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Returning to Beacon Hills was probably the easiest decision he'd made in years. It did not matter that he had not been back since his father fell to a stray bullet some seven years ago, or that his last contact with Scott had been three years after that. He wasn't even concerned that the Stilinski house had been sold a long time ago and he'd have no place there, that he could call his. Beacon Hills was where his mother's grave lay next to his fathers, close enough that their ghosts could reach across the distance and mesh incorporeal fingers, as if to give each other comfort over the fate of their son. It was time. It was time to go back. And it was finally, and yet too soon, his time.
He checked into the motel without driving by the house. It would have been too painful he thought, to hear echoes of his childhood and see flashbacks of his youth if the former Sheriff's house looked the same. It would have been even more painful to find that it was all different and that there was nothing to show that the Stilinskis were ever there. How do you deal with knowing that your world, your life, was not marked with witness to your existence? He didn't want to think about it.
His route also did not take him pass Scott's house. It was strange to think that he could so completely lose touch with someone who for most of his life, ranked as one of the three people most important to him. Especially since there was usually no more than five people on that list at any given time. He'd never even met Scott's wife. After Kira left, Scott had been too busy figuring out his Alpha life to think about relationships and by the time things had settled down enough for him to consider dating, Stiles had long ceased to see his hometown in his rear-view mirror.
He did stop at the cemetery for a quick hello and a promise of a longer visit the next day, since the daylight was already fading by the time he rolled into town. He'd been surprised to see the plots were neat with recent tending and fresh flowers sitting pretty at the bases of the headstones. There were roses, carnations and lilies blended with baby's breath in small arrangements that looked like love and loss. He felt a pang of guilt for not being the one responsible, for never coming back after the funeral. That was just too much for him to bear and he comforted himself with the thought that his parents would understand. If no one else understood, he was certain that they would. He spared a moment to consider who had left them there. As much as Scott was the closest thing to family he had left, he couldn't see him paying this much attention to his parents' graves.
He did not unpack his bags once he got inside his room. Instead he dropped the large duffel and the medium sized suitcase next to the mini-fridge and sat on the edge of the bed staring at the two pieces of luggage, unable to believe that all that was left of him, was right there in that dingy motel room. He considered what his next move should be. He'd not thought of anything really, other than coming back. The days since the decision was made to return were spent busy with the liquidation of his life, until all that he was left with, was exactly what he was looking at. So he really had no idea what he was going to do now that he was here.
He decided on nothing. He wasn't going to decide anything yet. He wasn't even going to decide if he should take a shower or not. He would move when he felt like it, do what he felt like whenever he felt like it. Dropping backward on the bed, he turned his head sideways and felt a twinge of disappointment to not find a seventeen year old Scott looking back at him. Hotel California seemed like yesterday and a lifetime ago, all at once. He closed his eyes and zoned out (or fell asleep - he was always tired these days) and then was startled alert by the banging on the door.
Getting up, steps unsteady with a clouded mind, he made his way to the door. Whoever was on the other side was fairly insistent and he swung the door open, ready to give the bang-happy idiot a piece of his mind. He froze, words caught in his throat like one of those hiccups that couldn't quite make it out and felt like a tiny explosion in your chest. Looking back at him from across the threshold, a distance of less than two feet that may have well been a light year, was Derek Hale, older but still very much the image of the man that had haunted him for so very long.
Before he could find words, he found himself enveloped in strong arms and solid chest, Derek nuzzling into his neck and shoulder as the werewolf inhaled deep breaths of him. Unable to do anything else, Stiles held on tight and began to cry.
It was a while before he could stop crying. By then, Derek had manoeuvred them both inside and onto the bed, shutting the door with his foot. They lay there for a long while in silence and just when Stiles had collected the shattered pieces on himself enough to ask how Derek knew, Derek anticipated the question and answered.
"I was at the cemetery. I visit my family all the time and since I moved back permanently a year ago, I visit your parents as well. I caught your scent and followed it here. I recognized your heartbeat once I got to the door."
If Stiles thought it was odd that Derek could know his scent and his heartbeat a decade after they last saw each other, he did not comment on it. He wasn't ready for that answer.
"Were the flowers from you?" he asked instead. They were. Something inside him acknowledged that he already knew that.
Derek insisted that Stiles check out and stay with him instead. Stiles tried to tell him that he was staying in Beacon Hills indefinitely and Derek was fine with that. Stiles could stay with him forever and Stiles was glad and grateful. Staying with Derek meant he had someone, even if for a little while. He had every intention of leaving when things got bad, but he wasn't going to tell Derek that. He was going to be the selfish asshole he was and have this for a little bit, so that he could have the memory of it when he left it behind.
Derek walked ( and ran) to the motel, so he sat too large in the front passenger seat of Stiles' Prius, and directed him to the house. They talked as they drove, Derek filling him in on the pack news - Scott and his human wife Serena had a two year old daughter in addition to the four year old son Stiles had heard about- both wolves. Liam was still his second and there were six other werewolves in the McCall pack, three of those with families of their own. Peter had died a long time back. Cora was married and a rancher in Argentina. They'd lost touch with Malia shortly after Peter's death. Derek wasn't officially a part of the pack but as the last Hale in Beacon Hills, he was welcomed as a legacy of sorts.
Stiles didn't ask why Derek came back. As much as he wanted to know he didn't want to open any doors for Derek to ask the same.
Then they were turning onto his old street and then onto his old driveway.
Stiles switched off the engine but made no move to get out of the car. He sat there staring at the house which looked exactly the same as it always did, only better maintained. Some parts had been replaced, it had obviously been repainted but it still looked like home. He had thought he was done crying for the night but he was wrong. Derek let him have this time.
When they finally carried the bags inside, Derek explained that he'd come back too late for the Sheriff's funeral. Stiles had already left town but Derek couldn't let a stranger buy the house. So he'd bought it and closed it up just in case Stiles ever changed his mind and came back. But Stiles never did. Then when he finally came back for good, he rented out the loft - the last unit in the apartment building he owned - and moved in. His job as a landlord didn't take up much time, so he'd spent the past year fixing up the bits that had fallen into disrepair.
They both paused outside Stiles's old room, currently done up as a guest room. Stiles was glad that it was different. He wasn't that kid anymore. Derek had also redone the master bedroom, which he'd claimed as his. It looked nothing like his parent's - his dad's - room and again instead of feeling loss, Stiles felt relief. He could still feel shadows of his childhood in here but they were light shadows, comforting and kind, not weighted down with grief and regret. He smiled. Derek had done a wonderful job with the house. It still felt like home and yet it felt right for Derek to be here like this.
He turned to go back to the guest room when Derek caught his wrist.
"Umm...if you'd like..." Derek struggled. Words were never his strength. Stiles twisted his wrist in Derek's grip and wove their fingers together in encouragement, squeezing gently.
Derek looked at their hands and smiled before taking a deep breath and looking back up at Stiles.
"I'd like it if you stayed in here with me," he stated. "For as long as you're comfortable doing so. I'm, not asking for anything, or to be anything. It's just that you're pack...my pack. You always have been and it's been so long since I've had that. Please."
Stiles was no fool. He was being offered what he would never ask for but wanted most. So he moved his luggage in and that night was the first of many where they slept tangled in each other.
Over the next week they fell into a routine. They'd have breakfast, run errands, watch movies, read together, sometime visit the cemetery and then later fall into bed to cuddle and sleep. Sometimes if they were watching a movie, Stiles would snuggle into Derek's side and Derek would let him. Other times, when they were in the car, or walking down the aisles in the grocery or hardware store, Derek would hold his hand and Stiles would let him. Derek never asked any hard questions, though Stiles often wondered what the werewolf could scent on him. If Derek smelled the meds, he never said anything. Stiles appreciated that.
At the end of the week, as he finished brushing his teeth before bed, Derek called from the bedroom asking if he planned on visiting Scott. He spit out his paste, and rinsed, stalling. It wasn't until he was under the covers, head on Derek's chest while Derek threaded his fingers through Stiles's hair that he answered, "Eventually, but not yet." Derek just scratched his scalp lightly and turned off the light.
The following week, Stiles sneaked and schemed and managed to make it to his doctor's appointment without Derek finding out. The news wasn't good but it wasn't bad either. His disease was progressing as anticipated. The good news was that he'd probably have three good months with Derek before he had to leave for the hospice. The bad news was that he'd probably have three good months with Derek before he had to leave for the hospice. Still it was more than he ever thought he'd have and despite the lack of sexual intimacy, there was enough emotional bonding for him to hold on to. He'd never before understood the concept of pack this well.
When he left the doctor's office, he found Derek in the waiting room flipping through a magazine. He floundered, trying to come up with a story to tell, despite knowing just how impressive werewolf hearing can be. Derek just put the magazine back before standing up and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"Ready to go?" he asked, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if it was just part of their routine and not something Stiles had tried to keep from him.
Stiles nodded and they left the medical building hand in hand.
Nothing really changed after that except that his medication bottles mysteriously found their way from his underwear drawer into the bathroom cabinet and Stiles didn't have to hide anymore. Derek still never asked. Stiles never offered.
Then a month after Stiles returned to Beacon Hills, Scott turned up and there were hugs and tears and invitations to family barbeques. At one point it seemed as if Scott was going to ask some uncomfortable questions, but Derek murmured something too soft for Stiles to pick up and whatever the message was, Scott received it clearly and changed topics quickly.
That night, when Stiles slipped into bed and Derek's arms, he lifted his face and kissed Derek. It was shy and hesitant and chaste and everything a first kiss should be. Derek kissed him back and Stiles was very glad he'd come home.
Kisses became a thing they did. Quick affectionate pecks, slow deep passionate smooches that flooded his stomach with butterflies, kisses on the mouths and on the eyelids and the nape of the neck. It was glorious. And then it got better. Kissing led to other things - things that Stiles was totally on board for.
They made love for the first time mid afternoon on a Thursday. Derek had been doing the crossword while Stiles was on Snapfish organizing his pictures. He was creating a photobook of pictures from when he was a teenager all the way up that morning when he took a selfie of them in bed together. It was a surprise gift for Derek for after he left. He often wondered if Derek knew what his plan was, the way he seemed to know everything else. As always he was too scared to ask. When he logged off, he looked at Derek, this man who tramped into his life in the woods when he was sixteen. He thought back to all the fear and pain and hurt and trust and friendship that they shared before life took them away from each other.
Derek looked up from the paper at him and smiled that little shy smile of his and Stiles was struck by just how much he loved this man. He must have said it out loud, though he doesn't remember doing so, because the smile broke into a grin and Derek replied that he loved him too. And then they were wrapped up in each other and somehow they moved from the couch to the bed and while Stiles had not been missing physical intimacy, being with Derek like that felt as if he was whole and invincible. It was addictive. So sex also became a thing they did.
The days passed quickly, so quickly that Stiles hadn't realized how much time had gone by until he was in the middle of a fight with Derek. He suddenly realized that he was exhibiting aggression and paranoia. It made him sick, the realization pooling like bile in his stomach and throat. He rushed to the bathroom and emptied his guts. The bile was real. His eyes blurred and burned as his stomach roiled, and he realized what this meant.
He felt Derek's hand smoothing up and down his back and heard his voice softly offering words of encouragement. Derek helped him rinse out and brush his teeth and then tucked him into bed with a cup of ginger tea to help with the nausea. Thinking back, it dawned on him that Derek had been taking care of him in increasing ways so quietly and patiently, that Stiles hadn't even seen how much he'd come to depend on him.
The next day when Scott took him to the diner for lunch, he asked Scott to take him to the hospice to see administration about confirming an admission date. It was time he said. The memories he wanted to leave behind, were to be good, strong ones. Scott tried to reason with him but in the end supported his brother as he always had. When they got back, Derek was on the porch waiting. He smiled and waved at Scott and, as stoic as ever, he didn't ask.
Stiles spent the next few days sneaking clothes into his duffel bag. It wasn't as if he'd need that much. They still made love every chance they got, but now it was with a desperation, hungry for every touch, every taste, filing away every sensation and emotion for when they had only memories and fantasy. It was beautiful and heart wrenching and Stiles had never loved so much or been loved so well. He was glad he came home.
On his last night with Derek, they stayed out in the backyard looking at the stars, talking about their lives, their losses and their love. Neither of them said the word goodbye but Stiles thanked Derek for making him so happy and tried to convey what he felt with his lips and his hands. Later in their room, in their bed and in the darkness, Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Don't leave me." He pleaded. "It doesn't matter how bad it gets, if you remember us or not. I can remember for both of us. You can't hurt me physically, I can heal and I promise you Stiles, that I will always love you and take care of you even when you don't know who I am or if you can trust me."
Stiles hated how easily he cried these days.
"Let me be with you until the end," Derek continued. "I came back to Beacon Hills for you Stiles. And whether it was conscious or not, you came back for me. Here in this house, this home, this is where we are meant to be. Please Stiles, everyone I have ever loved has left me and I have felt so helpless and alone. But I don't feel helpless with you. I can't change the outcome but I can help this time. I can let you know, show you before you go, how much I love you. Please, please don't leave me before you have to."
They cried together that night; cried until their throats hurt and eyes were burning dry and sore from being wiped too many times. But in the morning Stiles unpacked his duffle bag and called the hospice. The days that followed were a mixed bag of joy and pain, sleepless night and wild panic when Stiles wandered without knowing who he was or where he was supposed to be.
They ended up having seven months together in total and it was more bad than good when you added the days up. But as he placed a third set of Stilinski flowers down on his regular visit to the cemetery, Derek knew that he'd never have given up a single one of those days.