[ There are two different images of the Hale house. The one that everyone else knows, the burnt out husk where they'd faced Peter. Where Peter was resurrected. Where Allison's family had occupied, for whatever reason. It's all bad memories for them, a ruin whose shadow looms over everything, a dark reminder of darker times. Hell, even after he came back to Beacon Hills a second time people had barged into the old home, used it as the hunters had to add insult to injury.
But Derek and Cora both remember a better time. Remember when every floor was intact, the windows frosted in winter and left for children to fog and draw on. When the door swung on quiet hinges, didn't need a thick layer of paint to cover up a calling card to an alpha pack out for blood. When the kids of the pack could run across hardwood floor, crash into one another and their parents' legs, tumble down to the living room where the Christmas tree was put up. But the smells of the Hale hot chocolate don't permeate the kitchen anymore. There haven't been summer barbeques in years, a solid decade and some change.
So for as much as they hold onto better times, better memories, now all they have is a husk.
For as easy, in theory, as it is to fight those ghosts, though, Derek's instead turned his attention onto darker ones. The mock sacrifices tore through Scott, Stiles, and Allison, but after everything they've managed to get through it. There's still lingering ghosts, in the peripheral and in the faces of people they know and care about, but he's not leaving again. After everything that's happened, after every near death experience that's brought them all together-- brought him and Stiles together-- he's not going to leave them alone again.
A garden isn't much, in theory. But it's something to pour into, to give life to in the face of so much death and chaos. And in the end, it'll continue to give life. If their hands brushed in the dirt amongst the flowers and herbs, well. He never moved away. Not when Stiles had been pack for ages, and not when he'd been something more ever since the summer they sat together, heads bowed close as they searched for every clue they could for two missing betas that were still missed.
It's natural, then, that he goes to Stiles when he decides to let them tear the house down. And it's just as natural that Stiles anchors him in the moment, keeps him from snapping or changing his mind or breaking down. He doesn't even twitch when he feels long fingers brush over his fist, and instead slowly unclenches it so that he can curl longer and broader fingers together with them. ]
[ He can't help the way he holds his breath when the machine roars to life and starts to slide forward, bulldozer ready to knock down weak foundations and broken windows. When Derek's hand finds his, Stiles squeezes it, locks his thumb over Derek's index finger and moves it in a downward arc. He's shit at comforting people, but he knows, he just knows how badly this hurts. Remembers throwing a screaming, crying fit when they cleaned out the hospital room Claudia had lived the last hours of her life in. He and Derek have this indescribable camaraderie that no one in their group, not even Scott, could really understand. Lost parents or not, Stiles feels what Derek feels, a horrible guilt that claws at your mind in the dark of the night, that's screaming faces in windowpanes and someone whispering "it's all your fault" in the back of your head.
It's why he was the first one there when Boyd died. When no one else stepped forward, when even Derek's own sister found Boyd first, sobbing over his body, Stiles walked up to him and put his hesitant, shaking hand on his shoulder. It was why he'd had to walk away from the Kate Argent casefile, because it had resonated so intensely in his chest when he realized what had happened that all he could do was try not to have a panic attack.
It was why after he went off on Derek about Jennifer that he apologized later. Why he touched his arm when he ran off to get Scott in the same day. He just knew.
He'd always known.
When the first bulldozer hits against the burnt out framework, Stiles reaches up with his other hand and presses his palm to his stubbled cheek, pulling his gaze away and muttering "look at me", his thumb finding the arc of his cheekbone.
And when there's a crash, his brown eyes search over his face, and he leans forward and pushes his hand out a little, covering his ear with one hand as he presses a kiss to his mouth, sorrowful and warm and there at the same time, everything he can push into keeping him here, centered on a rock in the middle of the ocean. ]
[ Palms pressed tight together, Derek can feel Stiles' pulse against his own. It's jackrabbit fast as always, beating into his skin and familiar, to the point that his own heart steadies onward in the pause between each beat. Not synchronized, but fitting together in a way that he never expected. They fit together in a way that he never expected.
It isn't sympathy or pity that fuels Stiles and he knows it. Has seen the empathy, the stark similarities in their pain, knows that Stiles carries a burden of guilt on his shoulders much like he does. There's differences, but it doesn't change the weight of it, doesn't change the fact that they both feel responsible for the losses and happenstances in their lives. And if Derek can be an anchor for him when he succumbs to that darkness that's swept over him, darker memories from painful times, hold him steady in the storm that rages around them both, then he knows now, after everything that's happened, that Stiles is there with him in it.
Even with every fight, every argument and disagreement and frustration, Stiles has been there afterwards. They fight, but they know each other, know one another's pain. It's easy to fall back together again, quiet apologies and understanding hands.
At first, his eyes stay on the first bulldozer even as Stiles turns his head. But then he hears him, somehow, over the roar of the machines, the roar of memories and guilt, and he looks at him. He almost feels the crash in his very bones, and he knows he can't hide the hurt that twists in him, meets amber brown in sea green. Because that's sixteen years of good memories being torn down in a family home, nearly nine years of darker ones being swept away in the ruins.
His free hand comes up, curls tightly in his topmost layer, and it's all of a second before he's returning the kiss. Something angry and hurt, gutted like the house, but grateful and warm and lingering. It doesn't block out the next crash, but it helps him weather through it, softens the hurt of it. ]
[ The entire time, Stiles doesn't dare let go of his hand.
It's a big deal for most people, your first kiss with someone important. To call this a crush feels like belittling it, because there's a lot more space on the page of their relationship he could fill with lines and lines, about the way Derek feels safe enough to pass out asleep on his couch at his house, or how he's brushing against Stiles every now and then, feeling for personal contact. The way they banter and bounce off each other feels like a natural inclination, like something he wouldn't trade for the world, fake violence tempered with soft talks over the table in the loft.
But for Stiles, it's less butterflies and more comfort, empathy. Not to say that he hasn't been wanting for this for a long time, and there is a rush of butterflies in his throat, but it's coupled with a lump that only comes with swallowing down guilt and pain. He can't shoulder Derek's guilt for forever, but he can sure as hell try.
The hand covering his ear shifts up just a little, so the pulse point of his wrist is pressed up against it, and Stiles tries to convey everything he can into the pressure against his mouth, soft and slow and trying to do everything he can to block out the house coming tumbling down behind them. ]
[ After every single thing that's dropped onto Derek's shoulders, he doesn't dare think that anyone else should help him carry any of it. But Stiles steps up, just as damaged and with his own burden to carry, and he tries to shoulder it. And part of him wants to push him away, tell him to let it be, to stay back because he doesn't want to drag him down with him. He's damaged goods, and he's not any good for anyone.
Another part, a part that slowly grows greater with each passing day where he has a pack that cares about him, that looks out for him, that he can actually help now, reaches out and takes the guilt from Stiles' shoulders in exchange. They can't fix one another's every problem, but they can sure as hell help one another through it. He'd stumbled in the dark for years, and now it's his turn to help Stiles through his own darkness.
It's all while they build something greater between them, somewhere they can go. Stiles is safe and known, and the fact that he thinks the same of Derek now, after stinking of fear but standing up to him regardless for months? It's something else. Stiles hasn't been afraid of him in ages, knows that his threats have no heat behind them. Just settles in the space that he's built for himself in Derek's life, legs across his lap while they pour over research in his room, invading his kitchen at the loft with his copied key.
Pulling him out of the ruins of his life, literally and figuratively.
Something in his body relaxes as he feels the press of his pulse, hears it over everything else. The knife in his chest slowly draws free, replaced by a warmth that's been building for months now every time he finds himself around a teenager with a too big heart and an even bigger mouth. He leans into the kiss, taking what Stiles gives and giving back. Just like their dialogues, both spoken and physical, but something more. ]
[ When he finally breaks away (his mouth is tingling, as stupid and cliche as that sounds, but it really is), Stiles' eyes don't open for a second as he slowly looses the hold on his hand. But it's not to pull away from him completely, it's to bring his other wrist up over his ears, give him something else to listen to instead of the crashing of the building. It's almost done--it's so old that it collapses at the touch, now, rotted floorbeams and ceilings giving way to cold steel.
It's almost gone. It wasn't Stiles decision, it was all Derek, and he couldn't--he really couldn't be prouder of him for it. It hurt. He knew, more than anyone, that it hurt. But it was a step, a step in roots put down in a garden and in a little pack that did their damn best to try and give the prodigal son somewhere to belong again. They'd grown so much since the day Peter Hale lost control of himself and bit Scott, forming cohesive bonds that felt more like a family than a group of friends.
His eyes flutter open again, just a little, and he slowly looks up at him, brown eyes matched on green as he holds his gaze, keeps him from looking as the last column of the house goes tumbling down and the bulldozer scoops up the remains. ]
[ Letting Stiles move his fingers from his, Derek stands like that for a moment, one hand hand still fisted in his shirt and the other hanging down as his world is just Stiles. All he knows is Stiles-- tastes him even as he pulls back from the kiss; has the summer to autumn scent to cover up rotted wood and exhaust fumes, the faint frost that clings to it now, spice and medication and lingering juniper; hears only his heart thrumming against his ears-- and it settles something in him. Slowly, he brings his hand up, slides calloused fingers along the back of his palm and overlaps his fingers. The other loosens in his shirt, drawing up to curl against the side of his neck.
This is home, now. Not some burnt out husk that breaks at a single touch, swept into rubble and dumped into the back of a truck. A racing heartbeat and a warm touch, worn by books and lacrosse and holding tight to what remains. This is his heart now, in a ragtag pack that becomes his family more and more every day. He came back to Beacon Hills, sister dead and uncle thirsting for blood, no friends and no loyal allies to speak of.
Now he has this pack, this family. Now he has Stiles.
He watches him, instead of the wreckage being taken away. Thumbs at the pulse in his throat, even as they bring the last of the standing foundation down. No words come, but he still mouths a quiet "thank you." ]
[ A part of him just aches at the words (or lackthereof), the vulnerability of the moment, and he never takes his eyes off of him, never looks out at the wreckage to tempt him away. It's something special they have here, something they've had for ages. No fake crushes or heartbreak, no one using the other.
Just the two of them, in front of the remains of Derek's house.
He doesn't let go until the rumbling stops, kisses the mouthed words off his lips and chases them with his own, "anytime", resisting any urge to make a stupid joke and just holding him there, anchoring, until the machines cut off and it's gone.
Just like that, it's gone.
Stiles finally lets him go, slowly lifting his hands from his ears, and looks out. The field itself is surprisingly quiet, flattened by the bulldozers but green under remaining soot and dust, and he slowly drops his hands to his pulse, giving his neck a little squeeze as he barely pulls away, waves at the contractor and turns a little pink at the back of his neck. Friend of his dad's, of course. ]
[ Pressing their foreheads together for a moment as he looks back at him, he closes his eyes for a brief moment in the slightest flinch as he hears something grinding, crashing-- the remains of his family home being dumped into a truck, almost too weighed down-- over the pulse in his ears. But then he's opening his eyes again to look at Stiles, staying locked on the whiskey brown of those big bambi eyes of his.
It's all he needs.
As the low thrum of machinery comes to an end, Derek takes a deep breath that he holds, only letting go of it after Stiles' mouth is no longer pressed to his. It helps him brace against what he's about to see when he turns his head away.
For a moment, he doesn't turn. Lets Stiles look first, wave at the contractor. The touch to his neck reassures him enough that he thinks he can do it, thinks he can turn to look at what remains. His hand slides around, curls so that the hell of his hand is near his pulse and his fingers can settle at the back of his neck. Like he's holding onto his anchor, as he finally lifts his head and looks at the field.
That's all it is. Everything is gone, loaded into dump trucks. He swallows thickly, not even thinking about how quickly word spreads in Beacon Hills. ]
[ It's weirdly peaceful looking, now that the house is gone. Empty, maybe. Like there's a great big hole left in the middle of the forest. Stiles stays quiet and lets Derek do what he pleases, slowly dropping his hand from his neck only to slide his arm around his hips, fingers curling in the fabric of his used to be too big leather jacket and tilting his head just a little to lean it on his shoulder.
It's gone.
It takes him a while to move. He doesn't want to disturb Derek--he won't judge, won't do anything but be that anchor, the warrior's shield, and when he finally does, he strides forward with purpose and picks up a stick, walking to a little bit of dirt near what he can gauge as the middle of the field, and crouching down, dragging the tip of the stick through the dust in one spiral, then two, then three. ]
[ Head turning the slightest bit, but eyes staying on what remains, Derek tucks his nose in Stiles' thick hair and just stands like that for a while. This was simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing he's ever done-- the house was gone as if it was swept aside, but it took a lot for him to be able to sign it away. Standing there with Stiles, looking at everything, he isn't sure whether the weight from his shoulders is gone or not. But it doesn't hurt, quite so much.
So it's easy to let Stiles move away, fingers loosening as he straightens a little, watches him. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he feels the pull that's between them drawing him forward after him. When his shoes scuff the flattened earth, remains of charred wood and ash, he tries to push aside the thought that he's walking across all that's left of a childhood long gone.
It's easy enough, when he sees what Stiles is doing. ]
Stiles... [ There's something strained but grateful in his voice, like he'd forgotten how to use it since he first told Stiles to meet him at the Hale house and only remembered because of this. Because of a symbol so ingrained in his life, and the boy who runs with wolves. ]
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no subject
But Derek and Cora both remember a better time. Remember when every floor was intact, the windows frosted in winter and left for children to fog and draw on. When the door swung on quiet hinges, didn't need a thick layer of paint to cover up a calling card to an alpha pack out for blood. When the kids of the pack could run across hardwood floor, crash into one another and their parents' legs, tumble down to the living room where the Christmas tree was put up. But the smells of the Hale hot chocolate don't permeate the kitchen anymore. There haven't been summer barbeques in years, a solid decade and some change.
So for as much as they hold onto better times, better memories, now all they have is a husk.
For as easy, in theory, as it is to fight those ghosts, though, Derek's instead turned his attention onto darker ones. The mock sacrifices tore through Scott, Stiles, and Allison, but after everything they've managed to get through it. There's still lingering ghosts, in the peripheral and in the faces of people they know and care about, but he's not leaving again. After everything that's happened, after every near death experience that's brought them all together-- brought him and Stiles together-- he's not going to leave them alone again.
A garden isn't much, in theory. But it's something to pour into, to give life to in the face of so much death and chaos. And in the end, it'll continue to give life. If their hands brushed in the dirt amongst the flowers and herbs, well. He never moved away. Not when Stiles had been pack for ages, and not when he'd been something more ever since the summer they sat together, heads bowed close as they searched for every clue they could for two missing betas that were still missed.
It's natural, then, that he goes to Stiles when he decides to let them tear the house down. And it's just as natural that Stiles anchors him in the moment, keeps him from snapping or changing his mind or breaking down. He doesn't even twitch when he feels long fingers brush over his fist, and instead slowly unclenches it so that he can curl longer and broader fingers together with them. ]
no subject
It's why he was the first one there when Boyd died. When no one else stepped forward, when even Derek's own sister found Boyd first, sobbing over his body, Stiles walked up to him and put his hesitant, shaking hand on his shoulder. It was why he'd had to walk away from the Kate Argent casefile, because it had resonated so intensely in his chest when he realized what had happened that all he could do was try not to have a panic attack.
It was why after he went off on Derek about Jennifer that he apologized later. Why he touched his arm when he ran off to get Scott in the same day. He just knew.
He'd always known.
When the first bulldozer hits against the burnt out framework, Stiles reaches up with his other hand and presses his palm to his stubbled cheek, pulling his gaze away and muttering "look at me", his thumb finding the arc of his cheekbone.
And when there's a crash, his brown eyes search over his face, and he leans forward and pushes his hand out a little, covering his ear with one hand as he presses a kiss to his mouth, sorrowful and warm and there at the same time, everything he can push into keeping him here, centered on a rock in the middle of the ocean. ]
no subject
It isn't sympathy or pity that fuels Stiles and he knows it. Has seen the empathy, the stark similarities in their pain, knows that Stiles carries a burden of guilt on his shoulders much like he does. There's differences, but it doesn't change the weight of it, doesn't change the fact that they both feel responsible for the losses and happenstances in their lives. And if Derek can be an anchor for him when he succumbs to that darkness that's swept over him, darker memories from painful times, hold him steady in the storm that rages around them both, then he knows now, after everything that's happened, that Stiles is there with him in it.
Even with every fight, every argument and disagreement and frustration, Stiles has been there afterwards. They fight, but they know each other, know one another's pain. It's easy to fall back together again, quiet apologies and understanding hands.
At first, his eyes stay on the first bulldozer even as Stiles turns his head. But then he hears him, somehow, over the roar of the machines, the roar of memories and guilt, and he looks at him. He almost feels the crash in his very bones, and he knows he can't hide the hurt that twists in him, meets amber brown in sea green. Because that's sixteen years of good memories being torn down in a family home, nearly nine years of darker ones being swept away in the ruins.
His free hand comes up, curls tightly in his topmost layer, and it's all of a second before he's returning the kiss. Something angry and hurt, gutted like the house, but grateful and warm and lingering. It doesn't block out the next crash, but it helps him weather through it, softens the hurt of it. ]
no subject
It's a big deal for most people, your first kiss with someone important. To call this a crush feels like belittling it, because there's a lot more space on the page of their relationship he could fill with lines and lines, about the way Derek feels safe enough to pass out asleep on his couch at his house, or how he's brushing against Stiles every now and then, feeling for personal contact. The way they banter and bounce off each other feels like a natural inclination, like something he wouldn't trade for the world, fake violence tempered with soft talks over the table in the loft.
But for Stiles, it's less butterflies and more comfort, empathy. Not to say that he hasn't been wanting for this for a long time, and there is a rush of butterflies in his throat, but it's coupled with a lump that only comes with swallowing down guilt and pain. He can't shoulder Derek's guilt for forever, but he can sure as hell try.
The hand covering his ear shifts up just a little, so the pulse point of his wrist is pressed up against it, and Stiles tries to convey everything he can into the pressure against his mouth, soft and slow and trying to do everything he can to block out the house coming tumbling down behind them. ]
no subject
Another part, a part that slowly grows greater with each passing day where he has a pack that cares about him, that looks out for him, that he can actually help now, reaches out and takes the guilt from Stiles' shoulders in exchange. They can't fix one another's every problem, but they can sure as hell help one another through it. He'd stumbled in the dark for years, and now it's his turn to help Stiles through his own darkness.
It's all while they build something greater between them, somewhere they can go. Stiles is safe and known, and the fact that he thinks the same of Derek now, after stinking of fear but standing up to him regardless for months? It's something else. Stiles hasn't been afraid of him in ages, knows that his threats have no heat behind them. Just settles in the space that he's built for himself in Derek's life, legs across his lap while they pour over research in his room, invading his kitchen at the loft with his copied key.
Pulling him out of the ruins of his life, literally and figuratively.
Something in his body relaxes as he feels the press of his pulse, hears it over everything else. The knife in his chest slowly draws free, replaced by a warmth that's been building for months now every time he finds himself around a teenager with a too big heart and an even bigger mouth. He leans into the kiss, taking what Stiles gives and giving back. Just like their dialogues, both spoken and physical, but something more. ]
no subject
It's almost gone. It wasn't Stiles decision, it was all Derek, and he couldn't--he really couldn't be prouder of him for it. It hurt. He knew, more than anyone, that it hurt. But it was a step, a step in roots put down in a garden and in a little pack that did their damn best to try and give the prodigal son somewhere to belong again. They'd grown so much since the day Peter Hale lost control of himself and bit Scott, forming cohesive bonds that felt more like a family than a group of friends.
His eyes flutter open again, just a little, and he slowly looks up at him, brown eyes matched on green as he holds his gaze, keeps him from looking as the last column of the house goes tumbling down and the bulldozer scoops up the remains. ]
no subject
This is home, now. Not some burnt out husk that breaks at a single touch, swept into rubble and dumped into the back of a truck. A racing heartbeat and a warm touch, worn by books and lacrosse and holding tight to what remains. This is his heart now, in a ragtag pack that becomes his family more and more every day. He came back to Beacon Hills, sister dead and uncle thirsting for blood, no friends and no loyal allies to speak of.
Now he has this pack, this family. Now he has Stiles.
He watches him, instead of the wreckage being taken away. Thumbs at the pulse in his throat, even as they bring the last of the standing foundation down. No words come, but he still mouths a quiet "thank you." ]
no subject
Just the two of them, in front of the remains of Derek's house.
He doesn't let go until the rumbling stops, kisses the mouthed words off his lips and chases them with his own, "anytime", resisting any urge to make a stupid joke and just holding him there, anchoring, until the machines cut off and it's gone.
Just like that, it's gone.
Stiles finally lets him go, slowly lifting his hands from his ears, and looks out. The field itself is surprisingly quiet, flattened by the bulldozers but green under remaining soot and dust, and he slowly drops his hands to his pulse, giving his neck a little squeeze as he barely pulls away, waves at the contractor and turns a little pink at the back of his neck. Friend of his dad's, of course. ]
no subject
It's all he needs.
As the low thrum of machinery comes to an end, Derek takes a deep breath that he holds, only letting go of it after Stiles' mouth is no longer pressed to his. It helps him brace against what he's about to see when he turns his head away.
For a moment, he doesn't turn. Lets Stiles look first, wave at the contractor. The touch to his neck reassures him enough that he thinks he can do it, thinks he can turn to look at what remains. His hand slides around, curls so that the hell of his hand is near his pulse and his fingers can settle at the back of his neck. Like he's holding onto his anchor, as he finally lifts his head and looks at the field.
That's all it is. Everything is gone, loaded into dump trucks. He swallows thickly, not even thinking about how quickly word spreads in Beacon Hills. ]
no subject
It's gone.
It takes him a while to move. He doesn't want to disturb Derek--he won't judge, won't do anything but be that anchor, the warrior's shield, and when he finally does, he strides forward with purpose and picks up a stick, walking to a little bit of dirt near what he can gauge as the middle of the field, and crouching down, dragging the tip of the stick through the dust in one spiral, then two, then three. ]
no subject
So it's easy to let Stiles move away, fingers loosening as he straightens a little, watches him. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he feels the pull that's between them drawing him forward after him. When his shoes scuff the flattened earth, remains of charred wood and ash, he tries to push aside the thought that he's walking across all that's left of a childhood long gone.
It's easy enough, when he sees what Stiles is doing. ]
Stiles... [ There's something strained but grateful in his voice, like he'd forgotten how to use it since he first told Stiles to meet him at the Hale house and only remembered because of this. Because of a symbol so ingrained in his life, and the boy who runs with wolves. ]