Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Derek huddled under the awning of Claudia’s, pulling the woolen hat from his head and whacking it against his thigh to shake the snow off.  In a practiced ritual, he turned his back and Shep shook from head to tail, sending snow flying in all directions.  Derek turned back around and brushed the snow off his own coat, stomping as much slush from his boots as possible.  Stiles was pretty vocal on the subject of people who tracked muck onto his pristine floors.

Derek pushed open the door, taking a deep breath as a rush of warm, fragrant air swept over him.  It smelled like bacon and coffee and syrup and underneath it all, the warm and comforting scent of Stiles.  Derek carefully closed the door behind himself, the bell tinkling merrily.  Then he and Shep wove between the tables toward Derek’s usual stool at the far end of the counter.  

Stiles didn’t even look up from the coffee he was pouring, reaching left-handed into his apron pocket and throwing a doggie treat that Shep casually snatched out of the air.

“Should that dog be in here?” a woman at the table Stiles was serving asked.

Derek slid onto his stool, hunkering down and pretending to examine the menu that he knew by heart.  He could feel his ears turning red, and Shep whined softly as he sat at his side, resting his muzzle on Derek’s thigh.

“That dog is a regular,” Stiles answered easily.  “Did you want white, wheat, or rye toast?”

And just like that, the potential confrontation was averted.  Derek felt the tension bleed from his shoulders and he pulled in a relieved breath, letting the comforting scents fill his lungs.

Picking up on his mood, Shep let out a satisfied huff against Derek’s thigh and then settled down at his feet, body curled around the legs of the barstool, ears pricking from side to side as he kept a vigil for any dropped pieces of bacon.

Stiles finished up taking his table’s order, topped off a few more coffees, and then dropped the order slips off at the grill before making his way around the counter.  He set a mug down in front of Derek and filled it from the coffee pot still in his hand, tugging the menu out of Derek’s hands at the same time.

“Don’t even front,” Stiles said.  “It’s Wednesday, so...blueberry pancakes, bacon on the side?”

Derek scowled.  “Am I really so predictable?”

“Dependable,” Stiles corrected, with a smile so warm it seemed to flare an answering spark in Derek’s chest.

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Derek said, with a small nod of his head toward the woman who had taken issue with Shep.

“Any time,” Stiles said, leaning both elbows on the counter, the vivid colors of his forearm tattoos bright against the pale skin.  “Hey, I heard you had quite a time getting the Reyes’ sheep outta that stretch of broken fence —”

“Mr. Stiles?”  

Derek broke his gaze away from Stiles’ warm amber eyes, looking down at the little girl who had appeared at his side to tug on Stiles’ sleeve.

“Yes?” Stiles said, straightening up.  “Marisol, right?”

The little girl nodded solemnly, her pigtails bobbing with the movement of her head.  “Can I make a wish?”

“Sure thing.”  Stiles moved along the counter, the little girl following on her side of the counter, until they bracketed the large snow globe that stood in a place of honor by the register.

“Now, this is very serious magic,” Stiles said, and not for the first time Derek admired his endless patience with the superstition of the townspeople.  There wasn’t even a hiccup in his heartbeat when he told the tale.  “Put both hands on the globe.  Here, I’ll help you shake it up.”

Marisol steadied the globe from the front, while Stiles shook it carefully from the back, making the white flakes swirl around the replica of Beacon Hill’s town square, the courthouse tall and proud in the middle.

“Now, close your eyes, and say your wish nice and clear,” Stiles instructed, with a soft smile.

“I have to say it out loud?” Marisol asked, her eyes wide.

“Yep.  Doesn’t work if you don’t say it out loud.”

Marisol nodded.  She closed her eyes, and said, “I wish — I wish Emily an’ Annamarie would stop picking on me.  I’m not dumb just ‘cause I don’t read as good as they do.  I wish they would just — just cut it out.”

She let go of the snow globe and opened her eyes.  “Did it work?”

“Only time will tell,” Stiles said, but Derek could see his eyes wandering over to the table in the corner, where Isaac was finishing up an omelette.  Isaac taught kindergarten, but Derek was sure that once Stiles tipped him off, Emily and Annamarie would be getting some pointed comments about kindness from their own teacher.

Stiles fished out a butterscotch candy from the big jar by the register and held it out toward the little girl. Marisol grabbed it with a gap-toothed smile before bouncing back to her table.

Stiles’ eyes met Derek’s again, and Derek realized that he had been staring.  He looked down at his coffee with a scowl.

“I’ll — I’ll put your order in,” Stiles said.

Chapter Text

Derek stood under the awning, turning his back while Shep shook himself out, before stomping his feet.  It looked like the lunch rush was over, just a few people scattered around the booths.  Claudia’s usually got some traffic at lunchtime from the nearby courthouse or people shopping on Main Street, but in weather like this they did most of their business in deliveries, the delivery boy Liam flying around town on his moped, taking bagged lunches to all the downtown businesses.

Derek liked this time of day, the diner not so thick with the scent of strangers, not too noisy with the clank of silverware or loud conversation.  At times like this Stiles lingered at the counter, checking on tables every once in awhile but mostly doing odd jobs like adding up receipts and refilling the napkin holders.  That meant he spent the whole time chatting with his part-time staff, Erica and Boyd, who worked as waitress and short-order cook through the breakfast and lunch shifts.

Derek sat in his usual spot at the counter, Shep curled at his feet, letting Stiles’ bright voice wash over him.  At first Stiles had tried to include Derek in these conversations, but he seemed to quickly pick up on the fact that Derek never quite seemed to know what to say.  Now he chatted with Erica and Boyd about anything and everything — teachers they had liked and hated in high school, how Stiles’ dad the Sheriff was sticking to his diet, how Stiles’ best friend Scott was doing in nursing school out in the city — and Derek was content to just listen in.

Derek enjoyed these little glimpses into the lives of other people, even the people he had never met like Stiles’ friends Scott and Allison.  Boyd was almost as laconic as Derek was, although when he deigned to contribute to the conversation he had a quick dry wit that belied his staid exterior.  Erica seemed to know what was going on with everybody in town, but her gossip was never malicious.  She volunteered at the hospital in the evenings, and with her guidance Stiles always added a few free deliveries to Liam’s route, sending meals to families whose lives had been disrupted by illness or injury.  Sometimes Isaac would stop in after school was dismissed as well, contributing his own current stories about the eccentric Coach Finstock or the universally-hated chemistry teacher Adrian Harris to complement the older tales Stiles told from their high school days.

Derek had lived in town for less than a year, but sometimes he felt that he knew more about Beacon Hills than he had ever known about the town he had grown up in.  If Derek let himself think about it fancifully, the long wandering stories Stiles told seemed like fine threads — nothing visible or substantial, but surrounding Derek nonetheless and weaving him into the fabric of the town.  As often as he had the thought, Derek could never quite figure out if the idea of it was comforting or concerning.

Derek didn’t want to be a part of anything.  He lived a deliberately nomadic life, avoiding personal connections and never staying more than a few years in the same place.  As hard as it was to be a ‘wolf without a pack, he was getting by.  Shep was enough of a pack to stabilize him, and he never stayed long enough in a place to get territorial about it.  Yet, the thought of leaving Beacon Hills in his rearview mirror, as he had left so many other places…

Stiles dropped a plate in front of him, jarring Derek from his thoughts.  Cheeseburger with extra pickles, sweet potato fries on the side.

“I didn’t even order,” Derek growled half-heartedly, but Stiles was already moving on with a knowing smile, and Derek had to admit that it was exactly what he would have ordered if he had been given the chance.  

The bell on the door tinkled merrily and Isaac came in.  He stomped over to the snow globe, shaking it, before solemnly intoning, “I wish Harris would stop being such an insufferable dickhead.”

Stiles snorted, and Erica crumpled up an order slip into a ball and threw it at Isaac’s head.

“Ain’t enough magic in the world to fix that dude,” Boyd said wryly from behind the grill.

Isaac settled himself at the counter a few stools down from Derek, acknowledging him with a friendly nod.

Stiles launched into a story about how he and his friend Lydia had challenged each other to drive Harris insane by solving his equations in a completely opposite way from how he had intended, forcing him to extensively check their work.  Derek had heard it before so he let his mind wander, soaking in the conversation and feeding Shep the occasional sweet potato fry under the counter.

The bell tinkled again and Jackson Whittemore came in, looking out of place in his sharp three-piece suit.  Stiles took one look at him and started dishing up a hot fudge sundae.

“Bad case?” Isaac asked, softly enough that Derek wouldn’t have heard it if he weren’t a ‘wolf.

Jackson just shrugged, but the way he vindictively dug the spoon into the sundae spoke volumes.  

Stiles busied himself under the counter, pulling out a stack of receipts and a calculator.  His sleeves were rolled up, his brightly-tattooed forearms flexing as he braced his elbows against the sparkly red laminate countertop.  His tongue poked at the corner of his mouth as he typed in the numbers, and Derek found himself distracted for a long moment, watching the motion of that pink tongue and those clever fingers.

Stiles raised his head, and Derek averted his gaze to his mostly-empty plate, afraid that he had been caught watching.  The conversation had somehow jumped to the topic of New York City, and Derek couldn’t help a small snort as Erica waxed poetic about wanting to visit Times Square.

Stiles seemed to notice.  “You been?”

Derek nodded.  “Lived there for awhile,” he said.  He knew it was curt, but he didn’t want to think of those early days, just him and Laura on the run from hunters.

Stiles simply nodded.  “I went to visit, but it wasn’t for me either.”  He pulled over the next stack of receipts and starting jabbing at the calculator again.

Jackson raised his head, shoveling in another bite of hot fudge sundae and gesturing with his spoon.  “And by that Stilinski means he gave up a full ride to Columbia.  He could’ve been making eight figures in hedge funds right now.”

“Traveling taught me lessons I never could have learned at Columbia,” Stiles said easily, not even looking up from his receipts.

“Yeah, and what did it get you?  A fuckton of tattoos and you’re back in this shithole with these losers all day long.”

Stiles’ head jerked up, and the light must have caught his eyes just right because they suddenly seemed to glow beta-gold.

“Watch it,” Stiles said, his voice soft but with a steely resonance that seemed to vibrate in Derek’s bones.

Everyone in the diner froze for a moment, the air seeming to crackle with electricity, before Jackson dropped his eyes.  

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and if Derek hadn’t heard it himself he never would have believed that Jackson could sound so contrite.

The tension seemed to dissipate as suddenly as it had appeared, Stiles’ shoulders loosening as he pushed leisurely to his feet, Erica and Boyd stuttering into motion again as if they hadn’t even realized they had stopped as Isaac took a giant bite of his burger.

“I mean, these guys are losers for sure,” Stiles teased, his voice easy now, his eyes glinting with mischief.  “But if you ever call Claudia’s a shithole again, I will end you.”

Derek found himself lingering after Isaac and Jackson had left.  Boyd and Erica were in the kitchen, flirting shamelessly, even though Derek knew they had been together almost since high school.

Stiles finished up the last of the stacks of the receipts with a satisfied sigh.  He put them back under the counter and started mixing up a milkshake, pouring it into a tall glass and jauntily poking a striped straw into it before setting it in front of Derek.

“On the house,” he said in answer to Derek’s raised eyebrow.

“Trying to improve my mood with ice cream too?” Derek said, poking at the shake a little with the straw.  Since when did Stiles know his favorite flavor was strawberry?  He hardly ever indulged his sweet tooth.

Stiles flapped a hand dismissively.  “Jackson didn’t mean anything by it.  I know, he seems like a total rich boy asshole.  He had me fooled at first too.  But, he commutes to the city to defend rich white collar bastards for embezzlement so he can do pro bono work around here for family court and foster care cases.  Those are the ones that get him in one of those moods.”

Derek had to admit it, he was surprised as hell.  Seeing Whittemore, with his sharp suits and black Porsche, he never would have pegged him for a humanitarian.

He thought back to what Jackson had said.  “So, you traveled instead of going to college?”  He wasn’t sure why the idea seemed so odd.  Stiles and Claudia’s seemed like the bedrock of this town, it was hard to imagine Stiles being anywhere else.  “Where’d you go?”

“All over.”  Stiles rubbed the calavera tattoo at the base of his left wrist, seemingly unconsciously.  “Started in Mexico, with my buddy Scott’s family, and backpacked South from there.  Ended up in Bolivia for awhile, and then hopped a boat filled with lead ore to South Korea.  From there I went up until I hit Turkmenistan, and then down to Egypt.  Made it all the way to Mali before something called me home three years later.”  

Stiles looked up and his cheeks seemed to pinken, as if he were embarrassed to have said so much.  He straightened up, shrugging.  “Anyway, never regretted it for a minute.  And Jackson doesn’t regret sticking around here instead of being a big-league lawyer full-time, either, even if he’d deny that to the bottom of his soul.”

“How’d you end up with Claudia’s ?” Derek found himself asking, his usual social awkwardness overruled by his curiosity.

Stiles grinned, bright and warm, lighting up from the inside the way he always seemed to when Claudia’s was the topic of discussion.  “This place was my mom’s, and her dad’s before her.  He’s the one who built it and named it Claudia’s, after my mom.  When my mom died —” the brightness in Stiles’ gaze dimmed for a moment, his smile faltering before it recovered, “— the place was closed for a long time.  When I got back, I opened it up again.”

Derek looked around, taking in the diner with new eyes.  “I can’t imagine this place ever being closed.  It’s like — it’s like the heart of the town.”

He immediately felt embarrassed for what he had said, but when he looked up again Stiles was gazing back at him, his expression soft.  “Yeah,” Stiles said, and Derek felt like Stiles understood more than he had been able to express with his awkward words.  “It really is.”    

Chapter Text

It had been a long, hard foaling, but with a final heave of the mare’s belly and a vigorous tug from Derek, the malpositioned foal slid free, landing in the hay with a slithery thump, steam rising from the squirming sac.

Derek stood back a little, watching as the gawky legs emerged from the amnion, the foal shaking its head free before nuzzling in towards its mother.  The mare looked back patiently, sides heaving.  She heaved for another few minutes, and then with a long shudder she expelled the placenta.  Derek knelt down, looking it over carefully, glad to see that it looked healthy and that nothing had been retained.

“You did good,” Derek said to the both of them, giving himself an extra moment to sit and breathe deeply before getting up.  The Reyes family could take care of things from here.  He packed the obstetrical strap away to be sterilized later, peeling the elbow-length gloves off his hands and washing up at the barn’s utility sink before looking down at where Shep waited patiently.  It was late, but not too late.  Derek and Shep could go home to their quiet house, listening to the tick of the grandfather clock echoing through the empty spaces, or they could —

“You hungry?” Derek asked Shep, and Shep whuffed happily in reply.

Derek pushed open the door to Claudia’s, hesitating on the threshold.  It must have been later than he had thought, he had never seen the place completely empty before.

“C’mon in,” Stiles called from the back.

Derek scraped the rest of the mud from his feet and came in, Shep close at his heels, but hesitated before settling on his usual stool.

“I don’t want to keep you if you’re closing —” he started.

Stiles came out from the back, a dishcloth over one shoulder and his hands full.  “You’re just in time.”  He set the plate and bowl in front of Derek’s usual stool — a grilled cheese sandwich with the cheese melting mouthwateringly out the sides, and a steaming bowl of tomato soup.

“I don’t want to take your dinner,” Derek said in confusion, sitting on the stool nonetheless.

“Nah, I already ate.”  

Derek opened his mouth to ask another question and then closed it again.  It’s not like Stiles could have been expecting him, even if the soup and sandwich was, as usual, just what he was in the mood for.  He shrugged inwardly and dug in as Stiles leaned over the counter, dropping a biscuit into Shep’s waiting mouth.

Derek thought that it might be awkward, being at Claudia’s when no one else was there to take on the burden of conversation, but it wasn’t.  Stiles spoke on occasion, but didn’t seem to expect more in return than Derek’s usual grunts and nods.  The rest of the time Derek ate while Stiles cleaned the grill, mopped the floor, and polished the chrome edge on the countertop in surprisingly companionable silence.

Still, Derek felt a little guilty as Stiles turned the sign on the door to “Closed” while Derek was still finishing up his soup.  As soon as he was done he stood up, leaving enough cash on the counter to probably cover four meals at Claudia’s very reasonable prices.

He paused for a moment.  Stiles was in the back again, putting away his cleaning supplies from the sound of it.  The bell on the door would let Stiles know he was leaving, but it felt strange not to say anything.

“I’m heading out,” he finally called out from where he was dithering in the doorway, his voice unusually gruff to compensate for how silly he felt.

Stiles poked his head out from the back.  “I’ll be done in a few minutes too.  You guys need a ride?”

Derek shook his head, the idea of being alone in a car with Stiles setting his heart pounding.  “We like the walk,” he said.

“Sure thing.”  Stiles nodded and disappeared into the back, while Derek pushed the door open, the bell tinkling softly as the wind pushed it shut behind him.

The cold air washed over his face, cooling his burning cheeks and dissipating the soft, pleasant haze that always seemed to fall over him at Claudia’s.

He walked along the grassy shoulder of the road, his veterinary bag in his hand, watching Shep range ahead and double back, alternately disappearing into the shadows and returning at Derek’s whistle.

He let his thoughts drift back to how Stiles had looked, his hair ruffled as it always was at the end of the day due to his inability to keep his long fingers out of it.  The blue and green plaid he had been wearing had been particularly faded and threadbare, stretching nicely over his shoulders and biceps and contrasting with the vivid bright reds and oranges that dominated his forearm tattoos.  Derek idly wondered how far up the tattoos went.  Were they just on Stiles’ arms, or did they stretch across that broad chest, maybe even dip down towards his navel…

He jerked his head up, senses focusing as the patter of Shep’s footsteps ended with a whine and a scuffling thump.  He ran forward, bag jolting against his thigh.

Shep was lying on the shoulder, nose on his feet as if he had just settled down for a nap.  Derek crashed hard to his knees beside him, uncaring of the sharp gravel digging in through his pants.  

He let his eyes flare red, night vision allowing him to see the contents of his bag as he fumbled it open, searching for the right bottle.  He spilled half the bottle in the gravel but managed to get one pill in his shaking fingers, forcing it under Shep’s tongue and gently closing the lax muzzle, holding it closed with one hand.

His heart was thumping in his chest, his breath rasping in the cold air as he strained to hear Shep’s heartbeat.  It was still thudding, but too fast and irregularly.  With every pause Derek held his breath, feeling like it would never start again.  He pulled Shep further into his lap.  He buried his face in Shep’s thick ruff, breathing in his comforting scent, and waited.

The hand on his shoulder startled Derek so badly he almost tipped over.

“Derek?  What’s wrong?”

Derek turned his head, recognizing Stiles’ voice.  It seemed almost as if Stiles flinched back for a moment but Derek must have been mistaken, because only a second later Stiles was dropping to his knees at his side, his hand coming to rest on Shep’s head.

Derek realized he was squinting against the headlights of the Jeep, which had pulled over to the side of the road.  He hadn’t even heard Stiles drive up.

He swallowed past the thickness in his throat.  Words never came easy for him, and they seemed further away than ever right now.

“It’s his heart,” he finally managed to say.  “I gave him the rescue medication.  Now I just have to see if it works, or —”  The words clogged up in his throat, his mind instinctively shying away from the end of that sentence.

“C’mon.”  Stiles’ hands were gentle, helping Derek to stand with Shep still cradled in his arms.  “I’ll give you a ride home.”

Derek moved numbly, following Stiles’ lean silhouette where it was backlit by the Jeep’s headlights.  Stiles went around to the passenger door, moving the seat all the way back, and Derek was grateful that Stiles didn’t insist on Shep riding in the back.  Derek didn’t think he could let him go right now if he wanted.

It was a short ride to Derek’s place, and they drove in silence, Derek still focused on Shep’s heartbeat, afraid it was only wishful thinking that was making him believe it was evening out a bit.

Stiles opened the Jeep’s door for Derek and by the time Derek blinked himself back to awareness and looked up, Stiles was already at his front door, pushing it open.  He had Derek’s bag in his hand.  Derek hadn’t even realized Stiles had picked it up from the side of the road.

Stiles bustled in, turning on lights, and at any other time Derek would have been ashamed of his bare prefurnished house, concerned at the intrusion of another person into his den, but right now all he could focus on was Shep, and the uneven thump of his heart beneath Derek’s palm.

He half-collapsed onto the couch, gathering Shep up in his lap.  In what seemed to be only a blink of time, Stiles was settling at his side, placing a steaming mug of something in front of Derek before sipping his own.

“Drink,” Stiles urged, as Derek just stared at the mug numbly.  “It’ll help.”

Derek didn’t even know why he complied.  He wasn’t thirsty, but he took a sip, and then a few more.  The tea was spicy and warming, and something about it did help, Derek’s gibbering panic receding just a bit.  He felt like a band around his chest had loosened, and he took a deep breath.

“Can I?”  Stiles’ hand was hovering over Shep’s head and Derek nodded.  Stiles petted Shep softly, his long fingers pale against the dark fur.

“He wasn’t supposed to live more than a year,” Derek heard himself blurt out.  

Stiles’ fingers paused for a moment, tangled in Shep’s thick ruff, before resuming their gentle petting motion.

His expression was soft, patient, and Derek found the words spilling out.  “A breeder brought him to me when he was just a pup.  Only four weeks old, not even weaned.  Congenital heart defect, not suitable for breeding.  Wanted me to put him down, but —”

His throat closed up again as he looked down at Shep, seeing in his mind’s eye that squirming puppy that he had cradled in his arms just like this, watching with pride as the stubborn little bugger had squeaked and snuffled, gobbling formula from a bottle.

“How long ago was that?”  Stiles gentle question pulled Derek free of the memories.

“Eleven years.  Some dogs live a full lifespan with this condition, with daily medication.  It’s possible, but I’ve always known —”  Derek swallowed.

“Knowing doesn’t make it any easier,” Stiles murmured, and Derek could hear the depth of bitter experience in that statement.

Derek nodded, and they sat in silence for awhile longer, the ticking of the clock loud in the quiet room.

Derek didn’t know how long it had been before Shep began to rouse, his heartbeat thumping more steadily every moment.  He whimpered and squirmed, stretching in Derek’s arms.  Before Derek knew it Shep had twisted, putting his front paws up on Derek’s shoulders, licking his face.

Derek huffed out a laugh that was probably dangerously close to a sob.  “Okay, big guy.  Good boy.  I gotcha.”

“Hey, glad to see you back in action, buddy.”  Stiles reached out to pet Shep’s head, his hand grazing across Derek’s fingers accidentally before he suddenly drew it back.

“Welp.”  Stiles stood, the silence between them seeming awkward for the first time.  “That was exciting, but I better get on home.”

“You —”  

Derek’s words trailed off.  He didn’t even know what he had been planning to say.   You could stay?  It was probably well past midnight; they had disrupted Stiles’ evening enough.

“Thank you,” he said instead, walking Stiles to the door, Shep close at his side.  “For the ride home.”

“Yeah.”  Stiles paused in the doorway, his eyes searching Derek’s face.  He opened his mouth as if to say something else but then shut it again, rocking back on his heels.  “Anytime,” he finally said, ducking his head with a sheepish half-salute.

He turned and made his way to the Jeep, sliding into the driver’s side in a flail of limbs that managed to look uncoordinated and practiced all at once.  The car started up, and Derek and Shep stood in the doorway, watching as Stiles turned and drove off, tail-lights darting around like fireflies as the Jeep jolted down the bumpy backroad.

Derek closed and locked the door.  He automatically went about his nighttime tasks, winding the old grandfather clock that came with the furnished house, filling Shep’s water bowl, sorting out his bag and setting the used equipment from that day’s visits into the sterilizer.

It wasn’t until later, when Derek was rinsing the mugs and putting them in the rack to dry, that he realized he didn’t actually keep any tea in the house.

Chapter Text

Derek stood at the door of Claudia’s, closing his umbrella and then turning his back while Shep shook himself out.  It was raining today, a cold, miserable dripping kind of rain, and Claudia’s looked incredibly warm and inviting inside.

He was a little embarrassed to face Stiles again after last night, but Stiles simply lifted a hand in a casual hello, not even pausing in his conversation with Erica.  

Derek slid onto his usual stool with a sigh of relief, hiding behind his menu.  In a moment, however, the menu was abruptly tugged away to reveal Stiles’ grin.

“I already put your order in,” Stiles said, leaning a casual elbow on the countertop.  He dangled a dog biscuit over the counter, dropping it into Shep’s waiting mouth. It was green and square this time, different from the bone-shaped tan biscuits Stiles usually gave to Shep.  Derek raised an eyebrow and a flush spread over Stiles’ cheeks.

“Hey, more nutrients can’t hurt, right?” Stiles said, busying himself with unnecessarily straightening an already neat stack of menus.

Derek looked down at Shep.  He was licking his chops happily, seeming to enjoy this treat just as much as the earlier ones.  It was actually really sweet of Stiles to change up the treats. He must have bought new ones early this morning, or even made these himself.  The idea of it kindled something warm in Derek’s chest.

“I think —” Derek started to say, but he was interrupted by a shout from across the diner.

“Bilinski!”

Stiles rolled his eyes, pushing up from the counter to stalk over towards the register.

“Absolutely not, Coach!” he growled, curling his arms protectively around the snowglobe.

“Biggest game of the season, Bilinksi!  We could go to Nationals!” The man’s eyes were maniacal, his hair standing straight up as if he had been recently electrified.

“No.  More. Wishes,” Stiles gritted out.  “You’re cut off, Coach!”

“What —” Derek found himself saying aloud.

“Coach has a tendency to wish misfortune on the other team.”  

Derek jumped as Erica spoke. He hadn’t even noticed her standing behind him, watching the show with obvious amusement.  “Stiles is worried something bad will actually happen to them sometime and the snowglobe will get a bad rep.”

“He — wishes misfortune on a bunch of high school athletes?” Derek repeated incredulously.

“Well, not like a bus accident or anything.  Although, the words ‘weeping gonorrhea’ have been spoken, so —”

“Yeah.  Good thinking.”  

“I’ll get your order,” Erica said.  “This usually goes on for awhile.” She sashayed off leaving Derek to watch Stiles, his bright tattooed forearms still wrapped protectively around the snowglobe, as he stood steadfast against the Coach’s ranting.

Derek stood at the doorway to Claudia’s, turning around automatically before he realized that it was actually bright and sunny today, despite the freezing temperature.  When he turned back around, Shep was regarding him with a distinctly judgmental look in his eye.

“Yeah, well, you don’t need coffee to turn your brain on in the morning, do you?” Derek mumbled, pushing open the door.

As he got closer to his usual stool, he realized Stiles seemed to be in an animated argument with a customer.  Derek hesitated, but Stiles spotted him, his eyes lighting up.

“See!  There he is now,” Stiles said, with an air of triumph.  “Erica’s clearing a booth for you, it’ll just be a minute.”

The customer turned, his eyes sweeping over Derek suspiciously from underneath his faded red 'Make America Great Again' hat.  Derek backed up a step, blushing without even knowing why.

“You said he was in the bathroom,” the customer accused, glaring at Stiles.

“I said the dog needed the bathroom,” Stiles replied, his heartbeat stuttering just a touch.  “Go ahead and sit down,” he continued, handing a menu to the man and pointing him toward a booth by the window that Erica was wiping down.  “First cup of coffee’s on the house for the wait.”

The man seemed somewhat mollified, and made his way toward the booth where Erica greeted him with a sunny smile that seemed to improve his mood even further.

Derek turned back to Stiles, who flipped Shep a treat before setting a coffee cup at Derek’s usual place, filling it from a steaming pot.

Derek hesitantly slid onto the stool, Shep settling at his feet.

“Were you —” he started, feeling foolish.  “Were you...saving my seat?”

Stiles raised his eyebrows.  “What? Nah. Just didn’t want that guy at the counter, he always wants to talk my ear off about politics, and let’s just say we don’t share the same views.”

“Oh.”  That made a lot more sense.  

“Still, lucky you showed up when you did, Prince Charming.  I think that deserves a breakfast on the house.”

“I — I didn’t do anything,” Derek said in confusion.  He could feel his blush deepening; it felt like his cheeks were on fire.

“Don’t be silly,” Stiles grinned.  “I was talking to Shep. Right, boy?”  He flipped another treat in Shep’s direction and Shep caught it in midair.  

Derek looked down at Shep, who quirked his eyebrows at him.  Sometimes that dog was just a little too expressive.

By the time he looked up, Stiles was already further down the counter, humming to himself as he stacked menus.

“I didn’t order,” Derek said.

Stiles waved a hand.  “I already put your order in,” he said, moving further down the counter to fill a few more coffee cups.

Derek looked down at Shep again, who sighed happily and settled down with his nose on his paws.

Derek shrugged internally, and decided to just enjoy his coffee.  Maybe it would all make a bit more sense once he had some caffeine in his system.

Claudia’s looked different, and Derek paused for a moment to figure out why.  As he looked closer, he noticed little blue and white fairy lights ringed each large picture window looking out to the street, twinkling brightly against the gathering dusk.

He pushed the door open slowly, surprised to see almost ten people — what counted as a crowd for Beacon Hills — gathered near the counter.

Derek hung back a bit, trying to figure out what was going on.  Stiles emerged from the back, holding a huge candelabra — no, wait, it was a menorah — in both hands.

His eyes seemed to find Derek’s immediately.  “Derek! You’re just in time!” he said, and Derek felt his cheeks grow pink as everyone gathered around the counter seemed to turn and look at him.  The Sheriff’s gaze seemed particularly piercing, those light blue eyes of his seeming to look right through Derek, as if he were seeing all his past misdeeds.

“For what, exactly?” Derek asked.

“We’re about to light the menorah!” Erica said as Derek and Shep drifted closer, making out Isaac, Boyd, Liam, Melissa McCall, and even Jackson Whittemore in the group of people clustered around the menorah.

“I — I’m not Jewish,” Derek said in confusion.

“Neither are most of us,” Erica said.  “But Stiles makes latkes and kugel and sufganiot, so —”

“— and Erica worships with her stomach,” Stiles teased, his long fingers deft as he pulled a candle from a box and placed it in the center spot on the menorah.

He peered over the cluster of the people out the window, and nodded at what he saw.  “Derek, wanna hit the lights?”

Derek moved back toward the door, flipping the switches to turn off the main lights one by one.  The last orange rays of the setting sun filtered in through the picture windows and then faded away until only the blue and white fairy lights cast a soft glow over the interior of Claudia’s.

Stiles put another candle in the rightmost spot of the menorah, and then lit a match, holding it to the center candle until the flame caught.

“Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha'olam…” he began, his voice sounding deeper and stronger than his usually light tones.

The blessing was not entirely unfamiliar to Derek, but it seemed different this time, hearing it in Stiles’ voice.  The Sheriff and a few of the others had joined in, but Derek seemed to only hear Stiles, his words somehow imbued with warmth and power beyond that of a religious blessing.  

His eyes were lit to a brilliant gold by the candle he held, and his voice rose and fell melodically, seeming to weave a spell that encompassed the small cluster of people.  Even Shep seemed to feel it, leaning his weight firmly against Derek’s side. Derek had only a vague sense of what the words of the blessings actually meant, but to him they seemed to speak of family and thankfulness, of warmth and safety, and of joy — both remembered and still to come.

Derek watched, spellbound, as Stiles spoke all three blessings, the group repeating “Amen” after each one although Derek couldn’t find the breath in his lungs to join them.

With the final Amen Stiles lit the rightmost candle, and just like that, the charged, heavy energy in the air seemed to disperse, the reverent hush that had fallen amongst the group breaking into happy chatter and activity.  The air sizzled with the sound of the fryer. Someone had turned the lights on again, and Claudia’s felt the same as always.  Stiles had turned away to talk to Isaac, pouring him a glass of water from the big pitcher on the counter as he did so.  

Still, Derek couldn’t help feeling as though he had witnessed something that went beyond a simple religious ritual.  He sat in his usual spot at the end of the counter, Shep settling at his feet, and found the Sheriff sitting next to him.

“Glad you could join us this year, Derek,” the Sheriff said with a warm twinkle in his eye, and Derek tried to hide his surprise that the Sheriff even knew his name.

“I’m glad too,” Derek was surprised to find himself saying, and was even more surprised to realize that it was the truth.  “Is this — do you do this every year? At the diner, I mean?”

“Yep.”  The Sheriff looked at Stiles, and the pride on his face was obvious.  “Ever since Stiles re-opened this place. Hanukkah should be spent with family, and everyone in here is family to Stiles and me.”

Derek suddenly felt like an intruder, but the Sheriff didn’t even pause, slinging an arm around his shoulders and ending with a friendly pat.  “And on that note, son, let me get us some of those latkes before they all disappear.”

The Sheriff hopped off his stool and moved down the counter, making a grab for a platter of latkes.  Derek stared down at the countertop, the sparkles swimming before his eyes, a lump gathering in his throat at the paradoxically painful and yet comforting feeling of being called ‘son’ for the first time in a decade.

Chapter Text

Derek woke up with a start.  The sun was bright in his eyes — he must have overslept.  He had the sinking feeling that he had missed something, like one of those dreams where you’ve slept through your final exam.  He sat up, rubbing a hand through his hair, and the sinking feeling intensified, consolidating into an empty, gaping hole in his chest.

Derek swallowed, already knowing what had happened.

“Shep?” he said, but the furry lump at the foot of the bed was still and silent.

Derek crawled forward, his heart sinking.  He checked for a pulse and pupillary response on autopilot, knowing the whole time how futile it was.  Shep’s body was starting to cool already, the pack bond irrevocably severed.

Derek didn’t know how long he had been sitting on the side of the bed before he seemed to come to his senses.  He got up, washing his face and getting dressed, numbly going through the motions of his morning routine. He had to stop himself from filling Shep’s food bowl, from reaching for his leash.  He put on his coat and scarf, choosing his thickest gloves.

The ground wasn’t quite frozen solid, but it took all his werewolf strength to dig a hole deep enough, and he had to bend the shovel blade back into place a few times.  Derek found himself staring at the empty hole, sweat cooling on the back of his neck. It looked cold and barren, and he didn’t want to put Shep in there.

“Pull it together.  You’re a fucking vet,” he said out loud, into the whistling wind.  “He’s just —” The lie stuck in his throat. He wasn’t just a dog.  He was Derek’s friend, and the last of his pack.  

Derek went back into the house.  He couldn’t resist pulling his gloves off and digging his fingers into Shep’s furry ruff one more time.  It wasn’t the same. Shep was too still, too silent. It wasn’t him anymore. It was just a body.

Derek went to the closet and pulled out the leather jacket.  It had been too cold to wear it lately. It had been his dad’s, one of the few personal items that had survived the fire, left behind in the backseat of the Camaro while the house burned.  Derek thought that his dad wouldn’t mind.

He spread the jacket open on the bed, and carefully lay Shep inside it, wrapping him up in the soft leather.  He lifted the bundle into his arms, holding Shep’s weight one more time. Then he stalked outside, trying not to give himself time to think.  He knelt down, carefully laying Shep in the hole. He felt like he should say something, but Derek was no good with words, and Shep had never needed them.  

“Good dog,” he finally said, the words like broken glass in his throat.  “Good dog.”

He forced himself to pick up the shovel, filling in the hole and tamping it down as a few cold drops of rain started to fall.  There was more dirt than it seemed there should have been, but Derek was kind of glad for that — that there was a mound to show where Shep lay.  He couldn’t stand the idea of the ground here being flat and empty, bearing no sign of what had happened. The rain started to fall faster, turning the broken ground to mud.

He didn’t remember walking, but he found himself on the road to town.  

From there it seemed to be pure instinct that drew him to Claudia’s.  He stood outside the door, turning his back for a moment before realizing there was no need — no Shep to shake himself dry at his side.

Angry at himself for his own foolishness he pushed the door open with a shove, walking into the diner, looking straight ahead to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stiles start to smile and reach into his apron pocket, the smile fading as he looked to Derek’s side and noticed that Shep wasn’t there.

Don’t, Derek thought fiercely.   Just...please don’t.

As if he heard Derek’s thoughts, Stiles turned back to the table he was waiting on.  He poured some coffee, and then stopped in to drop his order slips with Boyd.

Derek sat on his usual stool, staring down at the sparkles in the red countertop until they blurred.  A cup of coffee appeared in front of him, but he refused to lift his head. He wasn’t sure what would happen if looked into Stiles’ eyes.  Stiles was kind without fault, and Derek felt like even a little bit of kindness would break him right now.

Stiles seemed to understand, moving on silently, making conversation with the other people at the counter but leaving Derek alone.  Eventually a cheeseburger and sweet potato fries appeared in front of Derek and he ate automatically, tasting nothing.

He had been done for quite some time, his plate cleared at some point that he didn’t notice, when he realized he should probably go.  He reached for his wallet, and suddenly Stiles appeared, slapping a stack of receipts and a calculator down in front of him.

“Hey — could you do me a favor and add these up for me?”

“What?”  Derek was startled into meeting Stiles’ gaze, but could read nothing there.

“Yeah, I’m swamped right now.”  Stiles shrugged sheepishly. “Do you mind?”

Derek felt a mild irritation penetrate the haze of his grief.  Stiles could add his own damn receipts. But then again, Derek had no calls scheduled today.  There was nothing waiting for him at his empty house.

“Great, thanks,” Stiles said, already moving on.

Derek grumbled under his breath but pulled the receipts and the calculator towards him.  

It was strangely soothing.  The chatter of the diner faded into a background noise.  Adding the receipts wasn’t mentally challenging, but it was enough to keep Derek’s mind engaged, to keep him distracted.

As he got to the bottom of that stack of receipts, another appeared in front of him.  Derek grumbled again, but moved on to the next stack.

Dinner appeared in front of him at some point as well, chicken pot pie and mashed potatoes.  Derek took bites in between punching numbers in on the calculator. Stiles really should use spreadsheets and an accounting program for this, he mused.  It must be hell on earth doing taxes.

When Derek next raised his head, the dinner rush was over.  There were just a few customers left, and Stiles was refilling the ketchup bottles, uncharacteristically quiet at his side.  A second candle was lit on the menorah, and Derek hadn’t even heard Stiles saying the blessing.

Derek blinked.  He hadn’t realized so many hours had gone by.  He stood up and stretched, bones cracking all along his spine.

“I better get going,” he mumbled, the grief settling back around him like a cloak.

“Not so fast.”  Stiles smiled gently.  “I couldn’t in good conscience let you go without making you one of my special sundaes to thank you for all your hard work.”

Derek hesitated.  He wasn’t hungry at all, but then again...it was a good reason to linger just a little bit longer.  Another few minutes spent avoiding the cold lonely walk home, the cold lonely house waiting for him, and the cold lonely years that were likely to follow.

“Okay.”

Stiles’ smile widened.  He threw his dish towel over his shoulder and busied himself by the ice cream cooler.  Derek wasn’t sure what exactly was going into the parfait cup, but it seemed to be about fifteen different ingredients.

Finally Stiles set a towering confection in front of Derek, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and —

“Is that a fresh cherry?” Derek wondered.

“Maraschino cherries are an affront to cherrykind.”

“Cherrykind is not a word,” Derek groused.

Stiles simply crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, regarding Derek steadily until Derek grudgingly picked up the spoon and dug in.  

He had to admit, it was delicious.  Stiles had used strawberry ice cream as a base, but there was whipped cream and fresh strawberries and hot fudge and caramel and shaved chocolate, and Derek suspected several other ingredients that he couldn’t identify.  

For all that Derek wasn’t hungry, the first bite slid down his throat and kindled a paradoxically warm feeling in his belly.

Stiles made a soft noise of satisfaction and moved off, taking checks to the last two tables of people sitting along the windows.

The last of the customers had cleared out by the time Derek finished his sundae.  Stiles was doing his usual closing tasks, refilling the napkin holders, polishing the chrome edge on the counter, setting the chairs up for mopping.

Derek stood up, reaching for his wallet again.

“On the house,” Stiles said, waving the money away.  “Why don’t you stay a little longer, I’ll give you a ride home.”

Derek looked down at the money in his hand, swallowing thickly as he shoved it back in his wallet.  “I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he finally said, deciding there was no point pretending anymore.  “But I’m gonna have to be alone some time.”

Stiles made a noncommittal noise.  “Maybe.” He was already rolling out the mop bucket from the back.  “Lift your feet so I can get under there.”

Derek sighed, but sat back on his stool, hooking his heels on the footrest as Stiles mopped around him, humming tunelessly.  

Derek watched Stiles working in the dim light, his forearms flexing, the apron nipping in to accentuate his slim waist, the breadth of his shoulders.  For all that Stiles complained constantly about his ADHD, he always seemed to be intently focused on tasks like these, his movements elegant and deliberate.  It was mesmerizing to watch.

Stiles mopped to the farthest corner from Derek’s stool, and then straightened up, stretching his back with a sigh of satisfaction.  

“Just let me put this stuff away and we’ll get going.”

“I can walk,” Derek protested automatically.

“It’s snowing,” Stiles said, already making his way to the back.

Derek looked out the window.  He hadn’t noticed but it was snowing, big fat flakes that made the view outside look like the inside of Stiles’ precious snowglobe.  At the thought Derek turned his head. The snowglobe sat in its usual place of honor, near the cash register.  The reflected lights from outside seemed to strike it just right, filling it with a golden glow as if it were lit from within.

Derek listened carefully.  He could hear Stiles in the back, rummaging around.  He eased himself off his stool, standing up. The snowglobe seemed to glow in the dim light like a beacon.

Derek moved closer.  He put one hand on the snowglobe and tipped it a little before letting it rest gently back in place.  The snow inside swirled around the buildings of Beacon Hills. Derek had never been this close before, never really looked.  It was amazingly detailed — the courthouse with its clocktower, City Hall, the library, the town square...even Claudia’s was there, in miniature.  As the snow swirled and the snowglobe seemed to glow with an energy all its own, Derek found himself inexplicably, irresistibly drawn in.  

He put both hands on the snowglobe, the thought appearing fully-formed in his mind.

Doesn’t work if you don’t say it out loud, Stiles’ voice echoed in his head.

“I wish —” Derek’s heart was thumping, his throat dry and scratchy as if he had been crying for days when he hadn’t even shed a single tear.  “I wish I wasn’t alone anymore.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath — close by, too close by — and he startled back, jerking his hands away from the snowglobe and lifting his eyes to meet Stiles’ own wide, startled gaze.

They both seemed frozen for a moment, and then Derek jolted into action, his face burning, humiliation roiling in his gut as he turned and stomped hurriedly for the door.

“Wait — Derek —” Stiles was saying, but Derek ignored him, pushing the door open with such force that the bell jangled harshly.  The cold air hit him like a smack to the face, making his eyes water.

“Derek — wait.”  Stiles was at the door now.  He reached out, catching Derek’s sleeve, and Derek jerked it free.

“It’s not the snowglobe,” Stiles blurted out.  “It’s me.  I’m the one who grants wishes.  I’m magic.”

Derek gritted his teeth, the fangs itching to drop.  He was so on edge, so close to losing himself to the wolf — to the appeal of turning fully feral, of not having to think anymore.

“Magic doesn’t exist,” he spat, turning to leave, flakes of snow falling wet inside the collar of his shirt.

“Just like werewolves don’t exist?”

Derek froze, feeling his stomach lurch.  He turned to look at Stiles. He was standing still, watching Derek closely, but nothing about him looked wary or afraid.

“You knew?”

Stiles shrugged, the light dusting of snow falling off his shoulders at the motion.  Flakes were gathering in the tumult of his hair, frosting it white, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I guessed a while ago, but knew for sure —”  Stiles seemed to hesitate, looking down before he looked directly at Derek again.  “ — that day Shep collapsed. Your eyes were still red.” Stiles clenched his hands at his sides, before seeming to deliberately relax them again.  “You’re an alpha.”

Derek nodded slowly, his head muddled.  If Stiles had known that long, he’d had plenty of opportunities to harm Derek if that’s what he wanted.

Stiles clenched his hands again and relaxed them again, the motion drawing Derek’s hypervigilant attention.  This time he saw something more, a faint flickering glow limning the long fingers.

“You weren’t lying,” Derek realized aloud.  “You’re — magic?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles lifted a hand, as if to demonstrate, but then slowly lowered it again.  It was strange to see him moving so slowly, so deliberately, as if Derek were a wild animal he was in danger of spooking.  

“Come back inside,” Stiles said.   “Please.”

Derek hesitated.  He turned, looking at the path home.  He imagined walking home in the silent snowfall, no patter of feet by his side.  Sitting in his empty house, listening to the grandfather clock ticking away the seconds into the emptiness.  Eventually going to bed without the soft weight of Shep on his feet.

He looked back at Stiles.  Whatever Stiles was, he wasn’t a threat.  Derek knew that much with certainty. He nodded once, and followed Stiles back inside the diner.

Chapter Text

“Sit,” Stiles threw over his shoulder, heading for the back.  

Derek heard him fill a kettle and put it on the griddle.  Stiles came back with two dishtowels, offering one to Derek before vigorously drying his hair with the other, making it look even more riotous than usual.

Derek dried himself off and, for lack of any better idea what to do, settled back on his usual stool.  Stiles leaned against the counter, looking down at his hands for a long moment as if judging his words carefully.

“You’re an alpha, but — without a pack?” Stiles finally asked, his expression serious.  “Or just far from them?”

Derek swallowed.  “Shep was my pack,” he admitted.

Stiles seemed to flinch at that.  He opened his mouth to say something else, and they both jumped as the kettle started to whistle.

Stiles smiled apologetically, and disappeared into the back again.  Derek took a deep breath, listening to the clink of mugs, the pouring of water.  Stiles came back, setting a mug in front of Derek and one in front of himself.

Derek looked down, breathing in the steam.  It smelled spicy and a bit familiar, and Derek realized this was the tea Stiles had made him before, in his own house.

Derek pulled at the string on the teabag a little, making umber clouds swirl in the steaming water.  “You made this for me before.” He met Stiles’ eyes, watching and listening for a lie. “Is this magic?”

Stiles hesitated.  “Not really? Or maybe a little?”  He shrugged. “My mom used to make it for me when I had nightmares.  It’s just herbs, but she said it soothes the heart. It was my grandfather’s recipe.  I always keep some on me.” He tapped the breast pocket of his plaid, and Derek heard the tinny echo of a container.  “Some people are great at that stuff — herbals, and healing. I traded some favors to consult one for Erica, to control her epilepsy.  I try sometimes, and can replicate some of the recipes, but it’s not my kind of magic.”

His eyes glanced, seemingly unconsciously, toward where his apron lay slung across a stool.

“The dog treats,” Derek realized aloud.  “You were trying to help Shep?”

Stiles flushed, shrugging again.  “I know, you’re a vet and all, you were doing all you could.  But, I thought maybe I could help a little. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”

Derek felt his throat clog up, words and emotions swelling up in a tangle under his adam’s apple.

He put his hand over Stiles’, squeezing his pale fingers.  “Thanks,” he managed. He suddenly realized what he was doing and pulled his hand away.  He blinked rapidly, casting about for a different topic.

“Your mom was magic too?” he finally blurted out, and then winced.  As far as innocuous topics went, that hardly qualified. Stiles didn’t seem too bothered, though, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Yep, her, and her father too, the one that started this place.  That’s how the legend got started, about the snowglobe granting wishes.  People would say them out loud, and my Dziadek would grant them if he could.”  Stiles’ fingers tapped a restless pattern against the sparkly red countertop.  “Everyone’s magic takes a different form. He was a healer, and this diner was his delivery method, in addition to being his pride and joy.  My talent is in —” he waved, a vague gesture of his long fingers that Derek couldn’t begin to interpret, “ — knowing.”

Derek took a sip of the tea, feeling the warmth spread through him, some of the tightness in his chest easing.  

“Knowing...the future?”

“Sometimes.”  Stiles took a sip of his own tea.   “Sometimes knowing where something lost can be found, or who has ill intentions, if someone is being hurt.  Stuff like that. Sometimes it comes to me even if I’m not looking for it, but at other times I can — i dunno, just try harder to know it.  And then it comes.”

Derek thought about it.  The clues had been there, if only he had been smart enough to see them.  Stiles always knew when he was coming to the diner, and what he wanted to eat — he wasn’t even subtle about it.  And that day that Shep collapsed — why had Stiles even been driving that road? It was in the opposite direction from his house.

“That’s...kind of amazing,” Derek found himself saying, and Stiles’ shoulders relaxed a bit.  Derek took another sip of tea, imagining what it might be like to know things, to grow up surrounded by magic.  “What form did your mom’s take?”

Derek regretted the words as soon as he spoke them, the distinctive scent of old, remembered grief clouding the air.  

Stiles’ smile was bittersweet.  He gazed into his tea as if he could see his mother’s face there.  “My mom — she could make stuff happen,” he said. “But something went wrong.  I’ve never known for sure what. Maybe she just didn’t have the training, like my Dziadek got before they had to flee Poland.  Maybe it was just never meant to work out, but she didn’t realize until it was too late.”

His eyes met Derek’s, a well of sadness in the amber depths.  “Every time she did magic it took a piece of her,” Stiles said.  “By the time she realized it was happening, it was too late. Frontotemporal dementia, the doctors called it, but we knew better.”  He shrugged, looking away.

Derek found himself covering Stiles’ hand again, squeezing his fingers in reassurance.  Stiles smiled crookedly, turning his palm so that he could interweave his fingers with Derek’s.

“Dad made me promise never to use it.  But when I was sixteen, Boyd’s little sister, Alicia, went missing.  And I just knew I could find her, if I tried. So I did. And it was...amazing.”  Stiles’ gaze was intense, as if willing Derek to understand. “Getting to help like that.  I was always this hyper, sarcastic pain in the ass. I was smart enough, but not a genius like Lydia, or an athlete like Jackson, or even a good friend like Scott.  But this was something I was good at — something I could do. Keeping the people of this town safe, kind of like my dad does, but in my own way.”

“Is it —” The idea of it made Derek’s stomach turn.  “Are you in danger now?”

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand one more time, and then gently detangled their fingers.  He straightened up, pushing his sleeves up his forearms, higher than Derek had ever seen, turning his wrists so Derek could see the full sleeves of tattoos.

“The traveling — that was how I got my training.  Usually people train for years, with one mentor, but that didn’t work for me.  I moved around, from mentor to mentor, learning what I could from each. I picked up the tattoos as I went, and each one helped bind my magic a little more tightly to me.”  Stiles pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I wouldn’t put myself at risk, I couldn’t do that to my dad.”

“I’m glad,” Derek said, and he ducked his head as Stiles’ eyes sought his again.  He was saying more than he meant to reveal, his tongue loosened by the shock of the day’s events.

“You could have a pack here, with us,” Stiles said, surprising Derek into meeting his gaze once again.  “You’re already starting to form the bonds, whether you mean to or not. I can feel it —” he raised his hand slowly, seeming to seek Derek’s permission before gently touching Derek’s chest “— here.”

Derek felt a burst of warmth where Stiles had touched, and he felt it now too, as if Stiles acknowledging it had brought it to life.  It was tenuous — not unbreakable, not yet — but it was there, a golden thread of energy connecting him to Stiles, and possibly even to Erica and Boyd and Isaac.

“I never wanted another pack,” Derek said.  It was simple fact to Derek, but Stiles seemed to read something else into the statement, his face falling as he pulled back.

I don’t deserve another pack, Derek thought, but knew better than to say it out loud.

“There’s something else,” Stiles said, derailing Derek’s thoughts.  He rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed.

“Something else?” Derek prompted, when Stiles didn’t seem like he was going to say more.

“I could — I could try something else.  Sometimes, if someone has one, I can find — god, it sounds so corny — but I can find out who their soulmate is.”

“Soulmate?” Derek repeated uncomprehendingly.  

“Yeah.  I mean, if you wanted, I could try.  It’s — honestly, I shoulda done it before.  I thought about it a million times, but I didn’t — I didn’t —”

Stiles seemed to get stuck, his face flushing red as he stared down at the countertop.  Derek watched in fascination, trying to unravel the mystery.

“Why didn’t you?” Derek finally prompted.

Stiles pulled in a deep, shuddering breath.  He lifted his gaze, meeting Derek’s eyes.

“I was scared it wouldn’t be me,” he admitted softly.

Derek stared back at him, stunned, and after a moment Stiles pushed away from the counter.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hand through his hair in agitation.  “I’m sorry, Derek, that was — that wasn’t fair. I mean, you’ve been through hell today, and I didn’t mean — what I feel isn’t on you.  If I made you uncomfortable, or —”

“What you feel.”  Derek felt like something was cracking open inside him.  His mind was spinning and he was just trying to catch up, trying to make sense of it all.  That Stiles had feelings for him. Stiles wanted to be Derek’s soulmate.  And suddenly, Derek knew.

“It is you,” he said.

“What?”  Stiles lifted his head, hope and frustration warring in his expression.

“Or — it doesn’t even matter, if my soulmate is you or not.  I want it to be.  I would choose you,” Derek said, the sudden knowledge making him bolder than he ever would have believed himself to be capable of.

“You...would?”  Stiles was slowly moving closer, as if drawn magnetically, doubt still flickering in his expression as he braced his hands against the counter.

Derek reached out, hand cupping Stiles’ jaw as he had yearned to do, for longer than he would let himself admit. His thumb brushed Stiles’ cheek, skimming the creamy skin and dark moles, as Stiles sighed and leaned into his touch.

“Yeah,” Derek said, trying to put all his certainty into his voice, not wanting Stiles to feel unsure for even a moment longer.  “I would.”

Stiles’ eyes were hooded and dark, and Derek could feel himself getting lost in them.  They both seemed to lean forward, lips meeting in a gentle, clinging kiss. A promise, and a reassurance.

“You would,” Stiles said, sounding as stunned as Derek felt.  He leaned over the counter more and Derek met him in the middle, arms wrapping around Stiles’ slender form and pressing him close.  Stiles fit there just right, and Derek buried his nose in the lee of Stiles’ jaw, breathing him in. He smelled like warmth, and spice, and everything good in the world.  He smelled like home.

“Okay,” Stiles said, as if trying to convince himself, his arms wrapped equally tightly around Derek, as if he would never let him go.  It was warm and firm and grounding, everything Derek needed right when he felt like he was about to shake apart. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Three years later

Derek stood at the door to Claudia’s.  He pulled his hat from his head and whacked it against his thigh to shake the snow off.  He smiled as Thomas imitated him, waving his own Pikachu hat from side to side before looking up at Derek with expectant eyes.

“Now?” he asked.

“Now,” Derek agreed.  They both turned their backs and laughed as Sadie shook herself off vigorously, splattering them with snow from head to toe.

“I think we’re dirtier than when we started,” Derek said wryly, but still wiped his feet carefully on the mat, Thomas studiously imitating the action, before pushing open the door.

He paused for a minute, letting the warmth and scents of Claudia’s wash over them.  Sadie was not as patient, lunging forward, wet paws sliding a bit on the tile floor before Derek’s click of the tongue brought her back to heel.  She was still learning, but she was trying. Thomas would sneak her some bacon regardless.

Derek held Thomas’ tiny mittened hand, lifting him up on the stool next to him while he sat on his usual stool against the wall.  A cup of coffee was already steaming on the counter in front of his usual stool, a mug of hot chocolate with a pile of slowly melting whipped cream at Thomas’ place.

“Well, well, well...my favorite customers.”  Stiles’ smile was bright and warm, his amber eyes shining with tenderness, and Derek fell more in love with him every time he saw him.  “But aren’t we missing someone?”

Derek unzipped his coat, peeling the sides apart to show Laurel, fast asleep in the carrier on his chest.

Stiles leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on Laurel’s fuzzy head and then a soft sweet kiss to Derek’s lips that nonetheless set his heart racing.  Then he placed his elbows on the counter, leaning down even further to give Thomas a kiss to the cheek that turned into a raspberry, making Thomas giggle and squirm so hard he would have fallen off the stool if it wasn’t for Stiles’ big hands bracing him.

“How’s business?” Derek asked, gratefully wrapping his cold hands around the mug of warm coffee.  With a conspiratorial wink to Thomas, Stiles plopped a few extra marshmallows in Thomas’ hot chocolate before answering.

“Not bad.  Dad was in for breakfast.  He wants to have dinner Sunday night if that works for you.”

Derek grunted his acknowledgement.  There was a vegetable lasagna recipe with whole wheat noodles that he had been meaning to try.  Usually Stiles did the cooking, but Derek liked to try his hand every once in awhile.

“Oh, and Jackson was in.  He filed the last of the paperwork on Monday, so it should all be official soon.”

Derek nodded, a little knot of tension he hadn’t realized he had been carrying easing from between his shoulders.  He wouldn’t truly relax until it was all final, but every step closer felt like a victory.

Several months ago, Stiles had flailed awake in the middle of the night, nearly cracking Derek’s nose with his elbow, suddenly knowing that there were kids out there who belonged with them.  To Derek’s surprise, though, it had been Jackson who had scoured the case reports for every foster child in the county and found them.

Thomas had been considered “unadoptable” because of violent outbursts, including a bed covered in blood at night even though the child showed no apparent injuries in the morning.  His former foster parents had suspected that Thomas was killing small animals, and, unable to cope with both him and his infant sister, were seeking inpatient psychiatric hospitalization for the ‘troubled child.’

Jackson suspected, and Derek later confirmed, that Thomas was a simply a ‘wolf, thrown into an early shift by the trauma of his parents’ deaths.  The blood had been his own, claws tearing his own skin during his nightmares before it healed without a trace. And Derek had to eventually acknowledge that he couldn’t have been more wrong about Jackson’s character as he saw the man move mountains of bureaucracy and pull every string possible to ensure that Derek and Stiles were speedily approved as the new foster parents for Thomas and his baby sister.  

Soon it would be permanent, the last of the adoption paperwork approved.  Stiles had already been planning the party, Derek knew, although neither of them had spoken of it out loud, terrified to jinx anything.  Still, Stiles was up late at night, perfecting the icing on his Pikachu cupcakes, and every night Derek helped him eat the evidence before morning.

Laurel woke up, startling Derek out of his reverie by stretching her chubby arms and bonking him in the chin a few times.  She started to fuss, blinking open wide hazel eyes and staring up at Derek grumpily.

“Hand her here,” Stiles said, and Derek carefully extracted Laurel from the sling, watching her face beam with joy as he pointed her in the direction of Stiles’ reaching arms.

“I’ll try not to take it personally,” Derek grumbled, as Stiles blew a raspberry on Laurel’s belly, making her giggle and squeak.  

“You were already there when she fell asleep,” Stiles reasoned.  “You’re old news.” He cradled Laurel in his arms so naturally, his tattooed forearms bright against her darker skin and pale yellow onesie, and Derek couldn’t stop himself from staring.

Erica stopped by, dropping a full plate in front of each of them with a clatter.  

“Daddy?” Thomas asked.  He had fished all the marshmallows out of his hot chocolate with a spoon, and now had a ring of cocoa all around his mouth, a shade darker than his own brown skin.  Derek wet a napkin in his water glass, wiping Thomas’ mouth as the boy waited patiently for him to finish.

“Yeah, pup?”

“Is Tata gonna light a candle again tonight?”

“Yep.  It’s only the fourth night.”  Derek smiled down at him, running a hand over Thomas’ short curly hair, affection and scenting in one gesture.  “Are you gonna help?”

Thomas nodded, wide-eyed with the responsibility.  “And then we can play the drindle game?”

“The dreidel game, kochanie,” Stiles corrected with a smile.  “Absolutely. I’m feeling lucky today,” he added.

“Me too,” Thomas said confidently.

Derek looked down at his son, and then up at his daughter, cradled in his husband’s arms.  His heart felt so full, his life filled with more love and happiness than he had ever imagined possible.  

“Me too,” Derek echoed quietly, and Stiles sent him a soft, private smile.