said, and at Derek's surprised look, added, "What you're wearing is disgusting. Shower. Find something to put on in my room. Nothing'll fit, but I've got some old shirts you can stretch, and my sweatpants should be fine. I'll make the coffee."
Derek just nodded. Stiles left him to it and headed out to the kitchen. He not only made coffee, he raided the fridge. He was piling a plate with leftovers when Derek came out, wearing Stiles's things, his hair damp and too long. He still looked exhausted, haggard, but not on the brink of death anymore.
"Thank you," he said. "You didn't have to."
"I did, actually. Eat. And talk."
"At the same time?"
"And leave the jokes to me, you're not funny. Talk with your mouth full, I don't care. Just tell me what happened."
Derek took a few bites, chased them with a long swig of coffee, and made a face. "Mud. This is why I never let you make the coffee."
"Derek, I swear to god, tell me what happened or I'll kill you myself."
"I don't know," Derek said. "Argent took the collar off me, but he had wolfsbane in his gun so I wouldn't just turn around on him. He told me to run. We were by a lake, in some... facility. I ran, but hunters followed. One of them got too close and knifed me. There were arrows, after that, and one was on fire."
He shuddered, and Stiles gripped his own coffee mug harder. Derek's family had died in a fire. Fire was the one thing that scared him.
"I got away. They were tracking me, but I... stopped them."
Tore their throats out, Stiles translated. He just nodded.
"I don't know what happened," Derek continued. "Or where we were, or why Argent... How long have I been gone?"
Stiles did the math, working from what Boyd had told him. "Four years, or something like that. Jesus, you missed so much."
"You said the bill passed. The -- the Freedom Bill?"
Stiles nodded. "Two years ago. The lycans you smelled, they're all recovering. Free. Forming a pack bond, learning how to function. I just... help them learn how to cope with humans."
"You are hard to cope with," Derek deadpanned.
Stiles slammed his coffee down. "Shut up. Shut up, Derek, I thought you were dead. For a decade I left my window open just in case -- in case you were alive, but you never even sent me word that you -- don't make jokes."
Derek looked down at his food guiltily. "I'll go to the lycans tomorrow. Get out of your hair."
"No, damn it." Stiles crossed his arms. "We don't know if anyone knows you're here, we don't know why Argent helped you, or where you've been. You're not going out anywhere. You're just -- you're just staying. Right here. Until we know something more."
"Are you telling me what to do?" Derek demanded.
"Yes." Stiles stared him down, waiting for the rush of guilt that usually came at the idea of ordering Derek around -- Derek, who'd been a slave, his family's slave. But it didn't come this time, because he knew he was right, and there was no way in hell he was going to risk letting Derek out of his sight. Not now that he knew Derek was alive. And he knew that if he shouted loud enough, Derek might actually listen to him. It wasn't something that had happened a lot, but Derek did care what he had to say, sometimes. Or at least, he used to.
Derek stared at him for a long minute. Then, finally, nodded. "Okay."
Stiles relaxed at that, just a little. He took a deep breath. "Eat up. I'll get some sheets for the couch."
Derek watched at him as he stood up, but as he walked by, Derek reached out and grabbed his wrist with one hand, brought the other up to his shoulder, traced at where the scar was under Stiles's shirt.
"Your window was open," Derek said.
"Every night." Stiles pulled his arm free. He put sheets on the couch, did the dishes as Derek lay down, and hoped Derek really would still be there in the morning.
It took him hours to fall asleep.
*
He woke to the scent of coffee and stumbled out of bed. It was still early, the sun not even up yet, but given all of his tossing and turning there was no point in lying in bed anymore.
Derek met him with a cup of coffee, pressed it silently into his hands. Stiles nodded his thanks and sank into a seat at the tiny kitchen table, then took a satisfying gulp. He'd somehow forgotten that Derek's coffee was liquid pleasure. Actually, everything Derek made was exquisite. Apparently it was something to do with having a super-powered nose, and most lycans were fantastic cooks.
But the coffee wasn't just good, it was familiar. It hit Stiles somewhere visceral, sending dozens of memories pouring through his mind. His cheeks went warm as he remembered being an awkward teenager, staring at a man who was simultaneously the most attractive and most terrifying person he'd ever seen.
He glanced over at Derek, now leaning over the stove, and swallowed. Derek looked better now than he had in the middle of the night -- still pale but not dangerously so, clean-shaven, with his now salt-and-pepper hair was wavy and tousled, since it was too long and it wasn't like Stiles was stocking his preferred products. But it looked nice. And the way Stiles's ancient shirt pulled across his shoulders and arms as he reached for the pot on the stove was --
Derek's head snapped around towards the hall. He blinked, then set the pot back on the stove, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured another cup of coffee. Stiles just watched as Derek silently added cream and sugar, stepped towards the hall, and damn, his timing was impressive. He was holding it out like some kind of mystic offering when Stiles's father walked into the room.
Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but what was there for him to say? His father's gaze was fixed on Derek. He set the coffee aside on the counter, grabbed Derek's arm, and pulled him into a tight, clinging hug. Derek's eyes went wide before his face returned to its usual, unreadable mask, but he didn't pull away until Stiles's dad did, and Stiles remembered that, for all their relationship was just as complex and even more fraught than Stiles's own relationship with Derek, his father also loved Derek, and had given everything up for Derek, too.
"The coffee's perfect, Dad," Stiles said, raising his own mug.
"Of course it is," Derek said, and nodded towards the second chair at the kitchen table. "Sit. The oatmeal's about to burn. We'll talk once I've saved it."
His father half-laughed and sat, wiped at his eyes for a second, and then started drinking his coffee. "Wouldn't want the oatmeal to burn," he managed.
Stiles sipped his coffee and waited as long as he could before bursting out, "Do you remember anything else? Now that you've had some time to recover?"
Derek glanced over his shoulder. "Yes. Do you know how awful burnt oatmeal smells?"
Stiles made a face. "I know you think you're funny, but no one else does."
"I do," his father said.
"Don't help."
His father smiled. "Maybe I'm just glad not to be drinking that mud you always make in the mornings."
"If it's so gross, why do you always drink it?" Stiles griped. But he leaned back in his chair and tried to calm down. Derek pretty much never told anyone anything before he wanted to, so if he wanted to wait until after breakfast, fine. What was another half an hour after fourteen years?
Finally, Derek presented them both with bowls of oatmeal, and then poured his own coffee. There weren't any more chairs, but he leaned back against the counter and looked over at the two of them. "There's not a lot to remember. A wolfsbane gas bomb knocked me out. Everything after there is muddled, but I remember -- I was resistant to their collar. It was mostly Victoria who was there, and some of her assistants. They didn't want to use the Mark Two, they wanted to know everything. I didn't talk."
Stiles swallowed. He knew how the Argents would have tried to get information from Derek, and what Derek must have gone through, if he hadn't spilled anything at all.
Derek's half-nod confirmed it. "They gave up when I tried to kill myself. It was... messy. I almost succeeded."
"Jesus," Stiles murmured.
Derek shrugged. "In the end, they wanted me alive more than they wanted information. I don't know why, but it can't have been for anything good. They put the Mark Two on me. Everything after that is gone, until Chris Argent took the collar off and I ran." He looked over at Stiles. "I don't think I was followed, but the longer I stay here, the more danger you're in. They'll be looking for me."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Stiles said. "No one knows who we are, where to find us. You'll be as safe here as anywhere else, until you figure out your next step."
"My next step is getting in touch with the Network. And I'm not doing that from here."
"You don't have to," Stiles said. "I'm pretty sure I can do it for you."
*
Stiles went to volunteer at Beacon Tower like usual, but when he got there he bypassed his perch and walked up to the leader's apartment. She wasn't an alpha -- so far, no alphas had recovered enough to bond with packs, and no new alphas had turned up -- but this woman was on the far side of over the hill, and still incredibly fierce. She'd been with the underground when she was younger, having safely slipped away from the Argents as a teen; she'd been captured and collared eventually, but once they'd freed her she'd been one of Isaac's and Erica's fiercest soldiers; and now... well, now she really hated humans.
She tolerated Stiles because of the mark on his shoulder. But she didn't like him.
He braced himself and knocked, and when she answered her door she eyed him suspiciously. Then, staring, she sniffed the air.
"I need to get word to the Network. He's back," Stiles said.
"I'll tell them," she answered, and shut the door.
*
Derek didn't seem to like being cooped up in the apartment, but he didn't complain. He did pace a lot, and clean everything. He sent Stiles's dad off with a grocery list and took over all of the cooking. He reorganized their closets and kitchen cabinets. He bleached the shower.
After four days, Scott knocked on the door. Stiles's dad opened it, and Scott looked kind of mesmerized. He barely managed to say hello to Stiles's dad before throwing himself at Derek, into Derek's arms.
Derek looked startled, but he hugged Scott back.
"Dude, you are alive. You're alive! When we busted out Erica and you weren't there, we gave up hope. And you!" He turned to Stiles and wrapped him in a hug that nearly cracked his ribs. "Man, I missed you."
"I missed you, too," Stiles said, giving him a back pat before they pulled apart. "You'd better have pictures of the kids."
"About a million of them," Scott promised. "But first things first. Chris Argent has been trying to get in touch with Allison for the last week. I'm guessing he was involved with... whatever went down."
Derek nodded. "He's the one who released me. I don't know why."
"He's been saying he has information, but he's been pestering us since Victoria died, so --"
"What?" Derek interrupted.
"Yeah, what?" Stiles added.
"What -- oh, right. You're out of the loop, and they've been keeping it quiet. When we got Erica out, um, she and Victoria had a kind of run-in. And, well..."
"Okay, and later you're going to explain all of that in detail," Derek said. "Now, go on. About Chris."
"Right. He's been bugging us since then, offering to trade information for... well, time with the kids." He shrugged. "We've been shutting him down, obviously, but if he might have something real... We don't exactly want the kids cuddling up with him, but..."
"Thank you," Derek said.
Scott grinned at him, lopsided. "You know we'd do anything for you. Are you..." He looked over at Stiles, then back. "Are you okay here? We can move you to a safehouse, or down to Erica's island, if we have to."
Stiles held his breath. Derek had made it clear he was only staying because Stiles had insisted, that he wanted to be on his way and leave Stiles behind. And Stiles really was not ready to be left yet, even if it was a question of safety.
But Derek didn't immediately take the out. Instead, he looked over at Stiles, his expression a question mark.
"It's up to you," Stiles said, even though he wanted to grab Derek's arm and make him stay, to move him from the couch and into his bedroom. "You know the door's always open for you. Or... the window, anyway."
"Then I'll stay," Derek said.
Something that had been clenched too hard in Stiles's chest eased a little.
"And you," Stiles said to Scott. "Stay for dinner."
"I'm cooking," Derek rumbled.
"Then I have to stay." Scott grinned at them. "You know how much I missed you both, right?"
Stiles smiled a little. "Now about those baby pictures..."
*
Someone shook him awake. He blinked and saw Derek fully dressed; glanced over at his alarm clock and saw it was nearly 2 a.m. He sat up quickly. "What's happening?"
"I have to go. Argent agreed to meet with me."
"But --"
"It's not a trap. I'll be with Allison and the kids. He wouldn't put them in danger. And we'll have backup."
"Then can I come, too?" Stiles demanded.
"No."
"Why not? If there's no danger, and you're willing to send in some kids, why the hell not?"
"I wasn't telling you as an invitation. I just... wanted to say goodbye."
"So you're not coming back?"
Derek stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Leave the window open."
"No." Stiles scrambled out of bed and grabbed Derek's arm. "No."
"Stiles --"
"Just listen to me, Derek! The last time I let you go, you let me think you were dead for years. You let me think that you'd gotten killed trying to save me. You let me think it was my fault you were dead."
"It was never your --"
"It was, god damn it, you let me think it was." He shoved Derek away from him, or really, shoved himself away from Derek, because Derek didn't budge. "You said to leave my window open, and I did it for years, thinking you were dead, thinking it was how I was mourning you, and then I kept it up even knowing you were dead and now you're back and that's all you'll say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want to go with you," Stiles said, meeting Derek's stare head-on, because there was no reason for him not to go. If it was safe enough for kids, then it was safe enough for him.
He could see Derek chewing that over, and then: "Fine. You have five minutes to pack. Leave your dad a note."
Stiles scrambled to change and shove some things into a bag, to write a note (business with D, love you, back in a few days, no red meat while I'm gone), and they took off, tracing a path down dark streets towards the halfway house. A car was waiting for them.
They met up with Allison, Scott, and the kids a few hours out of the city, switched to their ridiculous RV, and kept moving. A few cars flanked them, and they all stopped every few hours for meals and stretch breaks.
They drove for a full day, rotating drivers so people could sleep. Stiles mostly hung out with the kids, getting to know them, playing and having fun. But he listened in when he could, as Allison shared tense information with the others.
They stopped at a motel a few hours before the meeting, so everyone could shower and freshen up. Stiles found himself more nervous than he expected, considering how safe this was supposed to be -- and that an entire cell that had once answered to Erica and Isaac was behind them, ready to take out anyone who threatened them.
The meeting was at a public park. Argent didn't come alone either, but his people made a big show of setting down their weapons. His face actually lit up when he saw the kids, but Allison strode forward.
"Business first," she said. "Then we get to the family picnic."
He nodded. She gestured and one of the lycans brought over a table setup. It wasn't designed for so many people, but she, Scott, her father, Derek, Stiles, and two more Argent lackeys managed to squeeze in.
Argent finally started talking: "My father's death should have left the facilities in my hands. It didn't. Everything was deeded to Victoria. You know something about that, Hale?"
Derek shrugged. "I wanted the Mark Twos gone. She wanted to be in charge. And what the hell did it matter which psychopath was running your operation? I was planning to murder you all eventually, and the more you struggled with each other, the easier it would be to pick you all off."
Everyone gaped at that, even Stiles. Maybe they'd all known Derek had taken out Gerard, but the entire idea of him bargaining with an Argent was crazy. And yet apparently it had worked.
Argent narrowed his eyes. "Maybe it mattered more than you thought. Because she deactivated the Mark Twos, but she was also building facilities in secret, with government backing. Even I didn't know about them. Do you all get that? I didn't know."
It must have been true, because none of the werewolves objected, and they'd never have agreed to meet if he had a scentblocker.
"I've found two of them, one in New Mexico and one outside of Chicago. I have my own sets of eyes and ears in the Bureau. I found out they were moving Reyes from Illinois down to the southwest, and it was the first I'd heard of either one. And you know what happened to Southwest."
Everyone nodded, and Allison looked down at the table, not able to meet anyone's eyes at all. She was so devoted to Scott and the lycans that it was easy to forget that Chris and Victoria were her parents. It had been years, decades, since she'd walked away from them, but that didn't mean it was easy.
"Well," Argent continued, after the moment passed. "One of Victoria's people burned all her drives when we got word. I've been trying to get information off them, but it's a mess." He nodded at one of his lackeys, who handed over a paper bag that clanked with computer parts. "Here's what I've learned: she was experimenting with a new collar, and Reyes was one of the test subjects. Hale would have been next in line if she'd gotten it to work properly. The goal -- the goal was to keep the unquestioning obedience of the Mark Two, but allow the subject to remember everything. Actually answer our questions, give us useful information. But..." He shook his head. "She was close but not there yet when the facility went up, and her research was lost with her. God knows I'm not interested in recreating it."
No one reacted, so that must have been the truth, too. Which was also weird. He was an Argent, but that sounded an awful lot like mercy.
"Things have been falling apart," Argent continued. "There'd been a split in the family for a long time. And I want to make this clear: we will never be allies, lycan. I want nothing to do with you and your kind. But this war solves nothing, and public sentiment is changing. I'd rather adapt than go extinct."
Derek inclined his head, just once. Not a nod, just an acknowledgement.
"Victoria and I... didn't see eye to eye. I found out about the facilities and the experiments after she died, and decided to end them. It... didn't go well."
"You've lost control entirely," Derek said.
Argent hesitated, then nodded. "There's a group that's loyal to me. And I wasn't trying to save you. I don't give a damn about you, Hale. I wanted my people out of that facility before yours could take them out. But it went FUBAR, and we found you."
"And released me."
"Yes, well." He spread his hands on the table. "I wanted to see my grandchildren."
Derek snorted. "You saved my life to blackmail Scott and Allison?"
"Scott and Allison are currently blackmailing me for information."
"You," Scott said, and smiled widely, "are not as evil as you pretend to be."
Allison and Derek both turned to glare at him, but Argent smiled a little, and so did Stiles. He kind of suspected it was true.
Argent continued, "When I let you go, it was in the middle of a shitstorm. My crew and I barely made it out alive; the people chasing you were actually chasing me. Be grateful, lycan. You were still collared when I found you. I didn't have to let you go. I could have turned you into my slave."
"I've already been your slave," Derek said, voice cold and steady.
Argent winced, and Stiles finally understood. Derek had been a slave to the Argent family, not just in the abstract way all lycans had been, but very, very directly. Kate Argent had tortured him -- but Chris never had, as far as Stiles knew. For Chris, lycan hunting and slavery wasn't about personal hatred or torture. He really believed it was the only way to keep the world safe from a threat. But he'd stood back and let Kate do whatever she wanted, and he'd never stood up to his father, when he'd encouraged Kate. And now... now he was still carrying around guilt from it.
Guilt that meant that, no matter what he thought of the lycans, he'd felt obligated to free Derek.
"Like I said. Victoria's people burned her information that night. Those drives are all I recovered. You'll have to do whatever decoding and salvaging you can on your own."
Again, it was the truth, because the werewolves in the group accepted it.
"Was it your wife holding me?" Derek asked him. "Or the government?"
"Does it make a difference? They knew you'd die before you'd give them anything. All they did was hold you, for years, waiting for Victoria's breakthrough on the Mark Three."
"It does make a difference," Derek said.
Argent hesitated, then said, "Victoria."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not. I just -- it was Victoria, with government backing. Protection. They were hiding it, even from me, and funding her, waiting for that breakthrough. That was their price: they bankrolled Victoria, because once she had the Mark Three working, she'd have handed you over."
"Why?" Derek demanded. "The Freedom Bill passed while she had me. Why bother keeping me alive after that?"
"She didn't even tell me she had you in custody, you think I know that?" Argent shook his head. "But I've been getting calls from her contacts since then. From what I pieced together, there are still plenty of people with power who are terrified of you and your Network. They wanted everything you knew, to prepare for some kind of uprising." He rolled his eyes. "And they wanted to have you ready to use. A Mark Three would have let you keep your personality and still make you do what you were told. Like become a mouthpiece for them."
"And you think no one would have noticed the collar?"
"It might not have been a full collar. Just a chip. I don't know, it was Victoria's research, not mine. I never wanted any part of it. That's why she was hiding it from me. But I'd watch my back if I were you, Hale. If they were that scared of you, they won't just give up."
"And what about you, Argent?" Derek's eyebrows quirked. "Are you that scared of me?"
"No," Argent said. "No. I know what you're capable of; I don't fear it. But I've lost every single member of my family to lycans -- in one way or another." He glanced over at Scott and Allison. "I'm done. I just want to see my grandkids."
*
*
The kids were roasting marshmallows with their grandfather while Scott supervised when Derek said to Stiles, "That's why."
"What?"
"I didn't tell Victoria anything. I would have died first, and Victoria and her contacts realized they couldn't break me -- not like that. And there was no one who... They did look for you. Ask Argent if you don't believe me."
"I do believe you." Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest, watching the kids silhouetted by the fire. "I just don't see --"
"If they'd found you, if they'd had you --"
"You wouldn't have --"
"Yes, I would." Derek looked over at him, fierce, and Stiles's heart stuttered for a moment and he wanted. "If they had you, if they tortured you, I would have. I realized that when the FBI took you. There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe."
"Why?" Stiles stared at him. "Why me, Derek? You've never... everything that's happened, you've never told me why. You've never even told me what you want from me."
Derek looked away from him. "I thought you knew."
"Seriously? All I know that you used to climb in through my window and take over my life. Sometimes you'd put your arm around me. Usually by accident. I know you marked me, and I know that's all you've ever done."
"Stiles..."
"And that's fine. It is. I'd never push you, okay? You don't like falling asleep near other people, that's fine. You hate using the front door, so I never lock my windows. It's fine. You let me think I'd gotten you killed, it's fine. I just need to know if it's... if it means anything."
Derek stared at him.
"It's okay if it doesn't," Stiles said, his voice going a little hoarse when Derek didn't answer. "If there's nothing. That's... fine. But you mean something to me. You do."
"Still? You should have... you thought I was dead. You should have moved on."
"Moved on? Seriously?" Stiles sat back, leaning on his arms, and let his hand slip over towards Derek's. Derek didn't pull away, but jerked his head around to stare as Stiles's fingers grazed his. "I didn't. I couldn't, and I never will."
"Did you try?"
"Yes."
"You're lying."
Stiles sighed. "I tried. Half-heartedly. I dated sometimes. I never fell for anyone, though." He snorted. "This is so fucking stupid. I want you. And I'm right here, and I'll be here whether you want me back or not. So either way, you've got nothing to lose if you tell me, so spit it out already. Tell me something. Please."
"I want you to be safe."
"Derek --"
"I need you to be safe. More than I need you to be happy."
"And what about your happiness? Does that even enter into it?"
"It never has." He paused. "We'll need to move you again after this."
"What? You can't just -- you can't just hide me away and never see me again. If you give even half a damn about me, you can't --"
"I have to. Because I do give a damn about you, because I do -- I do have feelings. For you." Derek shifted slightly, pulling his hand away. "But being with you puts you in danger, and if the people who hate me ever find you, then it puts a lot more than just your life at risk. I can't do that to you, and I can't do that to the pack. So until I find a better solution, it has to be like this. It has to."
Stiles looked away, trying hard just to keep his breathing under control, to keep everything under control, because Derek was right. If Derek really did love him the way he loved Derek, then... shit. The fact that they wanted to be together was exactly why they couldn't be, because Stiles wasn't going to risk anything else happening to Derek because of him. Derek, or the pack.
"It isn't fair," he croaked, when he finally managed to force words out.
"No, it isn't."
"Will you at least work on it?" Stiles asked him. "Try to find some way?"
"I'll do what I can," Derek said.
But he didn't sound optimistic.
*
They took off for home that night, once the kids were tired and Allison declared their agreement with her father fulfilled. Argent didn't argue, just watched as she ushered the kids away from him and into the RV, his expression longing. For a heartbeat, Stiles actually felt sorry for him -- he was old and alone and had lost nearly everything. But after all the damage he'd done, the cruelty he'd shown, Stiles's pity couldn't last longer than that.
The lycans who'd accompanied them arranged themselves into their groups, everyone shuffling around into different cars based on who was going where. With Scott and Allison heading back towards California and most of the lycans following, there weren't many other people heading back to Chicago, so Stiles found himself in a car with just Derek, and the feeling that Derek had pretty specifically chosen to escort him. But neither one of them said anything about it.
In fact, given how long the trip home was, it was remarkable how much they avoided saying anything important. Not that Stiles wasn't thinking it, that every mile that ticked by didn't feel like he was a mile closer to Derek disappearing again. But if he let himself focus on that, he wasn't going to be able to hold it together, so instead he filled up the silence talking about things that didn't matter at all. The weather, terrible TV shows Derek had missed in the last few years, how no one in Chicago appreciated lacrosse (frankly, neither did Derek, something they'd been arguing about since Stiles was sixteen), Stiles's job at the library, his fire escape garden, his father's attempts at internet dating.
Nothing about the conversation they'd had by the campfire. Not until they were well into the city and the scenery was all familiar, and they were closing in on home. Then Stiles couldn't help himself. "Do you want to come up for awhile? Rest before you hit the road again?"
"I've got work to do."
"Okay, how about just food? Even you need to eat sometimes. Let's stop for a bite."
"Stiles, I can't."
"You mean won't." He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest as Derek pulled up in front of his building. "And I'm not going to see you again. Am I?"
"I don't know," Derek said. "I want to -- it doesn't matter what I want."
"It matters to me."
Derek didn't say anything to that, and finally Stiles just unbuckled his seatbelt and fished around in the back to grab his bag. "Well. Then I guess that's it. I'll see you... someday. I hope."
Derek nodded, then reached out and grabbed Stiles's elbow. "Your window. Leave it --"
"Yeah," Stiles said, then stopped. He sank back down in the seat and dropped his bag. "No, fuck that. You owe me. The last time you wanted me to leave the window open, you made me think it was because you were coming back, and then you didn't. What the hell was with that?"
"I wanted you to move on," Derek said. "If you thought I was dead, then --"
"I thought I'd gotten you killed!" Stiles stared him down. "Because you implied, you -- you basically said you'd come back. But you didn't and you let me think you were dead. You don't get to do that to me again."
"What do you want me to do?" Derek demanded. "I wanted you to have a life, to get to start again, and I'm not involving you in all of this."
"I can handle all of this. I can --"
"I can't. If you're involved, I'll have to protect you. You'll be my priority and I can't do that. You understood this yesterday!"
"And I understand it now! But you don't get to just vanish again. Do you know what I went through? I hated myself, and I was so alone, and I couldn't -- I can't do that again. If you want me to disappear and start again, then I will, I'll do anything I can. But if you're going to pull that open window shit, then you owe me."
"What do you want?"
"A promise." Stiles stared at him. "I want you to promise me you'll be in touch. You'll let me know that you're okay. I get a phonecall, a letter, an email, I don't care what. But I get to know that, this time."
Derek nodded.
"Good. Okay. And if something ever happens to you, the pack contacts me. Immediately. Because I deserve to know."
"Fine."
"And..." Stiles groped for something else, something to make up for the years they'd missed, for his seething anger and guilt and all of it. Everything between the two of them, everything they didn't get to have. He met Derek's eyes and swallowed, then demanded, voice shaking, "And I want to kiss you."
"What?"
"Yeah," Stiles said. "Right now. I want to kiss you, so that if something happens... if something happens to you, at least I'll have that. This one thing. Please."
Derek gaped at him, his mouth actually falling open a little bit.
"Can I?" Stiles asked.
The shocked look didn't fade from Derek's face, but he nodded. And he didn't move, didn't pull away, when Stiles leaned across the space between seats, and pressed his lips to Derek's. Actually, for a moment Derek didn't do anything at all -- and then he was leaning in, his hand was on Stiles's cheek, his lips opened and oh god. Oh god. It wasn't exactly everything Stiles had dreamed of since he was a teenager, and he had a sudden flash of realization that he was more experienced at this than Derek. But it didn't matter how awkward it was. It was Derek, it was Derek letting Stiles kiss him, it was something real and concrete and it was almost terrifying how much Stiles wanted it, how devastated he was the second Derek finally pulled away.
"Stiles..."
"I should go." Stiles was breathing too hard, like he was having a panic attack or something. It was too much. He wanted it desperately, wanted to grab Derek again, kiss him and keep him, but he couldn't, so instead he groped for his bag and the door handle.
Derek grabbed his arm, tugged until Stiles looked back at him, even though Stiles wasn't sure he could handle even just looking at Derek and knowing he'd probably never get to kiss him again. Derek let go of his arm, met his eyes, and for just a second Stiles saw the same raw need that he felt, right there, reflecting back at him.
"I'll find a way," Derek said. "I will."
This time, Stiles believed him.
*
They moved him to Seattle and gave him a new name -- goodbye Gene Smith, hello Jim Thomas. He went to work at a university library and discovered they had a special lycan collection and a major project in progress: a collection of lycans' stories, all carefully recorded and archived, and more lycans coming by every month to contribute. Stiles offered to do some interviews and transcribing. They were hesitant to let him work on it, since it was a project that required all kinds of special training, until the first time a lycan actually came in to interview after Stiles started his job.
The lycan, a thirty-something with thick eyebrows, ignored the interviewer and walked over to Stiles's desk, scented the air, and stared at him. Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Can I help you?"
"You've already helped us all. You're -- " He looked around furtively. "Aren't you?"
"I was, but that was a long time ago," Stiles said.
The interviewer caught up with him and stared back and forth between Stiles and the lycan. "Do you two know each other?"
The lycan shook his head. "No, but, uh..."
"Jim," Stiles supplied.
"Jim and I used to... run in some of the same circles, I think."
After that, they let him work on the lycan history project, interviewing lycans who all looked at him with something like awe.
*
Derek never sent letters, but he did call -- probably because that way, Derek didn't need to know Stiles's address. The calls were always short and to the point: "Hello, Stiles. I'm okay. Be safe." Click.
But it was better.
With this identity, Stiles had a house and a yard -- a small one, true, but a yard nonetheless. He transferred his vegetables into the ground and started a real garden.
And he never locked his window.
*
It hit the news six months after his relocation: Derek Hale was sighted publicly for the first time in years. He was alive and well and living in New York. The media started following him around, freaking out, demanding to know where the hell he'd been for the last decade and a half. Why had he vanished? Did the scar around his neck really mean he'd been collared? How did he feel about Boyd's leadership while he was gone? Was he going to wrestle back dominance of the Beacon Hills Pack?
Derek just glared a lot, an expression that looked even more menacing on the dark Daehler filters. Boyd flew out to meet him, as if they hadn't been in touch for most of Derek's missing years, and Derek went to a bunch of meetings and functions in DC.
It was interesting to follow, and Stiles waited for his phone to ring. If nothing else, he figured Derek would want to bitch about it. But now that paparazzi were making it clear he was alive and safe, he didn't call at all.
*
Stiles was twenty minutes into interviewing an ancient lycan named Louis, and it was a big deal, because Louis was an alpha. He'd been locked to the Argent moonstone for nearly thirty years, aware of nothing but the dreams and nightmares of lycans whose collars fed off his will. But unlike most alphas, when he'd been released, he was lucid. Not always, he relapsed sometimes, collapsing into his mind and murmuring incoherently -- but he was awake enough to have his own place, to travel, to agree to the interview.
His experiences were so odd and fascinating. He spoke about the things he'd dreamed, twisted half-memories that had stuck with him. So Stiles was really annoyed when one of the other library staff members broke in and sputtered, "Sorry, sorry for the interruption, but you need to see this. Come on!"
"See what?" Stiles asked. "We're in the middle of --"
"Bring him. It's lycan business anyway. Hurry, we've got it streaming down at the info desk."
Stiles shot Louis an apologetic look. "I have no idea, but..."
Louis didn't object, just let himself be led down to the main desk, where most of the library staff and a few patrons were crowded around one monitor, streaming a presidential address.
"Sometimes," the president was saying, "we have to make moves that may not be popular, may not be good politics -- but that are right. The lycan problem has always presented us with those difficult choices."
Stiles swallowed, suddenly nervous. Argent had come out and said there were people in power who still feared the lycans -- and plenty of politicians hadn't been quiet about wanting to undo the Freedom Bill, and there were constant rumors that it was going to happen. But if it did, Stiles realized there would be no warning. The Argents or government agents would seize as many lycans as possible before it was announced, to keep them from hiding, running, fighting back. He scanned the library, looking for exits. If this was that announcement, he'd get Louis out. Get him to Beacon Hills, somehow, where the peaceful arm of the movement was settled -- where no one knew they'd been preparing for decades. If push came to shove, Boyd's carefully built, peaceful movement was prepared to defend their freedom to the death.
But thank god, the president continued. "This has been a hard choice, but it's what I believe is right. Our country must move beyond the bloody battles over lycan rights, must begin to forgive, and heal. We have a long way to go, but I offer this as a first step."
The President took a deep breath, nervous, and the camera pulled out to show the rows of advisors behind him. The screen went dark-tinted and slightly lined as it switched to a Daehler lens. Stiles actually gasped when he saw why: wearing suits, sitting with the stone-faced politicians, were Derek and Boyd.
"This morning, I signed two blanket pardons for crimes that may have been committed as part of the lycan freedom struggle." He gestured towards Derek and Boyd. "These two lycan men were instrumental in this fight, and both suffered and endured great personal loss, like so many of their lycan brethren."
And sistren, Stiles thought, thinking of Erica. But at least with the Daehler lens, everything was too dark to see the scar on Derek's neck.
"I am also pleased and proud to announce that, as the long time voice of the lycan rights movement, Vernon Boyd, as the elected head of the lycan enclave in Beacon Hills, has agreed to accept a newly-created post in my cabinet, as Secretary of Lycan Affairs."
Stiles stared at the screen, as the president continued his address. He was putting together a committee to determine how best to help lycans integrate into society, to draw up an amendment on lycan rights that would be ratified into the constitution, guaranteeing full rights, which not even the Freedom Bill had done.
"This is amazing," Louis murmured, then gave Stiles a concerned look. "Are you alright?"
Stiles nodded, swallowing, throat dry and head swimming, because they'd -- they'd pardoned Derek. Meaning that even if they kept him on watch lists forever, even if they never stopped tracking him and making sure they knew where he was, Derek could go anywhere he wanted, with his head held high.
"Are you sure?" Louis asked him, as they padded back towards the room where he did interviews.
Stiles nodded again, dazed.
"The lycans clearly mean a lot to you," he mused. "You're the only human pack member I've ever met."
"I, uh, yeah," Stiles said, reflexively bringing his hand up to brush the mark on his shoulder. "Yeah, I grew up in Beacon Hills, I know... I've known a lot of lycans. That was amazing, what just... Derek and Boyd, oh my god. Oh my god."
Louis raised his bushy eyebrows, probably able to guess there was more to it than that, but he didn't say anything.
*
Stiles spent the rest of the day reading the headlines, every piece of coverage he could. Opinion was split pretty hugely on the pardons -- plenty of people (correctly) took them as a tacit admission of guilt, acknowledgement that Derek and Boyd had both been further involved with the Network than they'd ever said publicly. Which wasn't really a controversial thing to guess about Derek, who had never really hidden his bloodthirsty side very well, but it shocked people about Boyd.
And of course, a lot of people just didn't like it. They'd never trust lycans, and hated any sign that lycans were truly free, full people. The nasty things people said never quite ceased to horrify Stiles, even though he'd heard it all before.
But the most shocking thing was that Derek agreed to do an interview. Just one, with a reporter who'd long been sympathetic to the lycan movement; not live, of course, and he'd get to see the edited final cut before it aired. Even so, it was ready for the news that night.
Stiles and his dad both stared, squinting at the filter that allowed them to see Derek on film.
The reporter, an attractive middle aged woman, asked, "There's a lot of discussion about the time you were... missing from the public eye. The question has to be asked, where were you? What were you doing for all of those years?"
Derek ran his fingers across the scar on his neck. "I was... busy, working for the movement out of sight. It was easier that way. And then I was captured by the Argents, and I was a slave."
He said it with the kind of bluntness that actually made the reporter squirm, and probably everyone watching, too. Everyone liked to pretend that the years of slavery hadn't been a big deal, that the lycans had all been fine, not suffered at all. But they'd all seen the footage of teenage Derek and Kate Argent, and as much as Derek hated being an object of pity, he still never let anyone shy away from what had happened -- to him, and to the other lycans.
"You didn't reappear when the Bill passed," the reporter noted in an awkwardly polite tone of voice.
"I wasn't freed when the Bill passed," he answered, just as blunt. "Did you really think the Argents didn't hide anything? That it was all as neat and clean as everyone wanted it to be?"
She looked startled. Like prey, Stiles thought.
"But," Derek continued, "it was Chris Argent himself who made the decision to free me. I choose to take that as a sign of -- reform, among the Argent organization."
"And that's a positive sign?"
"I wouldn't be here otherwise," Derek said.
"And your cooperation with the government -- do you consider it a slight that you weren't asked to fill the Secretary of Lycan Affairs position?"
"What makes you think I wasn't asked?" He flashed her a smile, smug up to his eyebrows. "I'm not a politician. I never have been. I've agreed to act as an advisor when needed, but Boyd is much, much better suited for the role, and the fantastic job he's done in Beacon Hills and for lycans throughout the country really shows that."
"Then you've officially abdicated lycan leadership to him?"
"There was never any need to," Derek said. "My leadership was never official. I'm not an alpha, and I was never elected to anything. I was just the first lycan in a position to fight back."
"Then you don't consider yourself a leader?"
"It doesn't matter what I consider myself. Other people, other lycans, considered me a leader, so I've done what I could. But I'm happy -- I'm relieved -- to sit back and let Boyd do this. He earned the position."
"And what will you do now?" the reporter asked
Derek smiled again -- a real, quiet, genuine smile, not even the smirk from earlier. "I'm going home," he said simply.
"Where's home? Beacon Hills?"
Derek shook his head. "Not anymore."
*
Three days passed. Stiles waited up at every night like he hadn't in years. There was no convenient roof outside his window anymore, though. But there was a sturdy tree with some branches that hung pretty nearby.
*
Stiles didn't know what woke him. Maybe it was just the shadow over the flimsy curtain. But he sat up, staring, as Derek hoisted the window open and slipped inside.
"I was wondering when you were going to turn up," Stiles said.
Derek snorted a little.
"You climbed the tree, right?"
"Yes," Derek said, then, as he peeled his jacket off, "Lie down. Go back to sleep."
Stiles cocked his head like he was considering it, then, "Nah. I'm suddenly just not at all sleepy."
"Well, I am."
"Oh," Stiles said guiltily. He didn't lie down, but he did scoot over and gesture to his rumpled sheets. "I won't keep you up, then. I mean. If this is where you want to sleep. I can put sheets on the couch..."
Derek glanced at him for a second, rolled his eyes, then toed off his shoes and socks and sat down on the bed next to Stiles.
"Derek?" Stiles prompted, when Derek didn't lie down, but also didn't say anything.
"Your window was open," Derek said.
"Well... yeah," Stiles said. "I was waiting for you. I hoped... you said you were going home."
"Yes. I am home. With you."
Stiles blinked a few times, his chest tightening, but he managed to keep himself under control and buried his face in Derek's cheek. "So you're staying for real?"
"If that's what you want."
Stiles shifted a little closer, until they were sitting together, touching, shoulder to shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, it's... it's what I want. Of course it is. I just can't believe you finally... I mean, you said you'd find a way. I just... I can't believe..."
"Every politician worries about their place in history," Derek said. "Boyd and I just had to convince enough of them to be on the right side. I didn't want to trust... I don't trust them. But there are enough who support us now."
"What about the... others?" Stiles asked. "The ones who always supported the Argents?"
"They no longer have an Argent to support. Chris has begun refusing all contact with them and has made it clear that he will no longer speak for anti-lycan causes. They've lost the battle of public opinion, they've lost the legal battle, and they've lost their figurehead. They can keep fighting in private, but they know they'll lose there, too."
"Wow. All this in six months."
"Six months?" Derek shook his head. "Did you realize, this month is 25 years since you set me free?"
Stiles paused, thinking about everything that had happened since then, everything Derek had done, everything he'd gone through. "No wonder you're tired."
Derek huffed out a half-laugh, then leaned in closer to Stiles, inhaling. Stiles all but shivered just from having him so close, and when Derek pressed his lips to the scar on Stiles's shoulder, Stiles's breath caught in something that was almost a moan.
"You know," Stiles panted, as he let Derek tug him down, under the sheet, "you don't have to use the window anymore. Seriously, the front door. I recommend it. I'll make you a copy of the key and everything."
"Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek mumbled against him, his breath warm against Stiles's skin.
Stiles fell quiet and lay in the dark, relaxing as he got used to Derek's bodyheat, to having another body wrapped around his own. It had been a long time, but this -- Derek -- already felt right, familiar. Like it was how things were always supposed to be and he hadn't even realized something was missing without it.
He lay there and reveled in it, not yet drowsy enough to sleep, but calmer and happier than he'd been in years. And not sleeping was okay, too, because it meant he got to see it, to feel it, for the very first time. Derek's breathing evened out, his body relaxed, and the tension eased out of his face until he was smiling.
Derek Hale was free, and happy, and asleep in his arms.
Rating/warnings: Teen and up. This is slavefic, with references to torture and terrorism, plus minor character death.
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, with background Scott/Allison and Danny/Jackson
Previous: Part one, Park two
Notes: Thanks again to harmonyangel and lielabell, who are both wonderful. (This is the end, but on the offchance you want to know more about any of the world building, backstory, or whatever, you're welcome to ask on tumblr.)
Stiles vaulted out of bed and over towards him, trailing blankets and sheets behind him, and landed kneeling next to Derek. Derek was half-lying on the floor, propped up against the wall under the window frame. He looked awful, not just older but so thin he must have been starved for ages. His face was lined, his hair graying at his temples, his skin paper-white and colored only bruises that weren't healing at all.
"Derek, wake up, please wake up. Derek, Derek, oh my god, open your eyes, please. Please."
Derek's hand shot out and wrapped around Stiles's throat. He felt claws and screwed his eyes shut, but ---
"Stiles?"
The clawed hand released him. Derek was blinking, his eyes fading from glowing blue to regular hazel, and he didn't look like he knew what was going on.
"Yes, it's me," Stiles confirmed. "What do you need? Where are you hurt? How are you hurt? Tell me -- tell me something, damn it, how can I help you?"
"Wolfsbane." Derek heaved a breath. "I was -- slow. They had a wolfsbane gas bomb, it knocked me out."
"Shit," Stiles breathed. "Do you need, like...an oxygen tank? To get the rest of that shit out of your lungs?"
"No, no, you don't... you don't understand." Derek was wearing someone else's clothes, clearly; they didn't fit and it wasn't his usual leather jacket. It was someone's old sweats and a hoodie. He pulled the neckline away from his body.
It was hard to see with just the light that streamed in from the alley, but Stiles could make out a harsh, pink scar around Derek's neck.
"I don't remember -- I don't know -- it's like I've been in some kind of fog. There was a bomb, and then... I can't... Chris Argent was pulling a collar off me and telling me to run, and... I think we were by a lake. I've been... I've been... I smelled lycans in a group, followed the scent back to the city."
"They were on a camping trip," Stiles said. The group from Beacon Tower had gone out to learn to scent in the fresh air, how to run at full speed, how to stalk and hunt. There had been enough of them for the scent to linger for weeks.
"Camping?" Derek stared at him.
Stiles started to answer, but his jaw dropped instead. "You don't know about the bill passing, you missed -- oh Jesus, Derek. Are you hurt now? Show me. Come on."
Derek pulled the hoodie off. There was no undershirt beneath it, and his shoulder and back were badly burned. The flesh wasn't healing like it should have, and he obviously hadn't stopped to wash the mess away. And in the middle of it all was one bloody, unhealed gash.
"Come on. Let's get that cleaned out." He hauled Derek up, and it was actually terrifying to have Derek lean on him like he might collapse. He grabbed a towel and the first aid kit they kept under the sink. Derek braced himself, hands gripping the edges of the counter so hard that the plastic cracked, as Stiles dabbed away blood and pus. Cleaning the cut actually made it bleed more, but Derek relaxed as it did.
"That's better," he breathed. "So much. I think the knife blade was poisoned. It'll heal now. I can feel it."
Sure enough, as Stiles watched, the flesh on Derek's shoulder began to smooth, the burn fading, the wound closing.
"You seem more alert," Stiles hazarded. "Can you tell me anything more? About what happened?"
Derek heaved a breath. "Yeah. Yeah. Let me go make some coffee."
"No," Stiles said, and at Derek's surprised look, added, "What you're wearing is disgusting. Shower. Find something to put on in my room. Nothing'll fit, but I've got some old shirts you can stretch, and my sweatpants should be fine. I'll make the coffee."
Derek just nodded. Stiles left him to it and headed out to the kitchen. He not only made coffee, he raided the fridge. He was piling a plate with leftovers when Derek came out, wearing Stiles's things, his hair damp and too long. He still looked exhausted, haggard, but not on the brink of death anymore.
"Thank you," he said. "You didn't have to."
"I did, actually. Eat. And talk."
"At the same time?"
"And leave the jokes to me, you're not funny. Talk with your mouth full, I don't care. Just tell me what happened."
Derek took a few bites, chased them with a long swig of coffee, and made a face. "Mud. This is why I never let you make the coffee."
"Derek, I swear to god, tell me what happened or I'll kill you myself."
"I don't know," Derek said. "Argent took the collar off me, but he had wolfsbane in his gun so I wouldn't just turn around on him. He told me to run. We were by a lake, in some... facility. I ran, but hunters followed. One of them got too close and knifed me. There were arrows, after that, and one was on fire."
He shuddered, and Stiles gripped his own coffee mug harder. Derek's family had died in a fire. Fire was the one thing that scared him.
"I got away. They were tracking me, but I... stopped them."
Tore their throats out, Stiles translated. He just nodded.
"I don't know what happened," Derek continued. "Or where we were, or why Argent... How long have I been gone?"
Stiles did the math, working from what Boyd had told him. "Four years, or something like that. Jesus, you missed so much."
"You said the bill passed. The -- the Freedom Bill?"
Stiles nodded. "Two years ago. The lycans you smelled, they're all recovering. Free. Forming a pack bond, learning how to function. I just... help them learn how to cope with humans."
"You are hard to cope with," Derek deadpanned.
Stiles slammed his coffee down. "Shut up. Shut up, Derek, I thought you were dead. For a decade I left my window open just in case -- in case you were alive, but you never even sent me word that you -- don't make jokes."
Derek looked down at his food guiltily. "I'll go to the lycans tomorrow. Get out of your hair."
"No, damn it." Stiles crossed his arms. "We don't know if anyone knows you're here, we don't know why Argent helped you, or where you've been. You're not going out anywhere. You're just -- you're just staying. Right here. Until we know something more."
"Are you telling me what to do?" Derek demanded.
"Yes." Stiles stared him down, waiting for the rush of guilt that usually came at the idea of ordering Derek around -- Derek, who'd been a slave, his family's slave. But it didn't come this time, because he knew he was right, and there was no way in hell he was going to risk letting Derek out of his sight. Not now that he knew Derek was alive. And he knew that if he shouted loud enough, Derek might actually listen to him. It wasn't something that had happened a lot, but Derek did care what he had to say, sometimes. Or at least, he used to.
Derek stared at him for a long minute. Then, finally, nodded. "Okay."
Stiles relaxed at that, just a little. He took a deep breath. "Eat up. I'll get some sheets for the couch."
Derek watched at him as he stood up, but as he walked by, Derek reached out and grabbed his wrist with one hand, brought the other up to his shoulder, traced at where the scar was under Stiles's shirt.
"Your window was open," Derek said.
"Every night." Stiles pulled his arm free. He put sheets on the couch, did the dishes as Derek lay down, and hoped Derek really would still be there in the morning.
It took him hours to fall asleep.
*
He woke to the scent of coffee and stumbled out of bed. It was still early, the sun not even up yet, but given all of his tossing and turning there was no point in lying in bed anymore.
Derek met him with a cup of coffee, pressed it silently into his hands. Stiles nodded his thanks and sank into a seat at the tiny kitchen table, then took a satisfying gulp. He'd somehow forgotten that Derek's coffee was liquid pleasure. Actually, everything Derek made was exquisite. Apparently it was something to do with having a super-powered nose, and most lycans were fantastic cooks.
But the coffee wasn't just good, it was familiar. It hit Stiles somewhere visceral, sending dozens of memories pouring through his mind. His cheeks went warm as he remembered being an awkward teenager, staring at a man who was simultaneously the most attractive and most terrifying person he'd ever seen.
He glanced over at Derek, now leaning over the stove, and swallowed. Derek looked better now than he had in the middle of the night -- still pale but not dangerously so, clean-shaven, with his now salt-and-pepper hair was wavy and tousled, since it was too long and it wasn't like Stiles was stocking his preferred products. But it looked nice. And the way Stiles's ancient shirt pulled across his shoulders and arms as he reached for the pot on the stove was --
Derek's head snapped around towards the hall. He blinked, then set the pot back on the stove, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured another cup of coffee. Stiles just watched as Derek silently added cream and sugar, stepped towards the hall, and damn, his timing was impressive. He was holding it out like some kind of mystic offering when Stiles's father walked into the room.
Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but what was there for him to say? His father's gaze was fixed on Derek. He set the coffee aside on the counter, grabbed Derek's arm, and pulled him into a tight, clinging hug. Derek's eyes went wide before his face returned to its usual, unreadable mask, but he didn't pull away until Stiles's dad did, and Stiles remembered that, for all their relationship was just as complex and even more fraught than Stiles's own relationship with Derek, his father also loved Derek, and had given everything up for Derek, too.
"The coffee's perfect, Dad," Stiles said, raising his own mug.
"Of course it is," Derek said, and nodded towards the second chair at the kitchen table. "Sit. The oatmeal's about to burn. We'll talk once I've saved it."
His father half-laughed and sat, wiped at his eyes for a second, and then started drinking his coffee. "Wouldn't want the oatmeal to burn," he managed.
Stiles sipped his coffee and waited as long as he could before bursting out, "Do you remember anything else? Now that you've had some time to recover?"
Derek glanced over his shoulder. "Yes. Do you know how awful burnt oatmeal smells?"
Stiles made a face. "I know you think you're funny, but no one else does."
"I do," his father said.
"Don't help."
His father smiled. "Maybe I'm just glad not to be drinking that mud you always make in the mornings."
"If it's so gross, why do you always drink it?" Stiles griped. But he leaned back in his chair and tried to calm down. Derek pretty much never told anyone anything before he wanted to, so if he wanted to wait until after breakfast, fine. What was another half an hour after fourteen years?
Finally, Derek presented them both with bowls of oatmeal, and then poured his own coffee. There weren't any more chairs, but he leaned back against the counter and looked over at the two of them. "There's not a lot to remember. A wolfsbane gas bomb knocked me out. Everything after there is muddled, but I remember -- I was resistant to their collar. It was mostly Victoria who was there, and some of her assistants. They didn't want to use the Mark Two, they wanted to know everything. I didn't talk."
Stiles swallowed. He knew how the Argents would have tried to get information from Derek, and what Derek must have gone through, if he hadn't spilled anything at all.
Derek's half-nod confirmed it. "They gave up when I tried to kill myself. It was... messy. I almost succeeded."
"Jesus," Stiles murmured.
Derek shrugged. "In the end, they wanted me alive more than they wanted information. I don't know why, but it can't have been for anything good. They put the Mark Two on me. Everything after that is gone, until Chris Argent took the collar off and I ran." He looked over at Stiles. "I don't think I was followed, but the longer I stay here, the more danger you're in. They'll be looking for me."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Stiles said. "No one knows who we are, where to find us. You'll be as safe here as anywhere else, until you figure out your next step."
"My next step is getting in touch with the Network. And I'm not doing that from here."
"You don't have to," Stiles said. "I'm pretty sure I can do it for you."
*
Stiles went to volunteer at Beacon Tower like usual, but when he got there he bypassed his perch and walked up to the leader's apartment. She wasn't an alpha -- so far, no alphas had recovered enough to bond with packs, and no new alphas had turned up -- but this woman was on the far side of over the hill, and still incredibly fierce. She'd been with the underground when she was younger, having safely slipped away from the Argents as a teen; she'd been captured and collared eventually, but once they'd freed her she'd been one of Isaac's and Erica's fiercest soldiers; and now... well, now she really hated humans.
She tolerated Stiles because of the mark on his shoulder. But she didn't like him.
He braced himself and knocked, and when she answered her door she eyed him suspiciously. Then, staring, she sniffed the air.
"I need to get word to the Network. He's back," Stiles said.
"I'll tell them," she answered, and shut the door.
*
Derek didn't seem to like being cooped up in the apartment, but he didn't complain. He did pace a lot, and clean everything. He sent Stiles's dad off with a grocery list and took over all of the cooking. He reorganized their closets and kitchen cabinets. He bleached the shower.
After four days, Scott knocked on the door. Stiles's dad opened it, and Scott looked kind of mesmerized. He barely managed to say hello to Stiles's dad before throwing himself at Derek, into Derek's arms.
Derek looked startled, but he hugged Scott back.
"Dude, you are alive. You're alive! When we busted out Erica and you weren't there, we gave up hope. And you!" He turned to Stiles and wrapped him in a hug that nearly cracked his ribs. "Man, I missed you."
"I missed you, too," Stiles said, giving him a back pat before they pulled apart. "You'd better have pictures of the kids."
"About a million of them," Scott promised. "But first things first. Chris Argent has been trying to get in touch with Allison for the last week. I'm guessing he was involved with... whatever went down."
Derek nodded. "He's the one who released me. I don't know why."
"He's been saying he has information, but he's been pestering us since Victoria died, so --"
"What?" Derek interrupted.
"Yeah, what?" Stiles added.
"What -- oh, right. You're out of the loop, and they've been keeping it quiet. When we got Erica out, um, she and Victoria had a kind of run-in. And, well..."
"Okay, and later you're going to explain all of that in detail," Derek said. "Now, go on. About Chris."
"Right. He's been bugging us since then, offering to trade information for... well, time with the kids." He shrugged. "We've been shutting him down, obviously, but if he might have something real... We don't exactly want the kids cuddling up with him, but..."
"Thank you," Derek said.
Scott grinned at him, lopsided. "You know we'd do anything for you. Are you..." He looked over at Stiles, then back. "Are you okay here? We can move you to a safehouse, or down to Erica's island, if we have to."
Stiles held his breath. Derek had made it clear he was only staying because Stiles had insisted, that he wanted to be on his way and leave Stiles behind. And Stiles really was not ready to be left yet, even if it was a question of safety.
But Derek didn't immediately take the out. Instead, he looked over at Stiles, his expression a question mark.
"It's up to you," Stiles said, even though he wanted to grab Derek's arm and make him stay, to move him from the couch and into his bedroom. "You know the door's always open for you. Or... the window, anyway."
"Then I'll stay," Derek said.
Something that had been clenched too hard in Stiles's chest eased a little.
"And you," Stiles said to Scott. "Stay for dinner."
"I'm cooking," Derek rumbled.
"Then I have to stay." Scott grinned at them. "You know how much I missed you both, right?"
Stiles smiled a little. "Now about those baby pictures..."
*
Someone shook him awake. He blinked and saw Derek fully dressed; glanced over at his alarm clock and saw it was nearly 2 a.m. He sat up quickly. "What's happening?"
"I have to go. Argent agreed to meet with me."
"But --"
"It's not a trap. I'll be with Allison and the kids. He wouldn't put them in danger. And we'll have backup."
"Then can I come, too?" Stiles demanded.
"No."
"Why not? If there's no danger, and you're willing to send in some kids, why the hell not?"
"I wasn't telling you as an invitation. I just... wanted to say goodbye."
"So you're not coming back?"
Derek stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Leave the window open."
"No." Stiles scrambled out of bed and grabbed Derek's arm. "No."
"Stiles --"
"Just listen to me, Derek! The last time I let you go, you let me think you were dead for years. You let me think that you'd gotten killed trying to save me. You let me think it was my fault you were dead."
"It was never your --"
"It was, god damn it, you let me think it was." He shoved Derek away from him, or really, shoved himself away from Derek, because Derek didn't budge. "You said to leave my window open, and I did it for years, thinking you were dead, thinking it was how I was mourning you, and then I kept it up even knowing you were dead and now you're back and that's all you'll say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want to go with you," Stiles said, meeting Derek's stare head-on, because there was no reason for him not to go. If it was safe enough for kids, then it was safe enough for him.
He could see Derek chewing that over, and then: "Fine. You have five minutes to pack. Leave your dad a note."
Stiles scrambled to change and shove some things into a bag, to write a note (business with D, love you, back in a few days, no red meat while I'm gone), and they took off, tracing a path down dark streets towards the halfway house. A car was waiting for them.
They met up with Allison, Scott, and the kids a few hours out of the city, switched to their ridiculous RV, and kept moving. A few cars flanked them, and they all stopped every few hours for meals and stretch breaks.
They drove for a full day, rotating drivers so people could sleep. Stiles mostly hung out with the kids, getting to know them, playing and having fun. But he listened in when he could, as Allison shared tense information with the others.
They stopped at a motel a few hours before the meeting, so everyone could shower and freshen up. Stiles found himself more nervous than he expected, considering how safe this was supposed to be -- and that an entire cell that had once answered to Erica and Isaac was behind them, ready to take out anyone who threatened them.
The meeting was at a public park. Argent didn't come alone either, but his people made a big show of setting down their weapons. His face actually lit up when he saw the kids, but Allison strode forward.
"Business first," she said. "Then we get to the family picnic."
He nodded. She gestured and one of the lycans brought over a table setup. It wasn't designed for so many people, but she, Scott, her father, Derek, Stiles, and two more Argent lackeys managed to squeeze in.
Argent finally started talking: "My father's death should have left the facilities in my hands. It didn't. Everything was deeded to Victoria. You know something about that, Hale?"
Derek shrugged. "I wanted the Mark Twos gone. She wanted to be in charge. And what the hell did it matter which psychopath was running your operation? I was planning to murder you all eventually, and the more you struggled with each other, the easier it would be to pick you all off."
Everyone gaped at that, even Stiles. Maybe they'd all known Derek had taken out Gerard, but the entire idea of him bargaining with an Argent was crazy. And yet apparently it had worked.
Argent narrowed his eyes. "Maybe it mattered more than you thought. Because she deactivated the Mark Twos, but she was also building facilities in secret, with government backing. Even I didn't know about them. Do you all get that? I didn't know."
It must have been true, because none of the werewolves objected, and they'd never have agreed to meet if he had a scentblocker.
"I've found two of them, one in New Mexico and one outside of Chicago. I have my own sets of eyes and ears in the Bureau. I found out they were moving Reyes from Illinois down to the southwest, and it was the first I'd heard of either one. And you know what happened to Southwest."
Everyone nodded, and Allison looked down at the table, not able to meet anyone's eyes at all. She was so devoted to Scott and the lycans that it was easy to forget that Chris and Victoria were her parents. It had been years, decades, since she'd walked away from them, but that didn't mean it was easy.
"Well," Argent continued, after the moment passed. "One of Victoria's people burned all her drives when we got word. I've been trying to get information off them, but it's a mess." He nodded at one of his lackeys, who handed over a paper bag that clanked with computer parts. "Here's what I've learned: she was experimenting with a new collar, and Reyes was one of the test subjects. Hale would have been next in line if she'd gotten it to work properly. The goal -- the goal was to keep the unquestioning obedience of the Mark Two, but allow the subject to remember everything. Actually answer our questions, give us useful information. But..." He shook his head. "She was close but not there yet when the facility went up, and her research was lost with her. God knows I'm not interested in recreating it."
No one reacted, so that must have been the truth, too. Which was also weird. He was an Argent, but that sounded an awful lot like mercy.
"Things have been falling apart," Argent continued. "There'd been a split in the family for a long time. And I want to make this clear: we will never be allies, lycan. I want nothing to do with you and your kind. But this war solves nothing, and public sentiment is changing. I'd rather adapt than go extinct."
Derek inclined his head, just once. Not a nod, just an acknowledgement.
"Victoria and I... didn't see eye to eye. I found out about the facilities and the experiments after she died, and decided to end them. It... didn't go well."
"You've lost control entirely," Derek said.
Argent hesitated, then nodded. "There's a group that's loyal to me. And I wasn't trying to save you. I don't give a damn about you, Hale. I wanted my people out of that facility before yours could take them out. But it went FUBAR, and we found you."
"And released me."
"Yes, well." He spread his hands on the table. "I wanted to see my grandchildren."
Derek snorted. "You saved my life to blackmail Scott and Allison?"
"Scott and Allison are currently blackmailing me for information."
"You," Scott said, and smiled widely, "are not as evil as you pretend to be."
Allison and Derek both turned to glare at him, but Argent smiled a little, and so did Stiles. He kind of suspected it was true.
Argent continued, "When I let you go, it was in the middle of a shitstorm. My crew and I barely made it out alive; the people chasing you were actually chasing me. Be grateful, lycan. You were still collared when I found you. I didn't have to let you go. I could have turned you into my slave."
"I've already been your slave," Derek said, voice cold and steady.
Argent winced, and Stiles finally understood. Derek had been a slave to the Argent family, not just in the abstract way all lycans had been, but very, very directly. Kate Argent had tortured him -- but Chris never had, as far as Stiles knew. For Chris, lycan hunting and slavery wasn't about personal hatred or torture. He really believed it was the only way to keep the world safe from a threat. But he'd stood back and let Kate do whatever she wanted, and he'd never stood up to his father, when he'd encouraged Kate. And now... now he was still carrying around guilt from it.
Guilt that meant that, no matter what he thought of the lycans, he'd felt obligated to free Derek.
"Like I said. Victoria's people burned her information that night. Those drives are all I recovered. You'll have to do whatever decoding and salvaging you can on your own."
Again, it was the truth, because the werewolves in the group accepted it.
"Was it your wife holding me?" Derek asked him. "Or the government?"
"Does it make a difference? They knew you'd die before you'd give them anything. All they did was hold you, for years, waiting for Victoria's breakthrough on the Mark Three."
"It does make a difference," Derek said.
Argent hesitated, then said, "Victoria."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not. I just -- it was Victoria, with government backing. Protection. They were hiding it, even from me, and funding her, waiting for that breakthrough. That was their price: they bankrolled Victoria, because once she had the Mark Three working, she'd have handed you over."
"Why?" Derek demanded. "The Freedom Bill passed while she had me. Why bother keeping me alive after that?"
"She didn't even tell me she had you in custody, you think I know that?" Argent shook his head. "But I've been getting calls from her contacts since then. From what I pieced together, there are still plenty of people with power who are terrified of you and your Network. They wanted everything you knew, to prepare for some kind of uprising." He rolled his eyes. "And they wanted to have you ready to use. A Mark Three would have let you keep your personality and still make you do what you were told. Like become a mouthpiece for them."
"And you think no one would have noticed the collar?"
"It might not have been a full collar. Just a chip. I don't know, it was Victoria's research, not mine. I never wanted any part of it. That's why she was hiding it from me. But I'd watch my back if I were you, Hale. If they were that scared of you, they won't just give up."
"And what about you, Argent?" Derek's eyebrows quirked. "Are you that scared of me?"
"No," Argent said. "No. I know what you're capable of; I don't fear it. But I've lost every single member of my family to lycans -- in one way or another." He glanced over at Scott and Allison. "I'm done. I just want to see my grandkids."
*
*
The kids were roasting marshmallows with their grandfather while Scott supervised when Derek said to Stiles, "That's why."
"What?"
"I didn't tell Victoria anything. I would have died first, and Victoria and her contacts realized they couldn't break me -- not like that. And there was no one who... They did look for you. Ask Argent if you don't believe me."
"I do believe you." Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest, watching the kids silhouetted by the fire. "I just don't see --"
"If they'd found you, if they'd had you --"
"You wouldn't have --"
"Yes, I would." Derek looked over at him, fierce, and Stiles's heart stuttered for a moment and he wanted. "If they had you, if they tortured you, I would have. I realized that when the FBI took you. There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe."
"Why?" Stiles stared at him. "Why me, Derek? You've never... everything that's happened, you've never told me why. You've never even told me what you want from me."
Derek looked away from him. "I thought you knew."
"Seriously? All I know that you used to climb in through my window and take over my life. Sometimes you'd put your arm around me. Usually by accident. I know you marked me, and I know that's all you've ever done."
"Stiles..."
"And that's fine. It is. I'd never push you, okay? You don't like falling asleep near other people, that's fine. You hate using the front door, so I never lock my windows. It's fine. You let me think I'd gotten you killed, it's fine. I just need to know if it's... if it means anything."
Derek stared at him.
"It's okay if it doesn't," Stiles said, his voice going a little hoarse when Derek didn't answer. "If there's nothing. That's... fine. But you mean something to me. You do."
"Still? You should have... you thought I was dead. You should have moved on."
"Moved on? Seriously?" Stiles sat back, leaning on his arms, and let his hand slip over towards Derek's. Derek didn't pull away, but jerked his head around to stare as Stiles's fingers grazed his. "I didn't. I couldn't, and I never will."
"Did you try?"
"Yes."
"You're lying."
Stiles sighed. "I tried. Half-heartedly. I dated sometimes. I never fell for anyone, though." He snorted. "This is so fucking stupid. I want you. And I'm right here, and I'll be here whether you want me back or not. So either way, you've got nothing to lose if you tell me, so spit it out already. Tell me something. Please."
"I want you to be safe."
"Derek --"
"I need you to be safe. More than I need you to be happy."
"And what about your happiness? Does that even enter into it?"
"It never has." He paused. "We'll need to move you again after this."
"What? You can't just -- you can't just hide me away and never see me again. If you give even half a damn about me, you can't --"
"I have to. Because I do give a damn about you, because I do -- I do have feelings. For you." Derek shifted slightly, pulling his hand away. "But being with you puts you in danger, and if the people who hate me ever find you, then it puts a lot more than just your life at risk. I can't do that to you, and I can't do that to the pack. So until I find a better solution, it has to be like this. It has to."
Stiles looked away, trying hard just to keep his breathing under control, to keep everything under control, because Derek was right. If Derek really did love him the way he loved Derek, then... shit. The fact that they wanted to be together was exactly why they couldn't be, because Stiles wasn't going to risk anything else happening to Derek because of him. Derek, or the pack.
"It isn't fair," he croaked, when he finally managed to force words out.
"No, it isn't."
"Will you at least work on it?" Stiles asked him. "Try to find some way?"
"I'll do what I can," Derek said.
But he didn't sound optimistic.
*
They took off for home that night, once the kids were tired and Allison declared their agreement with her father fulfilled. Argent didn't argue, just watched as she ushered the kids away from him and into the RV, his expression longing. For a heartbeat, Stiles actually felt sorry for him -- he was old and alone and had lost nearly everything. But after all the damage he'd done, the cruelty he'd shown, Stiles's pity couldn't last longer than that.
The lycans who'd accompanied them arranged themselves into their groups, everyone shuffling around into different cars based on who was going where. With Scott and Allison heading back towards California and most of the lycans following, there weren't many other people heading back to Chicago, so Stiles found himself in a car with just Derek, and the feeling that Derek had pretty specifically chosen to escort him. But neither one of them said anything about it.
In fact, given how long the trip home was, it was remarkable how much they avoided saying anything important. Not that Stiles wasn't thinking it, that every mile that ticked by didn't feel like he was a mile closer to Derek disappearing again. But if he let himself focus on that, he wasn't going to be able to hold it together, so instead he filled up the silence talking about things that didn't matter at all. The weather, terrible TV shows Derek had missed in the last few years, how no one in Chicago appreciated lacrosse (frankly, neither did Derek, something they'd been arguing about since Stiles was sixteen), Stiles's job at the library, his fire escape garden, his father's attempts at internet dating.
Nothing about the conversation they'd had by the campfire. Not until they were well into the city and the scenery was all familiar, and they were closing in on home. Then Stiles couldn't help himself. "Do you want to come up for awhile? Rest before you hit the road again?"
"I've got work to do."
"Okay, how about just food? Even you need to eat sometimes. Let's stop for a bite."
"Stiles, I can't."
"You mean won't." He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest as Derek pulled up in front of his building. "And I'm not going to see you again. Am I?"
"I don't know," Derek said. "I want to -- it doesn't matter what I want."
"It matters to me."
Derek didn't say anything to that, and finally Stiles just unbuckled his seatbelt and fished around in the back to grab his bag. "Well. Then I guess that's it. I'll see you... someday. I hope."
Derek nodded, then reached out and grabbed Stiles's elbow. "Your window. Leave it --"
"Yeah," Stiles said, then stopped. He sank back down in the seat and dropped his bag. "No, fuck that. You owe me. The last time you wanted me to leave the window open, you made me think it was because you were coming back, and then you didn't. What the hell was with that?"
"I wanted you to move on," Derek said. "If you thought I was dead, then --"
"I thought I'd gotten you killed!" Stiles stared him down. "Because you implied, you -- you basically said you'd come back. But you didn't and you let me think you were dead. You don't get to do that to me again."
"What do you want me to do?" Derek demanded. "I wanted you to have a life, to get to start again, and I'm not involving you in all of this."
"I can handle all of this. I can --"
"I can't. If you're involved, I'll have to protect you. You'll be my priority and I can't do that. You understood this yesterday!"
"And I understand it now! But you don't get to just vanish again. Do you know what I went through? I hated myself, and I was so alone, and I couldn't -- I can't do that again. If you want me to disappear and start again, then I will, I'll do anything I can. But if you're going to pull that open window shit, then you owe me."
"What do you want?"
"A promise." Stiles stared at him. "I want you to promise me you'll be in touch. You'll let me know that you're okay. I get a phonecall, a letter, an email, I don't care what. But I get to know that, this time."
Derek nodded.
"Good. Okay. And if something ever happens to you, the pack contacts me. Immediately. Because I deserve to know."
"Fine."
"And..." Stiles groped for something else, something to make up for the years they'd missed, for his seething anger and guilt and all of it. Everything between the two of them, everything they didn't get to have. He met Derek's eyes and swallowed, then demanded, voice shaking, "And I want to kiss you."
"What?"
"Yeah," Stiles said. "Right now. I want to kiss you, so that if something happens... if something happens to you, at least I'll have that. This one thing. Please."
Derek gaped at him, his mouth actually falling open a little bit.
"Can I?" Stiles asked.
The shocked look didn't fade from Derek's face, but he nodded. And he didn't move, didn't pull away, when Stiles leaned across the space between seats, and pressed his lips to Derek's. Actually, for a moment Derek didn't do anything at all -- and then he was leaning in, his hand was on Stiles's cheek, his lips opened and oh god. Oh god. It wasn't exactly everything Stiles had dreamed of since he was a teenager, and he had a sudden flash of realization that he was more experienced at this than Derek. But it didn't matter how awkward it was. It was Derek, it was Derek letting Stiles kiss him, it was something real and concrete and it was almost terrifying how much Stiles wanted it, how devastated he was the second Derek finally pulled away.
"Stiles..."
"I should go." Stiles was breathing too hard, like he was having a panic attack or something. It was too much. He wanted it desperately, wanted to grab Derek again, kiss him and keep him, but he couldn't, so instead he groped for his bag and the door handle.
Derek grabbed his arm, tugged until Stiles looked back at him, even though Stiles wasn't sure he could handle even just looking at Derek and knowing he'd probably never get to kiss him again. Derek let go of his arm, met his eyes, and for just a second Stiles saw the same raw need that he felt, right there, reflecting back at him.
"I'll find a way," Derek said. "I will."
This time, Stiles believed him.
*
They moved him to Seattle and gave him a new name -- goodbye Gene Smith, hello Jim Thomas. He went to work at a university library and discovered they had a special lycan collection and a major project in progress: a collection of lycans' stories, all carefully recorded and archived, and more lycans coming by every month to contribute. Stiles offered to do some interviews and transcribing. They were hesitant to let him work on it, since it was a project that required all kinds of special training, until the first time a lycan actually came in to interview after Stiles started his job.
The lycan, a thirty-something with thick eyebrows, ignored the interviewer and walked over to Stiles's desk, scented the air, and stared at him. Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Can I help you?"
"You've already helped us all. You're -- " He looked around furtively. "Aren't you?"
"I was, but that was a long time ago," Stiles said.
The interviewer caught up with him and stared back and forth between Stiles and the lycan. "Do you two know each other?"
The lycan shook his head. "No, but, uh..."
"Jim," Stiles supplied.
"Jim and I used to... run in some of the same circles, I think."
After that, they let him work on the lycan history project, interviewing lycans who all looked at him with something like awe.
*
Derek never sent letters, but he did call -- probably because that way, Derek didn't need to know Stiles's address. The calls were always short and to the point: "Hello, Stiles. I'm okay. Be safe." Click.
But it was better.
With this identity, Stiles had a house and a yard -- a small one, true, but a yard nonetheless. He transferred his vegetables into the ground and started a real garden.
And he never locked his window.
*
It hit the news six months after his relocation: Derek Hale was sighted publicly for the first time in years. He was alive and well and living in New York. The media started following him around, freaking out, demanding to know where the hell he'd been for the last decade and a half. Why had he vanished? Did the scar around his neck really mean he'd been collared? How did he feel about Boyd's leadership while he was gone? Was he going to wrestle back dominance of the Beacon Hills Pack?
Derek just glared a lot, an expression that looked even more menacing on the dark Daehler filters. Boyd flew out to meet him, as if they hadn't been in touch for most of Derek's missing years, and Derek went to a bunch of meetings and functions in DC.
It was interesting to follow, and Stiles waited for his phone to ring. If nothing else, he figured Derek would want to bitch about it. But now that paparazzi were making it clear he was alive and safe, he didn't call at all.
*
Stiles was twenty minutes into interviewing an ancient lycan named Louis, and it was a big deal, because Louis was an alpha. He'd been locked to the Argent moonstone for nearly thirty years, aware of nothing but the dreams and nightmares of lycans whose collars fed off his will. But unlike most alphas, when he'd been released, he was lucid. Not always, he relapsed sometimes, collapsing into his mind and murmuring incoherently -- but he was awake enough to have his own place, to travel, to agree to the interview.
His experiences were so odd and fascinating. He spoke about the things he'd dreamed, twisted half-memories that had stuck with him. So Stiles was really annoyed when one of the other library staff members broke in and sputtered, "Sorry, sorry for the interruption, but you need to see this. Come on!"
"See what?" Stiles asked. "We're in the middle of --"
"Bring him. It's lycan business anyway. Hurry, we've got it streaming down at the info desk."
Stiles shot Louis an apologetic look. "I have no idea, but..."
Louis didn't object, just let himself be led down to the main desk, where most of the library staff and a few patrons were crowded around one monitor, streaming a presidential address.
"Sometimes," the president was saying, "we have to make moves that may not be popular, may not be good politics -- but that are right. The lycan problem has always presented us with those difficult choices."
Stiles swallowed, suddenly nervous. Argent had come out and said there were people in power who still feared the lycans -- and plenty of politicians hadn't been quiet about wanting to undo the Freedom Bill, and there were constant rumors that it was going to happen. But if it did, Stiles realized there would be no warning. The Argents or government agents would seize as many lycans as possible before it was announced, to keep them from hiding, running, fighting back. He scanned the library, looking for exits. If this was that announcement, he'd get Louis out. Get him to Beacon Hills, somehow, where the peaceful arm of the movement was settled -- where no one knew they'd been preparing for decades. If push came to shove, Boyd's carefully built, peaceful movement was prepared to defend their freedom to the death.
But thank god, the president continued. "This has been a hard choice, but it's what I believe is right. Our country must move beyond the bloody battles over lycan rights, must begin to forgive, and heal. We have a long way to go, but I offer this as a first step."
The President took a deep breath, nervous, and the camera pulled out to show the rows of advisors behind him. The screen went dark-tinted and slightly lined as it switched to a Daehler lens. Stiles actually gasped when he saw why: wearing suits, sitting with the stone-faced politicians, were Derek and Boyd.
"This morning, I signed two blanket pardons for crimes that may have been committed as part of the lycan freedom struggle." He gestured towards Derek and Boyd. "These two lycan men were instrumental in this fight, and both suffered and endured great personal loss, like so many of their lycan brethren."
And sistren, Stiles thought, thinking of Erica. But at least with the Daehler lens, everything was too dark to see the scar on Derek's neck.
"I am also pleased and proud to announce that, as the long time voice of the lycan rights movement, Vernon Boyd, as the elected head of the lycan enclave in Beacon Hills, has agreed to accept a newly-created post in my cabinet, as Secretary of Lycan Affairs."
Stiles stared at the screen, as the president continued his address. He was putting together a committee to determine how best to help lycans integrate into society, to draw up an amendment on lycan rights that would be ratified into the constitution, guaranteeing full rights, which not even the Freedom Bill had done.
"This is amazing," Louis murmured, then gave Stiles a concerned look. "Are you alright?"
Stiles nodded, swallowing, throat dry and head swimming, because they'd -- they'd pardoned Derek. Meaning that even if they kept him on watch lists forever, even if they never stopped tracking him and making sure they knew where he was, Derek could go anywhere he wanted, with his head held high.
"Are you sure?" Louis asked him, as they padded back towards the room where he did interviews.
Stiles nodded again, dazed.
"The lycans clearly mean a lot to you," he mused. "You're the only human pack member I've ever met."
"I, uh, yeah," Stiles said, reflexively bringing his hand up to brush the mark on his shoulder. "Yeah, I grew up in Beacon Hills, I know... I've known a lot of lycans. That was amazing, what just... Derek and Boyd, oh my god. Oh my god."
Louis raised his bushy eyebrows, probably able to guess there was more to it than that, but he didn't say anything.
*
Stiles spent the rest of the day reading the headlines, every piece of coverage he could. Opinion was split pretty hugely on the pardons -- plenty of people (correctly) took them as a tacit admission of guilt, acknowledgement that Derek and Boyd had both been further involved with the Network than they'd ever said publicly. Which wasn't really a controversial thing to guess about Derek, who had never really hidden his bloodthirsty side very well, but it shocked people about Boyd.
And of course, a lot of people just didn't like it. They'd never trust lycans, and hated any sign that lycans were truly free, full people. The nasty things people said never quite ceased to horrify Stiles, even though he'd heard it all before.
But the most shocking thing was that Derek agreed to do an interview. Just one, with a reporter who'd long been sympathetic to the lycan movement; not live, of course, and he'd get to see the edited final cut before it aired. Even so, it was ready for the news that night.
Stiles and his dad both stared, squinting at the filter that allowed them to see Derek on film.
The reporter, an attractive middle aged woman, asked, "There's a lot of discussion about the time you were... missing from the public eye. The question has to be asked, where were you? What were you doing for all of those years?"
Derek ran his fingers across the scar on his neck. "I was... busy, working for the movement out of sight. It was easier that way. And then I was captured by the Argents, and I was a slave."
He said it with the kind of bluntness that actually made the reporter squirm, and probably everyone watching, too. Everyone liked to pretend that the years of slavery hadn't been a big deal, that the lycans had all been fine, not suffered at all. But they'd all seen the footage of teenage Derek and Kate Argent, and as much as Derek hated being an object of pity, he still never let anyone shy away from what had happened -- to him, and to the other lycans.
"You didn't reappear when the Bill passed," the reporter noted in an awkwardly polite tone of voice.
"I wasn't freed when the Bill passed," he answered, just as blunt. "Did you really think the Argents didn't hide anything? That it was all as neat and clean as everyone wanted it to be?"
She looked startled. Like prey, Stiles thought.
"But," Derek continued, "it was Chris Argent himself who made the decision to free me. I choose to take that as a sign of -- reform, among the Argent organization."
"And that's a positive sign?"
"I wouldn't be here otherwise," Derek said.
"And your cooperation with the government -- do you consider it a slight that you weren't asked to fill the Secretary of Lycan Affairs position?"
"What makes you think I wasn't asked?" He flashed her a smile, smug up to his eyebrows. "I'm not a politician. I never have been. I've agreed to act as an advisor when needed, but Boyd is much, much better suited for the role, and the fantastic job he's done in Beacon Hills and for lycans throughout the country really shows that."
"Then you've officially abdicated lycan leadership to him?"
"There was never any need to," Derek said. "My leadership was never official. I'm not an alpha, and I was never elected to anything. I was just the first lycan in a position to fight back."
"Then you don't consider yourself a leader?"
"It doesn't matter what I consider myself. Other people, other lycans, considered me a leader, so I've done what I could. But I'm happy -- I'm relieved -- to sit back and let Boyd do this. He earned the position."
"And what will you do now?" the reporter asked
Derek smiled again -- a real, quiet, genuine smile, not even the smirk from earlier. "I'm going home," he said simply.
"Where's home? Beacon Hills?"
Derek shook his head. "Not anymore."
*
Three days passed. Stiles waited up at every night like he hadn't in years. There was no convenient roof outside his window anymore, though. But there was a sturdy tree with some branches that hung pretty nearby.
*
Stiles didn't know what woke him. Maybe it was just the shadow over the flimsy curtain. But he sat up, staring, as Derek hoisted the window open and slipped inside.
"I was wondering when you were going to turn up," Stiles said.
Derek snorted a little.
"You climbed the tree, right?"
"Yes," Derek said, then, as he peeled his jacket off, "Lie down. Go back to sleep."
Stiles cocked his head like he was considering it, then, "Nah. I'm suddenly just not at all sleepy."
"Well, I am."
"Oh," Stiles said guiltily. He didn't lie down, but he did scoot over and gesture to his rumpled sheets. "I won't keep you up, then. I mean. If this is where you want to sleep. I can put sheets on the couch..."
Derek glanced at him for a second, rolled his eyes, then toed off his shoes and socks and sat down on the bed next to Stiles.
"Derek?" Stiles prompted, when Derek didn't lie down, but also didn't say anything.
"Your window was open," Derek said.
"Well... yeah," Stiles said. "I was waiting for you. I hoped... you said you were going home."
"Yes. I am home. With you."
Stiles blinked a few times, his chest tightening, but he managed to keep himself under control and buried his face in Derek's cheek. "So you're staying for real?"
"If that's what you want."
Stiles shifted a little closer, until they were sitting together, touching, shoulder to shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, it's... it's what I want. Of course it is. I just can't believe you finally... I mean, you said you'd find a way. I just... I can't believe..."
"Every politician worries about their place in history," Derek said. "Boyd and I just had to convince enough of them to be on the right side. I didn't want to trust... I don't trust them. But there are enough who support us now."
"What about the... others?" Stiles asked. "The ones who always supported the Argents?"
"They no longer have an Argent to support. Chris has begun refusing all contact with them and has made it clear that he will no longer speak for anti-lycan causes. They've lost the battle of public opinion, they've lost the legal battle, and they've lost their figurehead. They can keep fighting in private, but they know they'll lose there, too."
"Wow. All this in six months."
"Six months?" Derek shook his head. "Did you realize, this month is 25 years since you set me free?"
Stiles paused, thinking about everything that had happened since then, everything Derek had done, everything he'd gone through. "No wonder you're tired."
Derek huffed out a half-laugh, then leaned in closer to Stiles, inhaling. Stiles all but shivered just from having him so close, and when Derek pressed his lips to the scar on Stiles's shoulder, Stiles's breath caught in something that was almost a moan.
"You know," Stiles panted, as he let Derek tug him down, under the sheet, "you don't have to use the window anymore. Seriously, the front door. I recommend it. I'll make you a copy of the key and everything."
"Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek mumbled against him, his breath warm against Stiles's skin.
Stiles fell quiet and lay in the dark, relaxing as he got used to Derek's bodyheat, to having another body wrapped around his own. It had been a long time, but this -- Derek -- already felt right, familiar. Like it was how things were always supposed to be and he hadn't even realized something was missing without it.
He lay there and reveled in it, not yet drowsy enough to sleep, but calmer and happier than he'd been in years. And not sleeping was okay, too, because it meant he got to see it, to feel it, for the very first time. Derek's breathing evened out, his body relaxed, and the tension eased out of his face until he was smiling.
Derek Hale was free, and happy, and asleep in his arms.