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Stiles first mentioned it the winter of his senior year, and Derek will admit that it achieved its intended effect.
“Did you know that Van Gogh painted Starry Night while he was living in an asylum?” Stiles asked, though any nonchalance was undermined by the way the cold air made his voice rough and shivery. Or perhaps that was because he was devoting too much of his energy to keeping Derek’s guts inside his body long enough for the Alpha’s skin to knit back together. But for a brief, paradisiacal moment, Derek wasn’t thinking about how much pain he was in, but instead about a painting and where in the hell Stiles came up with these conversation topics.
Derek wanted to say something like what the fuck, Stiles? Or you aren’t crazy, I promise. Or I didn’t know that, but I’m not at all surprised. Instead he just gurgles something indignant, blood painting his lips a too bright red in the moonlight. The sound pulled an involuntary whimper out of Stiles, a soft hurt noise that disappeared almost as soon as it was heard; leaving them once again surrounded by moonlit woods and distant howls and Derek’s wet panting. He felt the bright tendrils of warmth aiding his healing, encouraging his cells as they replicated.
“It’s true,” Stiles insisted. His voice trembled slightly on the outset, but evened out as he kept talking. “I can’t decide if I think it’s really sad, or the price of genius. I know I sort of lack the empathy completely, and I’m not going to lie, the Doctor Who episode makes me sort of want to bundle Van Gogh up in a blanket and give him hot chocolate, but are his paintings worth it? Did he think they were worth it? It sort of makes you question-”
But Stiles was cut off by the sudden snapping of branches. Footsteps grew louder and louder, but through the red film over his eyes, he could see Stiles panicked expression. Stiles couldn’t tell right now if they were boots or wolves. But Derek could, and he relaxed.
“Oh no you don’t,” Stiles demanded, high pitched and pressing harder on Derek’s chest. “Don’t you dare leave me right now you overgrown carpet. Don’t you dare.”
But Derek was already passing out, and the last thing he heard was Stiles screech and a thump and then Scott saying quietly it’s okay, Stiles, it’s me. Just breathe.
Stiles didn’t stop bringing it up after that night. He made them all watch the Doctor Who episode several weeks later, during the pack meeting. The remnants of dinner had all been put away – the left over roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts parceled out into three separate Tupperware containers for the inhabitants of the old Hale house to eat for lunch the next day. Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and mugs of hot chocolate and peppermint tea littered the coffee table in the living room, and everyone had thought that the disc they put in the DVD player contained the Hangover.
It wasn’t until the opening credits started that they realized that Stiles had the remote and was firmly and protectively ensconced in between Derek and the arm of the couch. When they all started groaning, Stiles just grinned.
“You guys just don’t get it. It’s a really fascinating take on the paradoxes of history and the price of genius and Amy Pond is hot, so stop whining at me Isaac,” he said all in one breath. It took one look at the fever brightness in Stiles eyes, the violent red blush of his cheeks before everyone stopped protesting.
They even started the next episode without grumbling, when the remote ended up on the floor, but they barely made it half way through before Stiles had fallen into a restless sleep. When he started muttering – is it worth it, is it worth it, is it worth it? – and Scott got that pinched, scared look on his face, Derek pushed himself off the couch. Stiles was really too big to carry but Derek made do, getting Stiles to wrap his arms around Derek’s neck and his legs around Derek’s waist.
Spread eagle on the cool sheets, he quieted, though the remnants of his magic still skittered along his skin like sparks. Derek laid a cool wet wash cloth on the back of his neck, and around three in the morning, his fever finally broke.
Over spring break, Jackson visited. He seemed calmer, more sure and much quieter. But he was still wearing a douchey Ralph Lauren polo and jeans that cost more than Sherriff Stilinksi’s mortgage payment. Lydia and Allison had gone to pick him up at the airport, and by the time they made it back to the Hale house, the training session was nearly over.
“What the hell?” Jackson demanded. It was the first indication for Stiles that the rest of the pack had returned. Where it once would have been condescending, it was now incredulous, and really, Stiles couldn’t blame him, seeing as he had just leapt about six feet in the air so he could gain enough downward momentum to really do some damage to Boyd with his rowan staff. When Boyd just managed to roll out of the way, Stiles was able to follow, and they ended up with his staff pressed to Boyd’s neck, vibrating with some energy that rolled off Stiles arms and down his staff in bright golden waves.
“Alright, alright,” Boyd panted. “I yield.”
“Yes! Take that my wolfy brethren!” Stiles crowed dropping his staff so he could more effectively pump his fists in the air. Boyd staggered slightly without the pressure of the staff on his neck, but just a few minutes later he was standing straight and rolling his eyes.
“Nicely done, Stiles,” Derek said evenly, from where he was leaning up against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. “We’re done for the day, everyone.” Everyone sighed in relief, and started to move around the front yard, picking up discarded bags and chatting. Derek stayed where he was however, and watched as Stiles gulped down some water. Jackson was staring like he’d never seen Stiles before. Derek knew the feeling. Stiles had changed a lot since Jackson moved east. He’d once been lean, strong but slight. Now he was lithe, with power in his muscles and his magic, and the definition of knowing just a little too much sculpted into his face. Magic still rolled over Stiles’ skin, like it had nowhere else to go, and his grin was bright and sharp.
Jackson seemed afraid to touch Stiles, and Stiles seemed to enjoy that.
“So, Jacks,” he said cheerfully. “Have you been to the MOMA yet?”
No one could get close to him. Not the Alphas and not the hunters, which was good, but neither could the pack. Still, the violent pulses emanating from where Stiles knelt in the forest worked well, bowling the hunters back until they hit their heads on trees or wrenched their knees on rocks. The Alphas were more used to this sort of thing, but every once and a while, Stiles’ rigid form would twitch and an Alpha would go rocketing sideways, crashing into Isaac or Derek or Scott. The Hale pack might not have expected it, but at least they knew it was a possibility and were thus better prepared than whatever wolf hurtled sideways into them.
Derek had no patience for it. His eyes were firmly fixed on Stiles, on the beads of sweat on his forehead and the determined, pain-filled set to his mouth. He could hear Scott yelling frantically, the whistle of Allison’s arrows. He could even, if he listened hard enough, hear the sirens from the Sherriff’s patrol car as he hurtled toward them. But he could not hear Stiles breathe.
In the end, it was Lydia. It was always fucking Lydia, with her immunity, who waded into the fight in a well fitted, expensive dress and walked right up to Stiles like the rest of them weren’t fighting against his magic like it was gale force winds. She grabbed his arms from where they were twitching at his sides and shoved them onto the dirt. The ground shook violently for one moment, like the world was ending and then suddenly, everything was quiet and Stiles collapsed.
He didn’t wake up for three days. The promising heat of early summer made the air ripple outside his window, but the air conditioner in his father’s house was going full blast. When his eyes finally fluttered open, he found himself alone, but he only had to put his feet to the ground before Scott was bursting into his room.
“Dude! You’re awake!” Scott yelled, a big, goofy, grin on his face. “Derek and your dad are going to be super pissed they weren’t here.”
Stiles just looked up at Scott blearily. There were words, and he knew what they meant, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to put any of his own together yet. Scott seemed to sense that something still wasn’t quite right because he grin slid off his face, replaced with a quiet, worried frown. He came over to sit next to Stiles on the bed.
“You remember me, right?” Scott asked, trying to sound like he was at least half joking. He couldn’t quite pull it off, however, when he let out an immense sigh of relief after Stiles nodded. “Do you remember what happened?” Again, Stiles nodded, and then cleared his throat. Scott seemed content to wait patiently while Stiles assembled a sentence.
“Scott,” he said finally, hoarse and hesitant. “I can’t…”
The immensity of things he couldn’t do, however, stumped him, and he trailed off.
“Yeah, dude,” Scott said softly, wrapping his hand around Stiles’ wrist. “I know, but we’ll figure it out.” And while Stiles couldn’t formulate a response to that, he could turn slightly, and rest his forehead on Scott’s shoulder until Derek came rocketing up the stairs. When Derek knelt in front of him, his hands on Stiles’ hips, Scott got off the bed and made some noises about calling the rest of the pack. Once the door to Stiles’ bedroom was shut, Derek leaned forward and pressed his face to Stiles’ stomach.
“Sorry, sourwolf,” Stiles breathed, as he stroked Derek’s hair.
Later, after Derek had helped him shower and his dad had made him macaroni and cheese while trying to hide how tired and old he felt, the pack collapsed in a tangle of limbs in front of the television. He was curled under Derek’s arm, Lydia pressed to his other side. Scott was on the floor by his feet, and Erica had one hand wrapped around his ankle.
The room was too quiet – even Stiles noticed. Captain America was playing in the background but hardly anyone seemed to be watching. Stiles arched up slightly to whisper in Derek’s ear.
“I could do my greatest work if you locked me up,” he said. “I could bring you the sky and put it on canvas. I could draw Sorrow and you could call me Vincent.”
He knew, in the back of his mind, that he was hurting them. He could see fear striped over Derek’s skin like strokes of paint. He knew he didn’t make much sense, but he was still having trouble orienting his words, and he needed Derek to talk to him, to teach him how to say things simply again, to understand what he was offering. His heart beat frantically in his chest and he counted the beats.
“You are Stiles,” Derek said finally, the rest of the pack no longer pretending not to hear. “And you’ll do your best work when you know what you’re doing. And we’re never going to lock you up.”
Stiles smiled, satisfied. “Okay,” he said, settling back down in the tense circle of Derek’s arm. Erica was squeezing his ankle too hard, but the pain felt like an anchor keeping him here. He’d wear the bruises like a friendship bracelet when he woke up and saw them tomorrow.
He started working on his question about pancakes as Steve Rogers flew a plane into the icy cold arctic waters. He was going to have to try a little bit harder than usual for a few days to sound normal, and he wanted to make sure he got it right.
The day after the pack’s graduation party, Stiles hugs his dad after breakfast and heads out early with a big camping backpack and an approved request for a year’s deferment from Stanford. The pack is mindless with worry; sniffing their way over the entirety of southern California before Stiles finally calls his dad.
“Hey, pops,” he says tentatively. The Sherriff can hear all sorts of ambient noise in the background – people chatting, cars whooshing past. He just sighs.
“I figured you just needed some space, son,” he says. He tries to conceal the dark pit of worry he hid beneath the practical truth. He can hear the deep breath his son releases, practically feel over the phone the way Stiles’ bones melt in relief. They talk for a few more minutes, before they hang up. Stiles didn’t give him a return date, but he did promise to stay in touch.
The Sherriff can’t get a read on Derek when the alpha answers the phone and hears that Stiles is safe, but not coming home. He still can’t get a read on Derek when he runs into part of the pack in the grocery store a week later, and ends up with an invitation to dinner. Scott asks again and again how Stiles sounded and where he might be. Lydia is just pissed that Stiles is making her do the first year at Stanford alone.
At the end of the evening, Derek walks the Sherriff out to his car.
“He wouldn’t have left if he didn’t think it was his only option,” the Sherriff says, finally breaking the silence between them. “I don’t want you to think he…”
Honestly, the Sherriff is not sure why he cares what Derek thinks, except that he thinks that perhaps all this stoicism is really just a cover for deep, unyielding hurt, and he doesn’t want anyone to have to live like that.
“I know, Sherriff,” Derek says quietly. “I just wish he didn’t feel like he needed to the whole thing alone. He could have gotten what he needed here too.”
“I’m not sure he could, son,” the Sherriff says, looking out to the forest, instead of at Derek’s tense profile. “His mom was like that too. Always had to touch the stove before they believed it was too hot.”
Derek hummed noncommittally, but his expression didn’t change.
The first post card showed up about a month later, pinned to the fridge in the Hale house, writing side down. The front is clearly a Van Gogh painting, but it isn’t one the Sherriff recognizes.
“Road at Saint-Remy with Female Figure,” Derek says from behind him. “It says on the back. It’s hanging at some art museum in Japan.”
The Sherriff flips it over, but all it says on the back is the name of the painting and the museum, and then the Hale house address. There are way too many stamps on it, but the Sherriff understands. Stiles wanted to make sure it got where it needed to go. Derek does look a little easier, more relaxed.
Over the next year, the post cards keep coming. No messages, just too many stamps and one very clearly printed address: Vase with Viscaria from the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum in Egypt; Shepherdess (after Millet) in Tel Aviv; the Red Vineyard in Moscow; Peasant Woman Standing indoors from Belgrade. The post card of one of Van Gogh’s self portraits that comes from Paris feels ominous, the handwriting shaky and uncertain block print. The post cards stop coming for a couple of months after that. The few sundrenched postcards that follow from Italy however, ease Derek’s mind a little bit. The pack’s address is printed with a surer hand, and he can still smell the sun tan lotion.
It isn’t until the postcard comes from New York, Starry Night in bold colors on the front, that Derek finally draws a deep breath. The address is printed in Stiles’ careful handwriting, but a different color pen and Jackson’s messier scrawl fill the message side.
He’s so much better, Derek. I think he’s almost ready to come home.
Derek’s the only one at the Hale house when the jeep rattles up the dirt driveway. The Sherriff had gone radio silent for a few days, but even without that clue, Derek had felt the change in the air. Whether it was a real change, the sparks of magic he was feeling, or if it was an Alpha feeling out a prodigal pack member, he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t surprised when the jeep parked in front of the house and Stiles hopped out.
Derek can see the change immediately. There is a stillness to Stiles now, a sharp contrast to his previous jittery energy. He also looks happier, and that, if anything, is the strongest reprimand Derek could give himself. Only now, that Stiles looks happy, can Derek understand all the pent up anxious anger and fierce, jagged sadness that used to possess Stiles in spades.
“Sorry, sourwolf,” Stiles says sheepishly, when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He’s wearing an old gray v neck t-shirt with holes in the collar and black jeans. Derek can see the tendrils of an inky black tattoo climbing up Stiles’ neck, and all the other times Stiles said sorry sourwolf are echoing in the air between them. Derek’s choking on them, and it’s all he can do to tamp down on the werewolf strength just enough so that when he presses his face into Stiles neck, he doesn’t accidentally bite him.
Stiles shudders and Derek just breathes and breathes and breathes until he can smell nothing but the acrid burn of magic and sweet grass that make up the scent of Stiles.
Later that night, the rest of the pack will come over and Scott and Stiles will actually cry a little bit when they see each other, and Isaac will grin like he hasn’t since Stiles left. Lydia will yell at him until she’s nearly blue in the face and Boyd and Erica will act like they are too cool for happy reunions, but neither of them will let Stiles out of their sight until Derek drags him up to bed.
And then, only after he’s put his mouth to every inch of Stiles’ skin, and traced every single one of the new tattoos, Stiles will say:
“I don’t need to put the sky on canvas anymore. I’ve mapped it on me and in me and we’re pack, so I can share.” And then he’ll grin.