Work Text:
"God, you're beautiful," Derek murmurs, in the red early morning light of day break. God, Stiles does. It pangs Derek a little bit sometimes. He knows he's attractive, he's been told it nearly his entire life. And his mom always used to tell him that he'd end up with someone just as beautiful as him- whether it was on the inside or outside- and that she'd give him beautiful grandchildren. He has given her a beautiful grandchild, though she never got to meet her.
He'd thought it was Jennifer. He honestly had. There had been a love between them, something small and kindling, a little candle flame that would flicker a little bit. Sometimes appear to be gone, fragile, but precious all the same. She was beautiful, she probably still is beautiful, though Derek hasn't seen her in a long time.
But Stiles?
He's a beauty in of himself. In the topaz light of the distant sun, as the room glints the barest shade of red from the pink sky of the horizon, Derek doesn't think he's ever seen someone more beautiful. Half asleep, one arm tucked under his head, the other curled under the blankets (he's hogged all of them, but Derek doesn't mind). Hair a soft, dark fluffy mess, bare chested and speckled with glitter, the gentle rise and fall of his sloped collar. Their love isn't a candle, it's a light and it's strong and warm and unstoppable.
His mother would be proud.
Stiles half smiles, and he smells so warm and contented, and they've been dating for about ten months, and there's only two more until Derek will propose. On their anniversary. He is a hopeless romantic, after all. The fairy stretches, eyelashes fluttering and lips parting. He looks sanguine and ethereal, and then he's squinting.
"Ugh. It's like...early."
Derek snorts. He wraps a large arm around the small of Stiles' back and drags him across the bed- or rather the few centimetres between them, until their bare torsos are pressed together. He kisses Stiles' nose. "I just said you were beautiful."
"Yeah, and that's sweet, but did you have to do it at-" Stiles peeks over Derek's shoulder, at the clock "-7:15am?" He flops back into the pillows, reaching up a pale hand to caress the underside of Derek's jaw. "You're smokin'. You're...the physical manifestation of greasy bacon in a sandwich." Derek can practically hear Stiles' mouth water, and he clips him lovingly behind the ear. "I did not wake up to suffer this kind of abuse." He mutters, nuzzling into Derek's chest. "Make me breakfast!"
"You want bacon, don't you?" Derek asks knowingly, and Stiles makes a muffled response into Derek's skin. "We don't have any bacon, because you said that all you needed to be happy were Lucky Charms, remember?" He coaxes Stiles back, so he can see his face, and Stiles huffs.
"I love Lucky Charms, it's just you got me thinking about bacon." Stiles pouts, and gold swirls along his cheeks.
Derek flusters. "That's not fair!" He huffs.
Stiles laughs, and the gold swirls fade. "You love it."
The werewolf rolls his eyes and clambers out of bed in search for a shirt. "Why do you even have that ability? Gold swirls?"
Stiles shrugs, stretching into the warm spot that Derek's left on the mattress. "I don't know much but I think it's something along the lines of a sugar cane drought? Whatever it was, it meant that in order to survive, fae had to make themselves known to children, to get their fix of sugar. Kids are much more amicable to the gold swirls, make us look extra sparkly or something. Natural selection, the fae who could do it survived."
"Huh." Derek shimmies into his favourite henley, pushing his thumbs through the worn holes. He looks thoughtful for a moment. "How many of those fairy stories are true?"
"They all stem from a truth, but they get really distorted, I s'pose," Stiles murmurs "like how many werewolf stories would you say were true? Little Red Riding Hood does not make you guys look good."
"Tell me about it," Derek grumbled "Poor Izzy cried for a week. How come fairies get all the good stories?"
"Please! If anyone's getting good credit it's mermaids and unicorns, when in actuality they are vicious murderers!"
Derek tosses Stiles the remote fondly, and slips on his shoes. Stiles blows him a loud kiss goodbye, and then Derek's down the stairs and out the door. The rosebush by the front porch smells just as sweet and strong as ever in the early morning light. It's quiet and there's no breeze as Derek heads, in his pyjamas (the things you do for love), to the nearest store that he knows will be open at this time. There's no one else around, and the owner is still stocking shelves and has to jog over to the cash register when she sees Derek waiting.
"Never too early for bacon, huh?" She asks in a sweet voice, and Derek nods.
He buys a few sticks of beef jerky for Izzy, too.
However, when he gets back in, after tossing his keys on the counter, it doesn't smell right.
No more contentment, no more warmth, in fact, aside from the soothing snores of Isabella, nothing seems okay.
Derek rushes upstairs, and is immediately stricken; carrier bag falling with a soft oomph onto the ground.
Stiles is crying.
He can't process- he doesn't- he clambers over to Stiles a little awkwardly, worried "Baby," he whispers "baby, what's wrong?" his voice is desperate and a little bit afraid, but Stiles won't look at him. His eyes are on the television. Derek follows the stare a little hesitantly, prepared for the worst.
"...and the bodies of Sarah and Matthew Brewston were pulled from the wreckage last night. Police officials finally had the answers for those poor family members, only it wasn't the answers that they'd wanted. Isn't that tragic, Mark?"
"Oh absolutely, Lisa. The accident took place on the edge of Morey Road, near Strute County on the edge of Beacon Hills. The couple, both aged twenty-one, were found dead by the police at around nine pm last night after losing control of their car on a patch of ice..."
Derek stares uncomprehendingly at the images on screen. It's a loving couple, smiling and hugging, superimposed over footage of a car being towed out of a ravine.
He looks at Stiles, whose head is buried in his knees.
"Did you..." Derek swallows hard, hand hovering above Stiles' back "baby, did you know them?"
Stiles shakes his head. He's not wailing, but he reeks of sadness and grief. There's self-loathing, Derek's familiar with that scent, and he just doesn't understand.
"I don't- baby, I don't get it," he murmurs, grabbing the remote and turning the television off. Stiles' fingers were slack around it, and Derek holds them tight in his free hand. "Please talk to me, let me help- I don't- what's wrong?" He can't stand this, can't stand the not knowing and being unable to make it better.
Stiles looks up from his knees, and his cheeks are tracked with tears; wet and sore looking. "I did that, Derek." He whispers, and he sounds so broken. Derek just stares, hating himself for not understanding. "Don't you see? I did that! That's my jurisdiction! I was responsible for the weather there- I was- I was receding the ice from the cold spout from a few weeks ago, but I was receding it slowly because I thought- what's the harm?" He gives a short, ugly manic laugh. "They skidded, Derek! They were twenty-one! I- I-" he's crying again, voice breaking and Derek gets it now.
"Stiles," he whispers, clutching his boyfriend close. "You didn't do this. This isn't your fault, it was an accident." Derek's heart is hammering, and he wraps himself around Stiles, as if he can hold him together. This isn't Stiles' fault, he knows that. At least not purposely. "It could have been a million things. They were going too fast, or the break suspension wasn't strong enough, or their tyres were worn- or they just weren't focusing or their headlights weren't on. A small patch of ice on the road- it's not your fault, sweetheart."
Stiles doesn't stop crying, he just keeps shaking in Derek's arms.
After a while, there's a knock at the door.
Derek can smell that it's the Sheriff before he even steps up the porch. He gently disentangles himself from Stiles, and eases off the bed. The fairy's quiet now, mostly, hiccuping and staring blankly ahead at the black television. "I'm gonna get the door, Stiles, baby, okay?" Derek whispers, kicking aside the bag of bacon, and rushing downstairs. It's almost 8:30am, and the Sheriff looks like he's only just woken up.
He takes one look at Derek, and sighs. "Hell," he mutters "I'd hoped he hadn't seen it."
"He's devastated." Derek whines, as the Sheriff steps inside. He's in his pyjama bottoms but with his Sheriff coat on. "Has this ever happened before?"
"Once." The Sheriff nodded "We went on holiday and the residing fae was keeping it really cold, so Stiles decided to battle her- she was only half fae, and he made it sweltering hot. An elderly gentlemen fell asleep outside and he died of heat stroke. It broke him. He wouldn't have been able to cope if it weren't for Scott."
"Scott?" Derek manages, Stiles talks about him all the time but Derek's yet to meet him. "What did Scott do?"
The Sheriff rubbed his upper-lip, sighing again. "Scott's had a tough life. When he was still learning how to control his wolf he- well, on a full moon he accidentally hurt his girlfriend. She died, and...well, he managed to forgive himself. She forgave him, on her death bed, and it took a long time, but he managed to forgive himself too. He helped Stiles."
Derek has to restrain his wolf from howling in grief. He knows how difficult it can be. He has a new found respect for Scott, for coping, for carrying on. "Do we get him here? Do we call-"
"Dad." Comes a raw, scratchy voice, and they both look to see Stiles standing on the stairs. Still shirtless, red eyed and exhausted. "Dad." He says again, when no one moves, and his voice hitches on the a, and the Sheriff moves instinctively, and Stiles collapses into his arms, sobbing afresh. "I'm sorry," he's whispering, weeping into his dad's arms. "I'm sorry."
John holds him fiercely, hand firm on the back of his son's head. "This isn't your fault." He whispers, voice stern. "You cannot blame yourself for this."
Derek suddenly feels like an intruder in his own home, and he lingers in the kitchen, unsure of what to do, until John mouths at him to make some hot chocolate. He sets about doing it busily, giving it his full attention so they can have some privacy. But he can't help and overhear.
"When's the last time you spoke to Scott?" John asks, cupping Stiles' jaw. Stiles shrugs, but John repeats the question; harsher this time. Trying to get through the cloud of abject sorrow.
"I dunno, dad," he whispers "he's been busy with stuff. There's a kanima in New York."
The Sheriff nods "go drink hot chocolate."
"I don't want any-"
"Go and drink it."
Stiles slinks into the kitchen, and Derek hands him a warm mug. Stiles doesn't make eye contact with him, but sits at the kitchen table and sips it slowly. Derek watches as John gets his phone out and starts dialling. He calls a woman called Melissa, whose name Derek faintly recognises, and then he's dialling Scott. He moves into the living room, talking in a hushed voice and Derek guesses he's explaining the situation. He reaches over and touches Stiles' hand. "Stiles?" He whispers, and Stiles swallows hard, staring at the table, but turning his head a little towards Derek's. "You can talk to me, you know that."
Stiles scoffs, turning his head away. "No, I can't, Mr Perfect-"
"I am not perfect." Derek presses, ignoring the venom. "I am flawed, just like we all are. Okay? I'm sorry this happened but death is a part of life. It's natural, it's inevitable, it's-"
"My fault." He finishes listlessly, and then the Sheriff is back in the room, holding the phone out. Stiles looks like he won't take it for a moment, but his dad gives him a no-nonsense stare that has his clammy fingers grasping it weakly and pressing it to his ear. Derek recognises Scott's voice, knows a fair amount about the other Alpha, but he's never heard Scott sound like this. "Scotty?" Stiles whispers
"Her name was Alison." Comes Scott's voice, and Stiles chokes back fresh tears.
"Scotty," he whispers again, and he's holding the phone tight to his ear now, eyes closed and fingers white-knuckled. The Sheriff looks away, blinking back his own tears and Derek stares at Stiles in wrought awe and agony at his care and pain. "I messed up, bro. I messed up bad."
"Who doesn't mess up?" Scott manages, he sounds a little watery-eyed, but Derek can hear the smile in his voice and he knows that Stiles can too. "We all mess up, because in spite of being supernatural, we're human too."
"Do you know?" Stiles asks, rubbing his forehead and looking beyond fatigued. "They were so young-"
"I know. I also know that death happens whether or not anyone has any part in it. It could have happened any time, Stiles, it's not your fault-"
"I wish people would stop saying that!" He snaps, breathing heavily, and Derek winces, but Scott barrels on:
"Do you know how many times I wished that about Alison? But I had to hear it. I needed to hear it, because even though I wasn't listening, it was still going in. Stiles, you're my brother, and if this was your fault you know I would tell you. But it wasn't. It was some ice on the road, and it sucks but it's not your fault. You can't think like that, man. No wallowing. You've got to- you've got to do what Deaton says and right the balance. Make it right to yourself. Mourn for them. Go to their grave like you did with Alison- make them the flowers you made her."
Stiles is shaking a little less now, but his eyes are still closed. "I still make her those flowers. On her birthday. I don't know if you still go to the grave-"
"I do. I see them. She would've loved them."
Stiles manages a small, weak smile. "Did you see the yellow-"
"-ridiculous daisy in the middle of the bouquet last year? Yes I did. She'd have hated that."
"She hated yellow." Stiles laughs, and it's a little wet and a little choked up but its there. "I miss you."
"I miss you. Things have been nearly impossible here but that's no excuse. I'll see you really soon. But Stiles, you can do this. Make it right to yourself. However you have to."
Stiles nods, resolutely "I will."
He stops crying after that, but he still perfumes grief around the house. Isabella doesn't understand it, but John just takes her out for ice cream before she can start asking too many questions. Derek takes to wordlessly helping Stiles find out information about the two people; where they live and who to contact for funeral arrangements. They don't talk much, but a few times, the pads of Stiles' fingers touch Derek's forearm, in wordless gratitude, and Derek smiles softly.
The funerals happen fairly quickly, and are a traditional but sombre affair. Everyone's attired in black; Stiles makes it a grizzly, rainy day, and he leaves the most intricate, beautiful, colour laden wreaths that Derek has ever seen on their two graves.
They're one of the last two to leave, hands clasped in front of them staring at the grey slabs of stone under the dim sky. Derek thinks about his parents.
They're tombstones had been solid granite, black with gold engravings, and he and Laura had stood just like this in front of them. Peter had left half way through the service- unable to cope. They'd talked about heaven, and Derek's pretty sure they're up there. His mom and his dad looking down; happy. The grass around Derek's feet starts growing longer, hooking him into the soil just a little, and he touches Stiles' arm to bring him back to the present. The grass recedes and Stiles swallows thickly "I thought this would make it right, but I don't feel right."
Derek nods, doesn't try to correct him or offer an answer. "It'll come to you." He says instead, "whatever you need to do, it'll come to you."
The answer doesn't come for a few days, and those few days are tough.
Isabella is one of the few things that can put a smile on Stiles' face, but far too often those smiles seem forced. He spends most nights in his own house, without Derek, but he's always there in the morning. He doesn't like to talk about it, and he always smells like the cemetery, so Derek figures he's still going there. There are still bright, blooming flowers in the garden, and Izzy still parades around the house with buttercups and daffodils in her hair, but the weather remains grizzly. The skies sad and despondent, but not strong enough for substantial rain.
Derek knows that Stiles is in a delicate place, and he's trying to be as careful as he can around him. Izzy knows that something's off, but Stiles just kisses her cheek and conjures up snowflakes until she gets distracted.
Which is why Derek knows that what's about to happen now is very bad.
But Stiles had offered to pick him up from the gym, and it was such a little opening, a small offering, an extension of him coming out of his shell that Derek had leapt at the chance unthinkingly. Because today was a Thursday, which meant that Brett was going to be finishing up a personal training session, just as Stiles walked in. Derek waves at his boyfriend, who gives him a small smile back. It looks genuine, but his eyes are still touched with sadness.
"Derek! I just had the most wicked sesh." Brett cajoles loudly, flexing his not insubstantial arms in front of Derek. Stiles pauses on his way to them, but then continues coming, frowning. Shit, Derek thinks. Shit. "Come on man, give them a feel, I'm moving up a weight class for sure-"
"Brett," Derek cuts him off, swallowing thickly. "This is my boyfriend; Stiles."
Brett barely gives Stiles a look, eyes on Derek. "I was thinking we should maybe move up my training schedule? Around four or five times a week instead of two, you know? I'm really feeling it lately."
"Uh, maybe," Derek manages politely, hooking an arm around Stiles' waist, where his boyfriend is standing stiff and statuesque, staring right at Brett. "But we're just leaving now, so-"
Brett's eyes finally land on Stiles and take him in, and he laughs loudly. "Dude, your boyfriend doesn't go to the gym?! I so did not see that coming." He chuckles, smile too wide and slicing his face. "Does it bother you that Derek's so intense about his body, when you're like...not?"
Stiles is trembling, vibrating with anger, and Derek holds him tighter. "Listen Brett, we're leaving-"
"You think that because you've got muscle that you stand a chance?" Stiles hisses, and Brett blinks in surprise at the pure venom in his voice. "Listen to me you douchebag, every guy in here has a fantastic body, and you are nothing special. Derek will never think you're anything special, and you'll have to just go and live alone for the rest of your days before you find a dude with such low self esteem that they'll take your ratty ass in-"
"Stiles," Derek pleads into his ear, tugging him away "let's go-"
"Your boyfriend is a total psycho." Brett murmurs, and Derek catches Stiles' fist just as it flies towards Brett's face. Brett's mouth closes with an audible thwack, and he wanders away, shooting them suspicious looks.
"Let's go," Derek whispers, and tows Stiles out of the gym.
It makes for an awkward drive home. "Does he always flirt with you?" Stiles asks tersely, as they sit in the Jeep in slow moving traffic. Derek sighs. He knows that Stiles can get jealous, but he isn't the accusational type. Not usually. "You've never mentioned him before but he certainly seemed to know who you were."
The werewolf touches Stiles' knee gently "his name's Brett and he's an idiot who thinks that because he benches it means we should be together. He's annoying and he's nothing compared to you."
Stiles hums and doesn't talk anymore, but when they get home, Stiles stays the night, and Derek thinks that constitutes as a win.
And then the answer comes.
The day comes.
That's the funny thing about answers though, they never come in the way you think they will. They're rarely that epiphany or lightbulb moment where your friend says something that triggers all the answers. Sometimes they come in packages that are surprising and a little bit terrifying.
So yes, the day comes. Or rather, the night.
Derek and Isabella are on their full moon run, fully shifted and playfully nipping at each others heels when they hear a scream. Derek sniffs the air, and Isabella whines, her shaggy brown coat damp with the wet night air. They follow the sound carefully, before they come across the creek. Or what is typically a creek, a dam must have burst north of the river, because now it's gushing water, and- Derek scents- there's a boy down there. A little boy. He's screaming.
Isabella shifts with fright, shivering in the night air. "That's a boy, daddy!" She cries, and she looks distraught. She looks ready to dive into the water, and Derek shoves her back with his snout. It's far too strong, the current, they would never make it. He howls once, loudly, purely instinct because Stiles is pack, but Stiles won't be able to hear them. Izzy looks like she understands, and she's already clambering down the rocky slope in spite of Derek's growling protests.
"Go get Stiles!" She orders "I won't go in the water- I just want him to know he'll be okay!"
Derek races back, running faster than he has in a long time.
Stiles is working on his Jeep, which shaves off precious seconds, for Derek to growl until Stiles is on his back, and sprint through the forest.
They get to the lower end of the rushing river, where the little boy is perched upon a sharp, jutting stone bang in the centre. Isabella is naked, hunched over in the darkness and calling reassuring things to him. He looks about five years old too, and Derek wonders what the hell he's doing out here. He shifts, and Stiles is panting as he takes in the scene. He heaves in the night air, his many frantic questions finally being answered.
"Okay," he whispers, nodding "okay." He takes a few steps into the water and Derek yanks on his arm harshly.
"What the hell are you doing?" He hisses protectively, unable to keep the wine out of his voice. "It's way too strong."
"I'm not going any farther." Stiles replies, voice calm and unwavering. It always is, in a crisis, Derek thinks distantly. Fondly. "Hey, hey! Can you hear me?!" The boy whips around at the sound of another voice, and yells in response. Stiles nods "Okay, okay," he takes a breath, and peers into the darkness. Derek can see just fine with his werewolf senses, but it must be nearly pitch black for Stiles and the boy. And then Stiles starts glowing. Pure, bright burning gold, and the boy and Isabella gasp. Stiles can see better now, and he takes another step into the gushing stream, till its at his knees and Derek grabs a hold of his hoodie, one foot in the water. It's freezing, and that's what Derek thinks. The wolf eyes Stiles worriedly, surely it's too cold? Isn't Stiles in pain?
There's a loud, ominous creaking sound.
Izzy and Derek meet each others eyes, and Derek wants her on this side of the stream, his senses conflicted and worried. There's another creak, and a terrible large moaning, splintering noise, before Derek realises that trees are falling. He peers into the distance, up north of the river, and sees two large trees wobbling in the still night air. They fall with a mighty crash, and it thuds through the ground in tremors.
And then the gushing slows.
It slows, and slows and slows till the deep stream is barely moving at all.
The trees are acting as the dam- Stiles is a genius, Derek manages a shaky laugh and goes to swim for the kid, but Stiles has a hand on his arm.
"No." He whispers, eyes wide in the dark, in spite of his warm glow. "I have to do this." His face is solid, determined, and there's a glint to his look that Derek can't argue with.
And he plunges into the water.
"Stiles!" Izzy cries, distraught, and Derek immediately sprints down the muddy slope, across the shallower part of the river to her, and collects her into his arms. "Daddy!" She says, shivering "Stiles!"
"He's gonna be okay," Derek whispers, eyes stuck fast on the water "he's gonna be okay." He repeats it like a mantra.
And then his head comes into view. He's- he's bobbing, but that's not possible because the water's got to be way too deep and way too cold- Derek realises with blessed relief that there's a new trail of dark, mossy algae and duckweed appearing in the water. Stiles is clutching at it, and it's pushing him in turn towards the rock. Derek and Izzy watch as Stiles glows brighter when the boy takes his hand. "Walk across the algae." Stiles whispers, "don't come in the water. It's strong enough, come on, don't worry," and the little boy takes a cautious step onto it, and sinks merely a few centimetres down. Stiles holds his hand, swimming along beside him.
The duckweed and algae is strong, with thick, thick roots that Derek suspects aren't natural and are going down much deeper than they ought to. The algae is soft, and alive, strong and urging. Responding to Stiles' touch eagerly. They get to the other side of the bank, and Derek scoops Izzy up and rushes them back over.
The boy is tucked into Stiles' arms. He looks in awe at him, and tucks further into Stiles' chest despite his drenched, freezing clothes.
"Stiles," Derek tries, attempting to take the boy. "You're going to freeze. We have to get back."
Stiles is shivering and coughing up bits of water.
Izzy tugs on Derek's arm, to show him where twigs are sprouting from a nearby tree.
"They're easy to burn." Stiles hiccups "for a little fire." He shoots Isabella a grateful smile.
And that's how the four of them end up crouched around the fire. Derek's wearing some shorts made out of leaves that Stiles had fashioned, and the little boy- Zack, is dry and nestled into his warmth. Stiles is still in his dry clothes, but he's heating up, having shed his thick hoodie and shoes, and sitting near the fire. Isabella is in a dress of flowers and maybells and she's chatting away quite happily to Zack.
"Are you a pixie?' Zack asks, and Stiles jerks a little.
"A pixie?!" He exclaims, as if the idea is ludicrous, and its the most alive Derek has heard him sound in a long time. He laughs, part disbelief, part hysteria, part relief, and Derek laughs too. Loudly into the moonlight. Stiles chuckles, before nodding with a huge smile on his face, "sure kid. I'm a pixie. You can't tell anyone though." He waggles a warning finger.
"I won't." The boy whispers, and he turns to Izzy. "Your dad's a pixie." He whispers "that's so cool!"
Izzy grins, and pushes a dead leaf into the fire "I know!"
Zack confirms that he's five years old, but he looks so much smaller than Izzy when he's out of the water, or maybe Izzy's just quite grown up. They find out where he lives, and they get him home. The mother only lives a few minutes away, and was hysterically grateful to have her son back, unaware that he'd crawled out through the dog flap to go exploring in the forest. The little boy just smiles in his mother's grip as she berates him and bestows him with kisses in equal measure.
And that's the answer.
Stiles is better after that, becomes himself again.
He's made it right.
Derek smiles to himself as he fries the bacon in the pan, and watches through the open window as Isabella describes the many, many, many ballgowns she wants made out of flowers.