Chapter Text
- The Past: Tuesday, January 25th, 2011 -
Stiles is walking through the school parking lot when his phone vibrates in his jeans pocket. Pulling it out, he heaves a great sigh after he reads the short message displayed on the screen—his dad is too tied up with whatever case he's working to go grocery shopping like he was supposed to, so this task now falls to Stiles. He shoves his phone back in its home, walks the rest of the way to his Jeep, and clambers in behind the wheel, determined to get it done as quickly as he can so that he still has most of his afternoon free.
Once he has made a quick stop at the sheriff's station to pick up the shopping list his dad had taken off the fridge that morning, Stiles heads to the store. He pushes his cart a little recklessly down the aisles, his brand-new copy of Dead Space 2 calling to him where it lies on his desk back in his room. He makes a mental note to text Derek when he gets home, to ask him whether or not he wants to come over and check it out when it's all set up. A large pack of toilet paper is the last thing Stiles pulls from the shelves, and then he gets in line at one of the checkouts and taps his foot impatiently.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into his driveway and feels relieved to be home. No one else is in the area as he exits his Jeep and walks around to the trunk to begin unloading the plethora of paper bags within, but, because most of his neighbours should still be at work, this doesn't strike him as strange. Not until he hears a soft nose behind him:
A quiet breath, so close that it ruffles his hair.
Before he can react, Stiles feels a sharp pain in the back of his head, and then everything goes black.
* * *
- The Present: Monday, January 25th, 2016 -
Derek sits in the sheriff's station, staring morosely at the photograph that sits in a plain silver frame on his desk. It was taken over five years ago, at his 21st birthday party, and in it he and Stiles stand side by side, Stiles' arm thrown casually around Derek's shoulders as he grins toothily at the camera. Derek's own expression is the polar opposite, a deep unamused frown, because on his head is a ridiculous neon-pink party hat that Stiles had insisted he wear throughout the day. He could never say no to the boy, so he'd grudgingly acquiesced.
They met when Stiles was in kindergarten and just got closer as the years went on, even after Stiles found out The Big Secret. When Derek was sixteen, his mother sat him down for a serious talk. He was nervous, sure that he'd done something wrong somehow, but those nerves were quickly allayed when Talia apprised him of the abstruse concept of mates, something he'd only heard of in passing before then. Every werewolf in the world had someone made specially for them, she said, their other half. Derek's parents were mates, obviously, and when Derek asked why she was telling him all of this now, the answer he got cast his whole friendship with Stiles in a new, impossibly brighter light.
Talia had suspected for a long time that Stiles was Derek's mate, a feeling his dad shared. It was why Derek was drawn to the younger boy in the first place, his fledgling wolf recognising the connection that was present between them as soon as Derek saw him. It was why Derek never looked at the girls in school like the other boys did—his wolf was already focused on someone, though those feelings weren't yet sexual in nature and wouldn't be until Stiles had gone through puberty, too, and discovered his own sexuality.
When Talia left him to ruminate on the matter, he'd felt a sense of clarity the likes of which he'd never known, while at the same time remaining confused. There was one thing he knew for sure, though: He'd keep their mateship secret from Stiles until they were both older, a task that very quickly proved difficult.
For weeks, every time Stiles was around—which was nearly all the time—a part of Derek longed to reveal their special connection, his wolf scratching at and wearing away his resolve with its intense desire for closeness. Even so, he managed, determined to wait until Stiles was eighteen and could legally make his own decisions. Stiles easily picked up on his strangeness but let the subject drop and never picked it back up when Derek told him that he was just working through some personal stuff. After a few months it got easier, and things returned to normal.
Derek regrets making the choice to wait now.
It would've helped.
It would've helped so fucking much.
He'll never forget the panic he felt when he got the call. The sheriff arrived home late that fateful evening and knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped out of his car. Stiles' Jeep was already in the driveway like it should've been, but the trunk was left open wide, bags of groceries still inside, and the keys were on the ground a couple of feet away like they'd been dropped. Trying not to jump immediately to the worst conclusions, the sheriff ran into the house and searched it top to bottom for Stiles, but there was no trace of him. Frantic, he then called the Hales for help. Their enhanced senses would provide a perfectly reasonable explanation for his missing son, he was sure. Derek had dropped everything and was the first one to arrive at the Stilinskis', where he scented the air for clues. He picked up fear, traces of blood, and—frighteningly—nothing else.
There were no unfamiliar scents he could track.
Just Stiles', and even that vanished a few feet from the property.
Every Hale looked high and low for the missing teenager for months, noses and ears alert for a sign that Stiles was still in the area, but they never found any. Derek personally combed through the whole town on a daily basis, and he even went to all the neighbouring towns, too, to search for his mate. The sheriff rallied the force to aid them, though none of the deputies needed much convincing—Stiles was like a surrogate little brother to every one of them, after all, as he'd grown up in front of most of them.
They tried everything they could think of. Stiles' room was turned inside-out in the search for clues. Stiles' computer was hacked into, but, apart from a few gay porn sites in his Internet history and bookmarks—it didn't escape anyone's notice that most of them featured muscular men with dark hair and stubble, a discovery that had Derek avoiding eye contact with Stiles' dad for a while—there was nothing of note. Just school work, music and a folder of photos, the subjects of most of which were Stiles and Derek. Everyone Stiles could have come into contact with was interviewed—his classmates, his teachers, even everyone they knew was at the grocery store at the same time as Stiles, thanks to CCTV cameras.
All of this effort turned up nothing.
Months and years down the line, the hope that everybody clung desperately to slipped slowly away, and as much as Derek and the sheriff tried with all their might not to, even they began to believe the worst. The searches became less frequent and more perfunctory, and that was when Derek really started to kick himself for his past cowardice.
If he had only been braver and told Stiles about the true nature of their relationship, claimed him when he'd had the chance, he would have had a connection through which he could've found him. If not that, then at the very least he would know if Stiles was still alive. Derek thinks that's the worst thing, not knowing whether or not his mate is rotting away in the ground somewhere, leaving everyone to forever wonder, to carry on with their lives without getting any sort of closure to help them cope. If he knew conclusively, God forbid, that Stiles was dead, he could grieve, as difficult as it would be, as much as he doesn't want to think about it, and as guilty as he feels whenever the thought manages to slip through. Instead he just feels tense all the time, uncertain, and nothing can make it better.
"Hey, Hale!"
Derek tears his eyes away from the picture frame and looks up.
Deputy Parrish stands beside his desk, a pitying expression on his face that Derek hates. He hadn't meant to let his stoic facade slip, but considering what day it is, the five-year anniversary of Stiles' disappearance, he's having serious trouble keeping it up. "What do you want?" he responds coolly.
"The boss wants to see you in his office," Parrish replies.
"He say why?"
"No, but I wouldn't keep him waiting."
With that, Parrish walks away, returning to his own workstation.
Derek is left alone once more, where he sits in his chair for a minute longer, not really wanting to have the short conversation he suspects the sheriff will want to have with him. The day is difficult enough to get through without interacting with the older man and being reminded of the part that is missing from his heart. The shame he feels for dodging the sheriff is a price he is willing to pay to avoid the heartache, but sometimes it just isn't an option.
With a sigh, Derek gets up and approaches the sheriff's office. He finds the beige door left wide open, a sign that everyone who works at the station knows means the sheriff isn't busy with anything. He knocks anyway and, out of respect, leans against the frame until he is given verbal permission to enter. John's head snaps up at the sound, and a kind smile forms on his lips as he puts aside the paperwork he had been poring over before the interruption. Pushing the door shut when the sheriff asks him to take a seat, Derek bites his lip nervously and waits for the inevitable hammer to drop. Already he's certain of what's coming—Stiles' dad told him the same thing last year and, sure enough, the kind, mollifying smile once again in place, John moves out from behind his desk, leans against the front of it, and says those familiar words:
"Why don't you take off early today, son? We're not very busy right now, so we can afford to lose you for a day, or even the whole damn week, if you need it," the sheriff continues, putting a hand on Derek's knee. The gesture is probably meant to be comforting, but instead Derek just feels like he's being dismissed.
Like he's useless.
"I'm fine," he lies, fighting to keep his face impassive.
"I don't think you are, Derek... It's obvious to anyone who knows you."
Derek huffs. "I said I'm fine!" he reiterates, irritation seeping through and causing hurt to flicker across the sheriff's face. Derek immediately feels his irritation fade and hastens to apologise. "Sorry... It's just, Stiles wasn't only my mate. He was your son, too, so this day has to be just as hard for you. I don't understand why you're sending me home again while you continue to stay here. Something about that doesn't feel right."
"I'm the sheriff; I'm needed here. You're not."
"Ouch."
"I don't say this to hurt you, son, but it's true," the sheriff says. "Go home. Rest."
Derek opens his mouth to protest again but quickly finds that he doesn't have the energy to fight his corner any more. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, least of all to himself, he wouldn't be a valuable part of the team if something were to happen. He would just get in the way, cause mistakes with his complacency and end up letting some poor civilian get hurt. With a sigh he gets to his feet, leaves the sheriff's office—petulantly ignoring the sheriff's goodbyes—and retrieves his coat from the back of his chair. After switching off his computer, he marches out of the station with his head held high, aware that all of his colleagues and the two petty criminals currently waiting to be processed are knowingly watching him go.
* * *
Derek quickly discovers that being sent home early was a blessing in disguise. If he was still at the station, he'd probably have spent the whole afternoon just sitting at his desk, ignoring all of his rising paperwork in favour of thinking of Stiles. Instead, his afternoon being free allows him to find suitable distractions. He catches up on everything he has been neglecting—he restocks his fridge, cleans up his apartment, and even tunes up his precious Camaro, changing the oil so that it runs as smoothly as ever.
At just after 8 p.m., Derek reenters his apartment with grease on his hands and sweat cooling on his skin. He's positively pooped, feeling in every muscle a satisfying ache that speaks of a productive day. After ordering some Chinese food for delivery—he's too tired to cook something himself—and taking a rejuvenating shower, Derek stands in his bedroom in nothing but a thin white towel and contemplates which clothes he should cover himself with. Something comfy, of course, so he goes straight for the bottom drawer of his dresser, which contains all of his sweaters and sweatpants. They all feel like snuggly heaven, but he'd never show his face in public while wearing them—he has his broody reputation to uphold, after all.
It's then that he sees it.
Reverently, Derek picks up Stiles' old navy-blue sweater and clutches it to his naked chest, a wave of fondness overtaking him. It's tinged with sadness for obvious reasons, but the sweater comes with one of his happiest memories attached, one that never fails to warm his heart. It was an ordinary Sunday afternoon. They were sitting side by side on Stiles' bed, playing video games for hours, and Derek was actually holding his own in Mario Kart Wii. It was the final lap of Rainbow Road and Derek was in first place, about to claim victory—a complete anomaly, because he usually got his ass handed to him. But then Stiles had come out of nowhere with an impeccably aimed green shell and stolen the win. Derek ended up finishing in fourth place, but he couldn't find it in himself to be mad about it. Not when he looked over at Stiles, who was wearing the sweater, and saw the huge grin on his face.
Derek had known he and Stiles were mates for several years by that point, but it had always just felt like fate, something that would just happen. It was in that moment that he realised truly what them being mates meant. Stiles was laughing at Derek's downfall, and all Derek could think about was how hopelessly in love he was.
Once Stiles had gone missing, Derek had pilfered a few articles of clothing from Stiles' closet, including the sweater. Stiles' scent was the only thing that could help him sleep at night, keeping at bay the nightmares he'd started suffering from, in which he saw all manner of horrific things befalling his lost mate. He slept with a piece of Stiles' clothing in his hand every night, even after Stiles' embedded scent had faded from each and every one of them.
With a wan smile, Derek pulls the sweater over his head and selects a pair of grey sweatpants to complete his lazy ensemble. The sweater is snug on his larger frame, but he doesn't care. Having timed things perfectly, he is just exiting his bedroom when his buzzer goes off. His stomach growling in anticipation, he lets the delivery man into the building and waits for the knock on his door, and then, $35 later, Derek sits down on his black leather sofa in the living room and tucks in to his well-earned dinner, the TV playing some old movie in the background and several bottles of cool homemade beer waiting for him on the coffee table.
* * *
When the credits begin rolling, Derek is close to falling asleep, his stomach full and his mind fuzzy with wolfsbane-laced alcohol. Just as he slumps over on the sofa, his phone chimes from its place on the cushion next to him, startling him rudely back into wakefulness. Disgruntled, he reaches for the small device and peers blearily at the screen, his eyes rolling when he sees that it's yet another text from Laura. He'd gotten several of them throughout the day, like he had for the past four years when this horrible day rolled around.
Derek understands the reasoning behind it—she's just worried for him, after all—but it still annoys him to no end. The texts are usually worded carefully, asking how he's doing and whether he wants any company, but the new text is different. It's not gentle but harsh instead, and it contains a threat that's so Laura that it attenuates a little bit of his annoyance. Just a little. If he doesn't respond to her, which he hasn't all day, then she'll be storming over to his apartment to check up on him in person. Nothing sounds more unpleasant to Derek in that moment, so he hastily types out a quick response and hits send, hoping that it'll be enough to dissuade his sister from invading his privacy when what he wants is to be alone.
I'm fine. I'll talk to you in the morning.
He doesn't wait to see what she texts back.
His eyes still drooping, Derek decides to turn in early. He leaves the empty containers of Chinese food on the coffee table to deal with tomorrow and heads into his bathroom, listlessly brushing his teeth and then falling down onto his bed without bothering to undress or even pull back the covers. He's out within a couple of minutes.
* * *
- The Present: Tuesday, January 26th, 2016 -
It's just a few hours later when Derek jerks awake to a noise, his alert eyes trailing over his dark bedroom in search of its source. Nothing seems out of place, and when the noise repeats itself it sounds distant, like it's coming from outside. His second-storey window is open, flooding the room with cold air, and for the first time Derek realises he's shivering. Getting up, he pads over to the window and opens it wider to stick his head outside, but he doesn't see anything when he looks down into the alley below—it's too dark. Just as he pulls himself back inside and goes to shut the window, he hears the sound for a third time and identifies it as a low groaning.
Probably just an errant drunk, Derek thinks, his hackles lowering as he walks through his apartment to his front door. On his way out he briefly considers grabbing his gun from where it hangs in its holster on the wall, but in the end he foregoes it. He should expect the unexpected, sure—the disturbance might not be something as innocent as a drunk civilian, after all—but if he needs to defend himself he always has his claws.
His well-honed instincts automatically kicking in, Derek unlocks and opens his door and steps out into the empty hallway. Everyone else on his floor seems to still be sleeping peacefully, a good thing because it'll make dealing with whoever is outside that much easier. He makes his way down the hall and down the stairs to the ground floor, past the mailboxes and elevator and over to the entrance. The foyer is well-lit, so Derek can't see anything through the large glass doors but a gaping maw of blackness until he pushes his way through them. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, for the dim light provided by the street lamps to do their job, and when he can see he moves slowly and silently around to the side of the building, where his bedroom window is. The dark alleyway usually contains nothing but a couple of old, barely used dumpsters and a rusted fire escape.
But there, lying facedown in the middle of the narrow space, is a man.
The only features Derek can discern right away are his height—approximately the same as Derek himself—his svelte build, and his short brown hair. Something about him seems familiar, but Derek doesn't give himself time to try and pinpoint why. Because, when he steps closer to the seemingly unconscious man, he scents blood in the air.
It's reasonably fresh.
"Hello?" Derek calls, stopping right next to the man.
No response, but he can hear that the man's breathing is deep and even. Calm.
Just sleeping, then.
Crouching down, Derek reaches out and touches the stranger's shoulder, jostling him a little in hopes of waking him up. Again they don't respond. With a frown, Derek moves to roll him over onto his back, thinking that maybe they hit their head or something, their equilibrium hampered by drink. The fact that he can't smell any alcohol in the air doesn't even register to him because, when he sees the unconscious man's eerily pale face, his brain just stops working altogether.
* * *
Laura arrives at Derek's apartment building and barges inside, her worry for her brother speeding her footsteps. She'd received his call just ten short minutes ago, and her annoyance at her alone time with her husband being interrupted disappeared as soon as she heard how frantic he was. It wasn't like him to show such emotion, so much that she couldn't get anything out of him but a rushed, "Please, you have to come. I need to know if this is real."
So she dropped everything.
Running up the stairs to the first floor, Laura approaches Derek's door and pauses when she finds it already open. Again, this is uncharacteristic of her brother, who, because of his job and the fact that he has a firearm with him, is scrupulous about security. Cautiously, Laura pushes the door open fully and steps inside, calling Derek's name. She hears no movement, no noise at all, which only exacerbates her concern. Stepping through the entranceway, Laura peers into the kitchen and quickly moves on when she sees that it's empty. The living room is her next stop, where she finds Derek sitting on the coffee table, his hands clasped together and held to his mouth. His eyes are wide as he stares at something on the sofa, something that she can't see from her position in the hallway.
"Derek?" she repeats nervously. "What's going on?"
Her brother doesn't say anything for a moment, and then:
"Can you see him?" he asks, his voice quiet. "Tell me you see him, too."
"See who?"
Edging closer, Laura moves to stand next to her brother and get a better view of whatever he's staring at so unblinkingly. When she does, she understands why.
"Is that...?" she gasps.
He looks a lot different from the last time she saw him, yet he's still the same. His skin is pale and dotted with moles, his face is gaunt, he has dark bags beneath his closed eyes and there's a row of scars across his left cheek from what Laura suspects with a surge of rage were claws. There's a small gash on his forehead, scabbed over, and his brown hair is matted with blood. His clothes look relatively new but are incredibly dirty.
"You see him, too, right? This isn't a dream?"
The questions snap Laura out of her daze, and she turns to her brother to find his eyes now on her. They're glassy, hopeful tears so close to spilling over that it breaks her heart. "Yes. I see him, too," she answers with a smile.
Derek kneels next to the sofa and places a hand on the unconscious man's chest.
"Stiles..."