Chapter Text
___ONE MONTH LATER___
The sky shines clear blue as Derek stares up at the mansion.
His eyes wander up, up, over the rafters and blackened door, the weathered porch, the window to Cora's bedroom, the spot on the roof where his kite got stuck in third grade, the balcony where he and Laura used to hide when they were in trouble, the place his dad used to barbecue by the garage, and the patch of dirt where his mother's sunflowers used to turn towards the sun.
Sometimes they would gather in the living room and tell ghost stories when the power went out, and later Cora's tiny footsteps would wander into his room at night and crawl into bed with him. He remembers peeling corners of the upstairs bathroom wallpaper while waiting for the shower to grow hot, the scolding his mother gave him about it two weeks later, how Laura would leave the couch pillows askew just to annoy him, and the same pillows being used as protective padding the time his dad insisted on showing him how to ride a bike.
When he was little his dad used to tease him about being too short to see out the kitchen window, or pick plums from the tree that used to grow by the garden hose. In June the air would fill with burnt rubber from the circles Laura would drive in the clearing when their parents went on vacation, July reeked of sweat the one time the air conditioning broke, and August knew no scent better than hot dogs on the grill. One summer his dad painted the whole exterior of the house blue, and three days later his mom painted yellow over it, a color no longer visible beneath the rotting wood.
A hand slips into his. Red sneakers squeak against the leaves at their feet. The hand squeezes.
"You ready?" Stiles asks.
Derek nods. "Yeah."
"Cool." Stiles holds up two fingers. "Peace out, Hale house."
As a final goodbye Derek smiles faintly at the mansion, thanking it for the years it served as his home, and asking for good luck as he steps towards his new one.
The Camaro is parked behind him, packed with the last of the boxes. Stiles's jeep already at the loft— they had enough money to buy the whole building, but it was a mutual decision to just sign for one floor, third stop on the elevator with a view of the town stretched out before the living room. In the mornings, the sunrise will shine through the window over the kitchen sink. In the evenings, John Stilinski's small couch will serve throne to any movie night or study session. The floors are plushly carpeted so footsteps will lack the lonely echo they had on hardwood, and the only smell of smoke will be from when Stiles ultimately burns pancakes.
"Remind me again why we aren't stopping for breakfast burritos?" Stiles yawns as he clicks his seatbelt.
"Because everyone's bringing food. And you ate one an hour ago."
Derek double checks his pockets for the keys, almost disappointed that he didn't forget them inside the house. His hands sit like stones on the wheel.
"Hey," Stiles says lightly beside him. "If you need another minute, that's fine."
Derek considers it, replays the way he triple and quadruple checked all thirty-seven rooms for items he forgot to pack, running lingering fingers along every wall, memorizing doorways he'd already memorized, but he knows a million minutes still wouldn't be enough. He reminds himself of the illusion lying in the walls— he ate dinner with his family in the house, but the house isn't his family.
"Let's go," he says, and the engine roars to life.
"That's fine too," Stiles grins.
They pull out of the driveway and into the forest. The weeds guarding the porch flap in the breeze, almost as if waving goodbye, and Stiles revs the radio up and the windows down. Derek doesn't look back.
"So if we have four floors of neighbors now, what are the odds that someone is going to own a cat?"
"Hopefully none."
"A kitten? Just promise me you won't try to eat it."
Derek wrinkles his nose. "Very little protein."
"Don't even kid! By the way, Allison and Lydia have dibs on decorating the guest room. I think they just want to make it a secret girl cave where they can have fashion shows and spill nail polish everywhere, or pull out yearbooks and rate everyone according to hotness, intelligence, and personality. Although in fairness, I'd probably join in the last one."
"Good, one less thing I need to keep an eye on," Derek mutters. "I'll consider today a success if nothing blows up and less than six things get broken. Get your feet off the dashboard."
"Dude, chill," Stiles grins behind his sunglasses and flops his foot down. "Melissa's coming too, remember? When I was eleven, Scott, Scott's grandpa, me, and my dad all got sick with the flu on Christmas, and she managed to take care of us all while cooking dinner for twelve and juggling a shift at the hospital. The roasted turkey was amazing. Well, before I threw it up at least. Still. A plus bird."
Derek grunts.
Three weeks ago the first supernatural creature of the year popped up —a troll, even uglier than the dolls— that tore up half the woods and covered all the trees with blue snot. Just a baby, apparently, but one with a severe allergy to trees. Chris Argent called Deaton, and Deaton called Derek and Scott, and then Derek told Stiles who immediately called Lydia. To Derek's surprise, Stiles had leapt up from the couch with a gleam in his eye and a cry of, "don't bother calling ghostbusters, we got this bitch!"
Stiles and Allison dropped a vile of sleeping powder on the troll from an overhead tree while Derek, Scott, and Isaac distracted it. Lydia provided snacks and clean towels afterwards (because snot), and Argent and his crew hauled the thing into the SUV to take it back to the mountains it escaped from. Somehow, it turned into three hours of hanging on the couch with snacks and Prada yipping at his heels while Isaac and Stiles fought over the remote.
Two weeks ago Melissa asked him to come over and help paint her kitchen. They peeled the wallpaper and taped the edges, and she tackled the walls while he rolled the ceiling since he had the height. She talked about what Scott was learning in school, he shared pieces of the languages he knew— soon it became digging into takeout at the table, blue paint streaked on their arms.
Last week, Stiles slowly ran his fingers through Derek's hair as they took a break from packing, sagging against the "kitchen" box together with a sigh. "We should go ice skating," Stiles had said. "What?" Derek had replied. "Ice skating. It's fun. We need a break," and the two of them grabbed their jackets and argued over how to work Siri until they found Ice Chalet on Cherry Boulevard. They got kicked out twenty minutes in because Stiles was using his blade to shave ice into snowballs and throw them at people.
And still, Derek still hasn't grasped that it all might mean family.
"Aw man, I can't wait 'till summer," Stiles sighs. "Everyone will be out of school, the beach will finally be warm and that weird old man will be out with his little ice cream cart that has the strawberry cheesecake bars that I can't find in any store anywhere. I think they might be illegal."
"Bunyip breeding season is in Summer. You might want to get a new bat by then," Derek points out.
"Oh, for sure. And bunyip bloodstains are really hard to get out, aren't they? Lydia was complaining about that last year. Better stock up on Oxy-Clean too."
The blinker clicks off as Derek turns onto Wysteria Street, the street of their new living space. He can see a few figures standing outside the loft building— Isaac's tall frame, Lydia's mane of red hair, Melissa leaning against the small moving van they hired for a few furniture items. A swell of nervous tingles rises in him, but his heart pulses warmly, too.
"Sweet, grab that parking spot right in front!" Stiles is already unbuckling his seatbelt, craning his neck out the window and waving wildly. He bangs his hand on a passing tree trunk and yipes.
"Stiles," Derek sighs.
"Stiles!"
"EEEeeeyyyyyyyy!" Stiles crows, leaping out of the car as Derek neatly glides parallel to the curb.
"Eeeeeeyyy, bro!" Scott crows back. Everyone else rolls eyes in unison.
"Whaddup, ladies and wolves! Stiles is in the hoouusee! Or, loft, yeah. It's actually a loft."
"Stiles. Lovely to see you, now if you could please open the door to the building, these heels really aren't meant to be on concrete," Lydia clucks, but hugs Stiles anyway. "Hello, Derek. New haircut? It suits you."
"Lyds, I can't believe you wore heels, you know we're on the third floor, right?"
"Elevators, Stiles," Allison says sweetly.
"Could be broken," Isaac proposes.
"Alright guys, I have a shift at three so let's be efficient about this. Girls, you help me with the boxes in my car, werewolves— get all the heavy stuff from the moving van," Melissa organizes, and pops her trunk. Inside are the items she saved back in January from the Stilinski house— photo albums, John's personal belongings, mementos from the attic. Allison and Lydia grab large plastic bags filled with what smells like enchiladas, potato salad, watermelon, and guacamole.
"The best thing about having werewolf friends is that we don't have to hire furniture movers," Stiles chirps.
"What's that?" Derek asks.
"Boom box," Isaac grins, hoisting it over a shoulder as he follows the group to the front entrance. "Borrowed it from Danny."
"I know what it is, I was talking about the crap inside." Derek shakes his head and plucks the Imagine Dragons CD out. "No."
"Alright, you be DJ then. Which box has your iPod?"
"Derek doesn't do iPods," Stiles explains as he unlocks the door to the loft. "There's a box labeled 'Looney Tunes' that has all his archaic CDs."
"What box am I holding?" Lydia raises an eyebrow at the labeled, 'Munchies' box in her hands.
"My snacks. Very important."
"So pens, straws, and hoodie strings," Isaac offers. Stiles glares at him.
"More like… Marshmallow fluff, Nutella, doritos, hostess cupcakes, red vines… Goldfish crackers?" Scott recites, and Derek gets the feeling the two of them have been living off it all for over a decade.
"Yep, you forgot Oreos. Double-stuffed, I don't play."
They all cram into the elevator— Lydia and Allison neatly tucked together, Scott grunting as he lifts the 'plates and stuff' box over his head, Isaac and Stiles smooshed against the door beside Melissa, and Derek with a ring of space around him as he presses the third button.
"Have you met your neighbors yet?" Melissa asks.
They have; Mr. and Mrs. Johnson on the first floor, who smell like soap and prunes and spent fifteen minutes telling Stiles and Derek all about their four grandchildren and their respective accomplishments, like getting potty trained and earning participation awards in soccer. Stiles thinks they might be ninety years old. Derek thinks its good because they probably won't make a lot of noise.
"Just the old people on the first floor, but I'm hoping that Ian McKellen is on the second, Bill Nye is on the fourth, and Bruce Wayne and Alfred have transformed the basement into the Bat Cave," Stiles supplies.
"Dude, or like, if The Rock was your neighbor!"
"Please Scott, he's in Hollywood. Don't be ridiculous."
"Isaac, honey, you're stepping on my foot."
"Sorry, Ms. McCall."
The elevator dings, and everyone grows silent as the parting doors reveal the loft.
"Ta-da!" Stiles jumps out and twirls around. Lydia steps out first, boots clacking as she surveys the room. Her nose swivels to the dust collected in the corners, the bare windows, outdated kitchen cabinets and utter lack of furniture. The room holds it's breath, until—
"It needs a thorough vacuuming, new paint, and those curtains must be burned immediately, but I think it will make a lovely new home," she decides, and Derek thinks he agrees. She turns wide eyes towards everyone. "Well, what are you all waiting for? You have my blessing, now go grab more boxes."
And the moving party commences.
The smell of enchiladas wafts throughout the floor as Melissa unpacks the food, dodging frisbee'd paper plates before shooing Scott and Stiles back down the elevator. Lydia perches atop the counter and directs the incoming furniture to different parts of the room, nodding approvingly when Allison whips a knife out of her pocket and stabs the curtains, slicing until the fabric falls in tatters to the floor.
The space slowly fills with little pieces of life— a couch, lamps, a coffee table, stacks of dishes in the kitchen, desks in the corners, towels in the bathroom. Each time Derek steps out of the elevator he stares at it all a little longer than last time, usually until Stiles claps him on the shoulder and says, "c'mmon, big guy, these boxes won't carry themselves."
Amongst the cargo are boxes of photo albums Derek inherited from the closets in Peter's empty apartment. Derek has only peeked at them in private so far, where his eyes can glimmer and drown in the images in secret, until he's ready to share them.
It becomes a race against Scott and Isaac to see who can nab the elevator first. Losers take the stairs, and the one time he and Stiles aren't quick enough, Stiles crashes into a man coming from the door to the second floor. Comic books launch through the air and skid across the floor, eliciting shrieks from both the man and Stiles, who dive to the floor.
"Grab the mint editions! For the love of God grab the mints and the Spidermans first! Jesus Christ—!"
"Shoot, I keep saying they should dust the stairwell more! I'm sorry for— wait a minute, you have Batman versus Superman: Age of Argon?"
"Yeah, dude!"
"And Wonder-Woman, the Wonder Years?" The man gasps, pushing up his glasses. "The one where Diana meets—"
"—Harleen Quinzel in the grocery store twenty minutes before they find out—"
"—That they're mortal enemies!" They yell in unison.
"Gee whiz, you wouldn't happen to be my new neighbor, would you?" The man cradles the comic books to his chest. He looks about in his early thirties, with pants too high and too many buttons buttoned on his shirt.
"Heck yeah, man, I'm Stiles, and this is Derek. Derek doesn't know much about the Marvel and DC worlds yet, but I'm educating him. If you're willing to lend me any editions of Spiderman printed between 1980 and 1986, you can totally borrow some of mine."
"Sweet! I'm Brian, nice to meet you," Brian chirps. He holds out a hand to shake, but Derek's too busy staring at the small, horrifying ball of fluff peeking around the doorframe—
"You have a kitten?" Stiles screams.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, meet snowball." Brian picks it up and strokes it. It stares at Derek with wide, hideous blue eyes. "I just got him a couple days ago, but he's kind of an escape artist, as you can see. I wouldn't be surprised if he wanders his way into your loft."
"No." Derek shuts that down.
"This is awesome," Stiles says gleefully.
"No," Derek says again.
"Want to hold him?" Brian offers.
"I'm allergic," Derek dodges.
"To cuteness," Stiles scoffs, and makes grabby hands. The thing mewls pathetically and Derek wrinkles his nose.
"You knooooww, if you ever need a cat-sitter, Derek and I can totally watch this little guy," Stiles croons. "I'm going back to school in the fall, but Derek is really good with animals. Really in-tune with them, you know? Almost like he's part animal." And before Derek can step on his foot—
"Wow, really? That would be great, but I thought you were allergic?" Brian looks at Derek. Derek glowers at Snowball.
"Between you and me, Brian? I don't think he'll sneeze as much as he wants you to believe," Stiles winks, and Derek drags him up the next flight of stairs before Brian can say 'gee, whiz' again.
No further incidents occur on the stairs— but in the kitchen a sea of enchilada sauce covers the floor.
"I-wanted-more-sauce-but-we-couldn't-find-the-can-opener-so-I-used-my-claws-and-it-exploded—" Scott gushes with wide eyes. Melissa shakes her head like she might as well have pushed out a potato seventeen years ago.
"Are those… The curtains?" Stiles asks.
"We also couldn't find the mop," Isaac explains, as Scott pushes the fabric around in the puddle.
"Derek, where are you going?"
"To get more boxes." He states the obvious, but Isaac touches his sleeve to corral him back.
"Dude, we grabbed the last of them while you and Stiles were making out on the stairs. Sit and eat."
Melissa shoves a plate in his hands as he looks to where Lydia and Allison are patting the couch between them. Isaac crouches before the TV, fiddling with the controls as Danny feeds him instructions over the phone, but it's the smaller details that entice a smile from him—a vase of fresh flowers glitters on the counter, and someone took a vacuum to the dusty corners.
"Okay," he says.
Five minutes later the cable is set up and Stiles manages to find a Mets game, although Lydia and Allison jabber over it, choosing instead to show Derek random photos on their phones. He learns that Prada has a favorite blanket, Lydia can't decide wether to order shoes "A" or "B", Allison can't decide wether to buy car "A" or "B," each girl has a gallery labeled "snapchat blackmail photos," Lydia's mom got a giant bouquet of balloons for her birthday, "look at this drawing I found in the hallway," and "here's a snake I found in our garden last week." Derek doesn't say much throughout the slideshow, but a new part of him appreciates it anyway.
"And this—" Lydia preens, flipping to a glittering red ensemble. "—is my prom dress!"
"Oh right, that's in a few weeks, right?" Stiles pipes up.
"Yeah, Allison's still on my ass about finding the right tie," Scott mumbles.
"Just pick one from the links I sent you, babe."
"Who'd you end up saying yes to, Lydia?"
"She had twenty-seven guys lined up to ask her just in the first hour after the theme was announced," Allison clues Derek in. "I had to help her carry all the roses to her car. One guy brought her a teddy-bear the size of Scott."
"It was atrociously ugly," Lydia picks an olive from her plate. "I used the stuffing to insulate a vase I shipped to my grandmother for her birthday. But to answer your question, Stiles, I didn't say yes to any of them."
"What?" Stiles tears his eyes from the TV to look at her. "Why?"
"They were all either dull as lead, assholes, or both," she quips. "Besides, I was going to ask Isaac."
Isaac chokes on the other side of the couch. Scott claps his back until a wad of half-chewed enchilada plops back onto his plate, and when his face calms from purple to red, he sputters out—
"What?"
Lydia swishes her hair over her shoulder. "Well, I suppose if you want to be official about it— Isaac, will you be my prom date? As friends, naturally."
The room watches Isaac swig his soda to buy some time. He looks utterly confused. "Um… But—"
"Isaac, you are much too sweet and valuable to spend prom night sitting at home alone playing video games because you think no girl will say yes to you, or because you think that you won't have any fun because you're too afraid to dance," Lydia sniffs.
"How did you— were you listening to our conversation?" Scott's eyebrows knit.
"I was breaking into Greenberg's locker for the Snickers he owes me, and locker rooms echo. But beside the point. I would be much happier with you on my arm than any other ignoramus that insists on asking me, so is that a yes?"
Isaac's eyes flick across the room, face pinkening until they land on Lydia's gentle, encouraging smile.
"Okay," he mumbles, and the room cheers. There's clapping and grinning and whooping, and the cheesiness of it all somehow it coaxes a smile on Derek's face, too. Stiles catches it and pecks a quick kiss there, sealing the moment with jalapeño lips.
An open conversation follows relaying all the latest prom gossip, and the rest of the enchiladas disappear as the sun sinks lower into the horizon. Boxes are stacked strategically in front of the window to keep the glare off the laptops Isaac and Stiles pull out, which are used by Lydia to scour IKEA and Allison to show Derek classmates on Facebook.
This morning Derek expected "moving party" to mean a few hours loading and unpacking everything, but with each passing minute spent watching Scott and Stiles roughhouse on the couch and learning to play Uno with Allison and Lydia, it's clear that the boxes will remain stacked in corners at least until tomorrow. As the Xbox controller is passed around in turns and Isaac sprinkles chip crumbs in his hair for fun, he wonders if he's finally experiencing the "hangout with friends" he always yearned for as a kid.
Friends— it's a word he used to dream about using, but now he needs two hands to count the ones he has.
"Whatcha' smiling about?" Stiles plops down beside him with a brownie.
Derek holds up six fingers.
"Let me guess— the number of times you've beaten Lydia so far?"
"He's only beaten me twice so far," Lydia clucks, as she moves her rook forward a few squares. "Check."
Derek moves his king back a space. "Soon to be three."
"I voted for Chinese Checkers," Allison says gloomily. "These two will play to the death, even if that's six decades from now."
"That would leave hardly any time for shopping," Lydia advances a pawn. "Which reminds me, would you two care to join us next Saturday at the new Hartford mall? Allison and I need swimsuits and I don't expect you two to keep wearing henleys and hoodies in the Summer."
"I'd have to check my very busy schedule, rearrange some things you know—"
"He'll come," Derek takes the pawn. "We'll come."
"Lovely. Checkmate," Lydia beams.
Things start winding down when the shadows spill longer across the floor, and people realize the brownies are gone amongst idly cracked knuckles. Leftovers are packed, monopoly pieces are collected from the corners of the room where they were thrown in frustration, and a surprising number of hugs are exchanged as people step into the elevator. Isaac promises to replace the monopoly pieces he threw out the window. Lydia gives them each a kiss on the cheek and says to call if they need any extra blankets or bathroom towels, she has plenty. He and Stiles are invited over to Scott's next week for Indian takeout and ultimate frisbee, a proposition that Derek is secretly looking forward to.
The loft is quiet but not empty as the doors close, leaving only him and Stiles in the center of their new beginning.
"Okay. Yeah, wow," Stiles whistles. "This is our loft now."
Derek skims his fingers over a support beam. He wonders if they might wrap tinsel around it for Christmas, or strings of holly.
“A Chubacca statue would look great in that corner. What do you think?” Stiles gestures.
“Do you really want that to be the first thing you see every morning?”
“Sure!”
“Or at two am when you get up in the dark for a glass of water?”
“Excellent point. How about a popcorn machine?"
Derek considers this. “Maybe."
Warm hands land on his shoulders, sliding comfortably behind his neck. Twinkling amber eyes smile as Derek’s arms slip around his waist.
“How you doing?” Stiles asks softly. It takes a second to remember what the word is, but—
“Happy,” he says.
Stiles beams, mirroring Derek's own expression. But a flicker of fear darts through Derek when Autumn comes to mind, which shows in the sudden creases on his forehead. Stiles sees it and cups his hands around Derek’s face, rubbing reassuring thumbs over the stubble there.
“Hey,” Stiles breathes, with his elvish lilt. "Listen. This is going to be the best Summer ever, with popsicles and flip flops and crappy West Coast ocean water. And when I go back to school in August— no hiding indoors by yourself, got it? You're a werewolf, not a hermit. I expect snapchats of all the fun you’re having outside while I'm slaving away trying to avoid getting hit by Mrs. Dankirk's spit flecks in the front row of Calculus. Lydia and I will set you up with an account, so decide now if you want your username to be ‘Grumpypants93, I_AM_THE_ALPHA, or AllHaleKingDerek. Don’t worry. You’ll have people, Derek. You already have six."
And with that he lands a gentle kiss on Derek’s nose and walks to the nearest box, labelled ‘Treasure,’ and pulls out his dad’s badge.
“Shall we start with the decorating?"
Derek approaches the box, selecting the pink rabbit inside. They carry them to the windowsill, a choice picked without needing to exchange a word, and place them side by side to watch the sunset. Fur and bronze shine gold together.
“They’ve got a pretty nice view, don’t you think?” Stiles muses.
Derek watches Beacon Hills sparkle below them, stretching from the emerald forest to the bustling downtown, to the small trees that once housed a protest. As the first lights of the evening flicker on in tiny yellow specks, he smells garlic bread from the restaurant down the street, soap from the laundromat, chili from the residents upstairs, wet cement from the construction site by the school, and the collective tang of life nearby. He can see trees like before, but they don’t block the panorama.
“Yeah."
But it’s the view behind him that he finds more interesting, so he loops his fingers into Stiles’s and turns around, drinking in the sight of what he now knows “a humble abode” to be. A space for sharing, for making dumb jokes and losing things in the laundry, for adventure and calamity, and boring Tuesdays. It’s barren but not empty, with buttercream walls ready for crooked nails and mismatched picture frames, bookshelves for filling with books out of order, cupboards for food for more than one person. The best part is that there’s no chandelier.
And for the first time, Derek isn't afraid of what the future lacks, but excited for what it holds.
“Welcome home, sourwolf.”
"She's pretty."
"Yeah, even when she got oreos caked in her teeth. Which happened a lot. My childhood was filled
with junk food, good times back then."
"This morning you spent an hour picking out all the marshmallows from the box of Lucky Charms so you
could have a bowl of 'Lucky Mallows' for breakfast."
"And it was delish. Man, I remember that pool. We pretty much lived in it during the summer since we had no air conditioning,
I swear you could hear a sound like velcro whenever someone's legs detached from a chair."
"You look exactly the same."
"You mean pasty, freckled, and adorable? Hell yeah."
"Are you at Baker Beach?"
"Maybe? We used to go there on weekends sometimes and I'd play soccer with dad on the field, and then my mom would
cover me with sand up to my neck on the beach. Wow, he really looks young here."
"This one, too."
"Oh… Yeah. Mom smiled up until the day she died. Ate ice cream every day, too."
"My dad loved ice cream, too. My mom used to yell at him because he always tried eating it straight from the carton with a spoon."
"Looks like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, then. Which reminds me, we need more cookies in cream— looks like someone
finished off the entire thing last night."
"I was hungry."
"So, how was school yesterday?"
"Terrible. How was poker with Argent yesterday?"
"Terrible."
"Yeah. First time I played him I lost everything in my wallet and my Nike sneakers."
"Dude, is he even your size?"
"Nah. He just puts them on the mantle whenever I go over to see Allison to remind me he has them."
"Kudos for being brave enough to date his daughter, bro."
"By the way, do you know what a Ketawaka-quetzel looks like? I couldn't find anything online so I substituted a picture of Jabba the hut."
"Oh! Here, try one of these before you go, Derek, I just finished icing them."
"Store-bought."
"Scott, I didn't raise you to be a snitch. Go ahead, Derek. I'll pack some for you to take home. Will I see
you at the 4th of July barbecue next Sunday?"
"Oh, I… I didn't know I was invited."
"Yeah, honey. You're part of the family now."
"Pass the matches, I dropped mine again!"
"Stiles, I swear to god. That was the last one."
"Hey, why can't any of you be were-dragons, huh? Then we wouldn't have this crisis on our hands!"
"Here, light it using mine—"
"Hurry, the fireworks are about to start!"
"Right, there are plenty of couches inside to hide under if you need them."
" Stiles."
"My sparkler's working! Yeah, baby!"
"Okay, what the hell. You're lying to me, this can't possibly be the first time you've ever played Mario-Kart!"
"You're just upset because you're last."
"Becuase somebody threw six freaking turtle shells at me! Jesus, slow down! Fall, fall!"
"Can we do Rainbow Road next?"
"Absolutely not."
"Honestly, Stiles. What's the point of going to the beach if you're just going to hide in the shade like a hermit crab?"
"Skin cancer, Lyds. It's a thing. Have you seen all the moles I already have?"
"So one of them will turn into cancer anyway. Try a tan, toast is better than bread."
"Nope, gonna stay doughy and white, thanks. You ready for school next week?"
"I'm always ready for anything. Are you ready?"
"Yeah."
"Hey Stilinski, nice to see you back."
"Thanks, Greenberg."
"Mmmmmoooohhhmigod. Cancel all my appointments, I'll be here eating this for the next three days."
"You'll miss lacrosse tryouts."
"True. Still, this is the best macaroni we've made. Actually, this is the best September 17th I've ever had."
"…On this beautiful day, to honor…"
"…The officer, father, and friend…"
"…Who served Beacon Hills for twenty-seven years, gifting his bravery, diligence, and loyalty…"
"…May this fountain invoke happiness and peace, just as he did."
"Derek, can I have the red back now?"
"No."
"You've had it forever!"
"Well, I'm still using it."
"Bilinski, welcome back. You look different. Did you get a haircut?"
"He got a hottie, coach."
"Shut up, Isaac. I got a haircut, coach."
"Greenberg, get your ass back on the field! Bilinski, you look very sharp. Now shut up and start throwing balls."
"Huh. Stiles is…"
"Terrible."
"Yeah. I thought he was exaggerating."
"Lacrosse? No, he and Scott really are the worst. But he's actually come a long way since last year— Ooh! That's gotta hurt."
"Hey."
"Oh, hey sweetie. How's— are you enjoying the party?"
"I brought you a box of kleenex. You've been standing over here for like ten minutes,
so I figured they were needed."
"Oh. I— Thank you Stiles."
"I used to get all leaky when I looked at these pictures too, but now I just laugh at how
high-waisted his pants were."
"They just about came up to his armpits, yes."
"You know what's funny, is that he was probably like, twenty-eight in this picture, but today he would
be turning fifty-six and his pants would still be as high."
"Absolutely. Higher, probably."
"Stiles, you know you don't have to wear your costume today, right? Halloween isn't until this weekend."
"I gotta break it in, Lydia. The best wookie is a flexible wookie."
"Well, you're shedding fur all over my pumpkin."
"I'm going to ask my dad for more knives, I feel like you're about to snap yours in half, Lydia."
"So, what's the verdict? And by the way there's only one right answer, don't disappoint me."
"I guess…"
"Yeeeeees?"
"The curly ones are better."
"Damn straight."
"Dude, why is there a hole in the back of your hoodie?"
"Derek, honey. Your gravy is amazing! Thanks for helping out, it's nice to have someone in the
kitchen who actually knows what they're doing."
"Scott doesn't really know his way around a cutting board, huh."
"Gosh, no. One time I had to cut up his shirt becuase he got the electric mixer stuck in it while making cookies."
"When Stiles first moved into the mansion, he nearly sliced his hand off cutting an onion."
"Jesus, that kid. Did he faint when he saw the blood?"
"Almost."
"John used to take him to me to get shots. Out like a light every time before the needle even touched his skin."
"Wow, she's beautiful."
"And her choice of dress is very forward for— what did you say? 1990?"
"Yeah."
"Oh! Derek, is that you? Look at those eyes— and your wolf friend!"
"What's it's name?"
"He doesn't have a name."
"Stiles knows, doesn't he?"
"Yeah. He took one sock from each of my pairs until I told him."
"That brat. Always be sure to have one of his comic books hostage in case you need to get something
out of him. He's particularly fond of Batman and Robin: Joker's—"
"—Revenge, 1984 edition? I caught him kissing it the other day, with a napkin between his lips and the cover so he wouldn't soil it."
"Well at least he was thinking ahead. Did you share that hot dog with your sister, Derek?"
"She stole a couple bites, I think."
"Good. Now let me have a couple bites of your pumpkin pie."
"Isn't Derek's birthday in a couple weeks?"
"Christmas Eve, yeah."
"Why didn't I get an invitation?"
"Oh— well I mean… I haven't planned anything yet? I've just been so busy with—"
"Stiles Stilinski, we absolutely need to plan something! Shame on you for putting
greater importance on finals than Derek."
"Well I was going to say busy with studying Druid magic to keep us all alive,
but sure. Y'all can come over next—"
"Nonsense, I'll have it at my house. It's bigger and it'll be easier to keep the whole thing a
surprise. Now, what is Derek's favorite cake flavor?"
"And what time will you bring him?"
"Six, Lydia, six! Is there a reason you've asked me three times already?"
"Because it's important, and we both know how slippery your focus is. I bet you're doing three things at once right now."
"For your information, I'm doing two. Ordering the cake, putting bullshit answers down for my history paper,
and talking to— that's, that's three, isn't it?"
"Yes. And what time will you bring him?"
" Six!"
"There you are, Derek!"
"What—?"
"Stand still, I'm giving you a birthday hug. I wore my tallest heels so I'd be able to reach."
"—Okay? Mm, yes, look at me, I'm Allison! Full of cheer and wonder with my little bow and arrow and my flirty dresses,
aren't I totes adorbs? Yeah, so shut up. And to think I came here and scalded my taste buds becuase you insisted I try a stupid
pumpkin spice latte of death. Which I repeat, is disgusting. It's sugar milk with cinnamon in a five dollar cup. And I will
personally go out and set fire to every Starbucks so you can never have one again if you ever repeat what you just saw.
Now, we came here to discuss the new additions to the Beastiary, so lets make like Nike and just do it."
"You totally keep a picture of Derek's butt in your wallet."
"Stiles, come on, I want the hat!"
"Uh, you see I would, but I'm currently Stiles Claus, so."
"All'hon, t'eese po'ha'hos 're amashing."
"Scott, don't talk with your mouth full."
"Don't worry, buddy. I'll translate. He says your potatoes are amazing, Allison."
"Actually, my dad made those."
"Allie, where is your dad?"
"Probably still sharpening his throwing knives to carve the rest of the ham."
"Mom, can I have some wine?"
"Sure, the minute you turn 21."
"But Lydia's drinking wine!"
"Lydia won the bet."
"What bet?"
"That Stiles would keep a spring of mistletoe in his pocket to hold over
Derek whenever he pleases."
"Lydia!"
"Stiles?"
"Check your pocket, sweetie. We all know it's there."
"You think it's sexy when I lick a spoon, don't you."
"Don't flatter yourself, Stiles."
"You think it's sexy when I lick a spoon, don't you."
"Yes."
"It's been a long year, dad. I miss you. I don't miss your snoring, though."
"But only my mom and I know your real name?"
"Well, now you, your mom, and Derek know my real name. Turns out it's not even that weird
compared to his middle name."
"No way, what's his middle name?"
"Nah. You'll have to ask him yourself."
"What, why?"
"Because. Are there any more red skittles in there?"
"Stiles, c'mmon dude, tell me!"
"No. Now give me the red skittles, I can see you hiding them in your palm. Also, I totally killed you there."
"Guess what."
"What."
"Chicken butt."
"Hey, you don't happen to know what year Abraham Lincoln got elected, do you?"
"…"
"Didn't think so."
"Can we go visit them today?"
"Of course."
"Are you ordering the usual tonight?"
"Nah, let's pick something special for our one year anniversary."
"No, like this. And if you want to be kosher about it, wiggle your fingers for potatoes, fries."
"Er, that's great, Derek... But what does this have to do with guns?"
"Fridge?"
"Yeah."
"Derek, we need to talk about something."
"…"
"No, no, don't give me that eyebrow of doom. I mean it, this is important. So listen up, fuzzbutt.
It deeply disturbs me how you eat Oreos."
"…How I eat Oreos."
"Yes! God, you don't even know, do you? You just bite into them whole like a savage. And look, I get that savagery is kind of
your thing, being a werewolf and all, but Oreos, man. That's just barbaric, biting into them like you would a regular cookie."
"What's wrong with that."
"Well for starters, you have no tactic. Take it from me, a professional Oreo-ologist. My personal approach
is to twist the cookie counter-clockwise, so you split the creme perfectly on one half. You following me here?"
"Mm."
"Good, I'm educating you. Next, you dip the plain chocolate half into some milk— the milk is very important.
So once you eat that half, then you get to savor the creme half for last, so the flavor lasts on your tastebuds after it's gone. Smart, right?"
"Very smart."
"Don't mock me. You're mocking me, I can feel it."
"Stiles."
"What."
"Shhh."
"Closer, gentlemen, closer."
"Isaac's practically on top of me!"
"I bet you like that, huh Scott."
"Shut up, Stiles. Are you posting this on Facebook?"
"Facebook is archaic now. This is going on Instagram."
"I thought we were going to go on rides, not take pictures. Come on, I want a corn dog."
"Alright everyone— smile!"
Sometimes there are rainy days.
Sometimes clouds blanket the sky for an entire winter.
It's cold enough that even extra socks and good coffee can't remedy the chill.
And so quiet that even favorite bands can't fill the silence.
Questions are thrown at the sky: "How does it get better than this?"
It seems like Summer was ten years ago.
Twenty, even.
But rain can't reach inside a cozy house—
Clouds can't be seen inside a movie theatre.
It's cold; a hug will do.
It's quiet; sometimes whispers are louder than concerts.
Caps are thrown at the sky.
"He would've been proud of you, kiddo."
"I know he is."
It seems like winter was ten years ago.
Twenty, even.
Because Home isn't where you live
It's the memories you make there
Made there
And with whom you make new ones.
