Work Text:
It’s said that when you leave a place, it stays frozen in your mind exactly how you left it. In your head, the same people live there; the same businesses line the streets; the neighborhoods never change.
Beacon Hills doesn’t seem different - not on the surface, anyway. Sure, the cars are newer, there are a few more restaurant chains than Derek remembers and you have to drive a little further to reach the town’s outer limits… but it’s progress. Healthy progress. It’s good.
It’s not really a public event when he moves back. Part of Derek is a little surprised, but grateful for it. He’s greeted with a casserole not even an hour after he’s started unloading the U-haul, Lila unhelpfully running circles around his shins in large, clumsy bounds. It makes him feel a little guilty for having her cooped up on the journey here. Guilty he never made it to the park enough when they were in San Francisco. She’s all coiled energy and lolling tongue - inherently happy as all labs seem to be. She looks free.
There’s a six-pack after that. A couple of kids hang out by the mailbox on their way to wherever and ask curious questions. The harried mother-of-two next door offers her wi-fi password until he gets everything hooked up, and at least four people he’s never met before wave as they pass. It’s nice. Not smothering, just— he feels welcome.
He could have technically rebuilt the old house, but Derek’s been living in cities so long he’s not sure what he would do with himself so far out into the preserve. His friends used to joke that he’s a closet mountain-man - could spend his life whittling furniture on some old porch and talking to squirrels - but everything that wasn’t their pseudo-hipster, city kid brand of snobbery seemed small-town to them. Derek just never bought into it beyond craft beers and accidental perma-stubble.
Besides, the old house would be too big. Lila doesn’t need her own room - she just sprawls belly-up on Derek’s bed most nights anyway.
The house isn’t particularly old, just lived-in. There are notches on the kitchen door frame documenting growth-spurts; a tool-box under the sink still there from the last owners. A second bedroom still has tack on the walls from posters and more than a few dents in the drywall. The decor is a little old-fashioned for his modest tastes, but it’s homey.
The first night there is quiet. It’s not like he was kept awake with traffic and street noise back in San Fran, but Beacon Hills is a different kind of silent. He keeps the window open; hears trees rustling, raccoons and night-time birds doing their thing, maybe a car once an hour. He can’t sleep.
Police patrols pass more often than anything else. It’s comforting, knowing the area is so well protected since there’s a lot of young families. He’s fetching his mail one morning when a cruiser passes slowly, its driver looking right at him. It’s a young guy; probably a deputy or something. Derek raises his hand in a wave, but the guy drives on, ignoring him completely. He blanches - that’s the first time that’s happened since he got here.
He takes to jogging in the mornings. Work said they’d push back some deadlines to allow him to settle in, but after three days he’s got too much energy and nothing to do. He procrastinates on unpacking, and realises he can only look at the mess of his backyard for so long before he’s renting gardening equipment and tackling it, feeling productive as the sun bakes his skin and he goes to bed sore.
His jogging route takes him past a rustic-looking juice bar, all salvaged-wood and chalkboards, and he checks it out the second week. He hasn’t gotten around to unpacking his juicer yet.
Erica Boyd looks like she exists solely on fruit and kale, and so does her husband. They’re relatively recent returnees too, having moved back a year ago.
"The night-life leaves a little to be desired, but at least I don’t walk to my car with my keys pushed through my fingers,” she tells him, lounging casually against the counter. "Boyd wanted our hypothetical kids to grow up with carpools and little league. Whole nine yards. He’s such a goober." She rolls her eyes like she’s above such things, but twists the band on her ring-finger, grinning.
Derek smirks at the front page of The Beacon, laid out on the counter before him. The lead story is about rejected planning permission for a parking structure.
"Doesn’t exactly seem like the crime capital of the Pacific south west," he agrees.
"New sheriff seems to have a handle on it, which was a surprise to pretty much everyone who grew up with him. He’s had a lot of training, though."
Right - he’d caught wind of a newly-elected sheriff, another prodigal return after paying his dues with the LAPD. People don’t seem to leave this town for good.
"You’d probably know more than I do, since you’re living in his old house."
Derek frowns. “The sheriff?”
"Old and new. Stilinski’s son moved back when his dad retired. Took over the job after he passed. Sad times."
He hadn’t been aware of that. He wonders idly why the guy wouldn’t be living in his childhood home, but then, Derek hasn’t been out to the preserve yet. Some things are just too hard.
He says his goodbyes to Erica when he hears Lila’s impatient barks telling him he’s lingered too long. It’s a surprise when he gets out to see she’s made a friend.
"Leave you alone for five minutes," he grumbles fondly. There’s a guy crouched beside her, getting lavished with enthusiastic licks, his hands buried in her chocolate fur. He looks up, grinning, and Derek squints as he’s trying to place him.
The man’s face shuts down slightly, and he realizes.
"You’re that cop," he blurts, and holds out a hand. "Derek Hale."
"Stiles," the guy says stiffly, returning the shake. Up close, Derek is struck by how attractive he is; broad shoulders, strong arms and striking eyes - even if they are slightly shuttered right now. Derek swallows as he gestures to his jeans and plaid. "Off duty, so.."
There’s a span of silence that’s a little more awkward than even Derek is used to, and he says. “Just found out I’m living in the old sheriff’s house. That explains the regular patrols,” he says, trying for light.
Stiles expression goes pinched. “Lot of the guys do it out of habit, I guess.”
Obviously.
"Well, uh, I’m gonna—"
"Sure, see you," Stiles says before he’s even finished, and steps past him, disappearing inside.
"What’s his problem?" he asks Lila. She just pants in reply.
__
The days seem longer when he’s not stuck inside poring over a manuscript. Editing is time-consuming work, and it’s strange not to be subsisting off coffee and nursing a headache from screen glare.
The backyard is looking good. He finds an old rose bush, looking like it hasn’t been tended in a while, and feels a rush of warmth at the memory of his mother carefully pruning hers. The scent instantly makes him feel ten years old again, chasing his sisters through the sprinklers while she kept an eye. It’s taken nineteen years, but the ache in his chest when he thinks about them no longer feels like pain - just nostalgia.
Lila’s new vet is even friendlier than she is, and she falls in love immediately.
"She seems super happy, man," Dr McCall says, gently stroking down her flank. "I know you said you were worried about the move, but dogs are even more adaptable than we are. She looks like she’s getting enough exercise, too."
Derek shoots him a relieved smile. It was just a check-up, and a chance for him to scope out the practice, but it’s still good to know there’s nothing to worry about.
"She runs with me every morning. I don’t have an excuse to blow it off when she’s waiting by the door with her leash."
McCall grins. “So I hear,” he says, then adds, “Erica and Boyd are friends of mine,” at Derek’s bemused look. “In fact, we’re all headed to their house tonight for drinks and board games. It’s mostly an excuse for the girls to drink wine and judge people and the guys to kick back without our kids or bosses around. There aren’t a lot of people under forty around here, so we tend to stick together.” He holds his hands out, chin jutting up. “You should come!”
Derek raises a brow - it’s not like he expected to have a busy social calendar, moving back here, but it’d be nice to have a conversation with someone that isn’t a cash transaction or ending in a whistle. Lila’s a good listener, but her conversational skills need work.
"Sure," he says, oddly touched. "Text me the details?"
"Sweet!" McCall says, scratching Lila behind the ears. "Feel free to bring this pretty girl, too."
Boyd answers the door wearing an apron with hand-drawn breasts on it. His face is calm as ever, and Derek cracks a grin.
"Scott didn’t say anything about a dress code," he says, handing off his beer.
"Erica’s been drinking since five. It’s easier to go along with it." They both stiffen as Lila scurries inside, claws skittering off the hardwood floor.
"Sorry, I guess I didn’t tie her up very well," Derek says, edging forward, but Boyd presses a palm to his chest.
"It’s cool. We’re all dog-lovers here." As if on cue, a chorus of coos ring out from the direction of the kitchen, and when Derek gets there, she’s being adored by three extremely attractive ladies.
"Told you she’d be welcome here," Scott says, coming up to clap Derek on the shoulder. "Glad you could make it, man."
"Either this or spend the night trying to make sense of a poorly-written dystopian novel," he shrugs.
"You’re a writer?" one of the girls asks, finally tearing her attention away from Lila. She looks instantly intrigued, sipping at her wine and looking at him expectantly.
"I never did ask," Erica hums, refilling her glass.
"Um, editor," he says, "Derek."
"Oh! Kira!" she replies, switching the glass to shake his hand. "Sorry, that was rude!"
"No problem. I’m meeting a lot of new people this week, most seem to know of me. Those that approach, anyway."
"Keeping maximum nosing distance, I’ll bet," a red-head adds, straightening up. "Lydia Martin." Ah, the deputy mayor. He’d expected someone older and less like they’re a fashion pundit.
"And this is my wife, Allison," she introduces as the brunette beside her raises her beer, smiling. "Isaac is the one pacing in the corner." Derek glances to where a tall, curly-haired man is on the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He took the night off, and somehow that means constant phone calls from work."
Derek waves awkwardly, hoping he’s not going to fuck up on remembering the names.
"And you’ve met Stiles!" Scott says, just as the guy in question enters the room from the hallway. His steps falter a little when he catches sight of Derek, but he jerks his chin in greeting and goes straight to the fridge.
"Hi again," Derek tries. So he’s got a thing for sweatpants. Sue him. This guy fills them out nicely.
Lila, completely oblivious to the awkward tension in the room plants both forepaws on Stiles’s stomach, tail wagging excitedly.
"Looks like she remembers you," Derek comments, watching the guy”s face break out in a soft smile. He seems to bite down on it at Derek’s words, but doesn’t stop petting her.
"I probably smell like bacon, or something."
"That a cop joke?" Boyd asks, pulling paper off a stack of homemade burgers. It instantly pulls Lila’s attention away.
Stiles snorts. “What? No!” He looks endearingly scandalized, and Isaac re-joins the conversation, tucking his phone away.
"We’re still getting used to the fact you’re in charge of keeping the peace.”
"You’re a nurse, Lahey,” Stiles shoots back. “That won’t ever not be weird.”
"I have a gentle touch. You started more fights in middle school than a cartoon bully."
"That’s victim-blaming," Stiles reprimands, tilting his beer at him warningly. Derek hadn’t even noticed he was ignoring the girls’ attempts to engage him in conversation until Erica pokes him in the abs.
"Jesus, what are you made of, limestone?" she exclaims, shaking out her finger. "Babe, you need to train with this one."
Boyd shrugs, and Stiles catches Derek looking at him and turns away, his easy mood dissipating.
"So, am I gonna defend my title, or what?" he asks, putting down his beer and moving towards the board games.
The only thing more unsettling than watching Stiles and Allison go head-to-head as the last two players in Monopoly, is the swift chill emanating from Stiles’ side of the table. Derek realizes that not everyone will be sweet and welcoming; he’s encountered plenty of people in his life that don’t like him - especially in his younger, surlier, more sarcastic days - but it’s such a contrast with how everyone else has been, that it’s painfully obvious.
And fuck it, okay, Derek didn’t come here expecting to be best friends - but the mystery of it all kind of gnaws at him. Stiles will change the subject when it turns to Derek or his move. He’ll purposefully bring up private jokes between himself and the others. He doesn’t seem to look right at Derek unless it’s explicitly necessary, and pays his dog more attention than him.
It’s shitty, to be honest - and only partially due to the fact that Derek can’t stop staring at him, because Stiles is, hands down, one of the sexiest guys he’s ever met.
He oozes that lazy attractiveness that Derek’s always been a sucker for, so effortlessly hot that he’s probably getting laid all he wants. And he’s a dick, alright, Derek sees that - but he’s not a bad guy. It’s obvious he’s protective and loving with those he’s close with. Anyone Lila likes so much can’t be that crappy a person.
It just stings. In fact, the only time Stiles seems to show any interest in him is when Lydia fields the question of why he chose Beacon Hills, and Derek takes a long drink, bracing himself.
"I grew up here," he says, and feels Stiles’ eyes on him. "My family had a house out in the preserve. The only one, actually. I moved away after…"
"The fire," Lydia finishes, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Derek Hale.”
Scott, Allison, Isaac look to each other blankly, and Kira, Erica and Boyd give Lydia confused looks, but Derek has gotten to recognize the expression on Stiles’ face over the years. Sympathy. Guilt.
"Talia Hale’s family were targeted by one of the gangbangers she put away," he croaks, swallowing. He blinks, looking around at the others at last. "We were only, what, ten? That big fire out in the preserve, no survivors. They made it look like an electrical fault, but my d— the cops at the time figured it out."
Derek nods, trying for a smile. “There’s a reason I don’t generally lead with that.” The silence around the table is palpable, and Derek’s chest is tight, wondering how he can possibly change the subject, when Stiles says,
"Hey, Lyds, how long’s it been since I kicked your ass at Clue?"
She gives him a look of mock-offense, and like that, they let the subject drop. Stiles doesn’t look to the grateful smile Derek’s shooting him, but Derek hopes he feels it anyway.
It’s not really a thaw after that. Derek wouldn’t call Stiles up to come running with him, and Stiles isn’t exactly suggesting they watch a game together, but he nods back when he passes in the cruiser, and Derek managed not to swallow his own tongue the first time he saw Stiles walking around in full uniform, gun on his hip.
So, that’s a new kink.
Derek takes advantage of the dry summer and works on the garden. He’s able to sit on the back porch and do actual work as the sun sets, and Lila scents the entire property once a day. They fall into a little routine, and Derek even has a standing invitation to Erica and Boyd’s, so roots are sprouting. It feels good.
One particular day he’s clearing out the literal kind of roots, when Lila seems to catch wind of something in the earth. She digs enthusiastically, and Derek sits back on his heels to watch. Why stop her when she’s actually helping? He realises, though, that she’s actually getting somewhere when her paws hit off a hollow-sounding thud, and he tugs her back to get a look. She whines pitifully, trying to get at the hole again and Derek locks an arm around her neck as he reaches for it.
It’s a lunch box, wrapped in a see-through bag. He smiles at the Spider-Man logo, realizing it’s made out of light tin instead of the plastic he first thought. Scratched into the red paint by the clasp, in messy letters, is J.S + C.S + S.S. Time Capsule!
Huh, a leftover from the family who lived here before him. Maybe it even belongs to the new sheriff?
It feels weirdly invasive to open it, so Derek puts it aside and gets to work on the rest of the weeding, making a mental note to get it to its owner later.
He forgets about it until he’s signing for a package a few days later, and catches sight of Stiles’ cruiser over the delivery guy’s shoulder. Derek hands back the pen and jogs to the end of his path, holding up a hand for Stiles to stop.
When he does, it’s with a wary look on his face, but he lowers the window anyway.
"Everything okay?" he asks, glancing around behind Derek.
"Yeah, all good. I was just wondering if you could get a message to your boss for me?"
Stiles raises a brow. “My boss.”
"Yeah, the sheriff."
"The sheriff. Who you think is my boss."
Derek frowns. “Are you just gonna repeat every thing I say?”
"Yeah," Stiles says with a smirk. "If you keep saying stupid shit. I am the sheriff.”
Derek straightens up. How the hell could he have missed that?
"I thought you were a deputy? Your name is Stiles.”
"Yeah, Stiles Stilinski. What, did you think we all go by our last names here, like Boyd?"
Derek isn’t really sure what to say. He’d just made a lot of assumptions. “You look like a deputy,” he offers weakly.
Stiles points to the pin on his collar, the little silver Sheriff detailing his rank. ”Haven’t been for a while, man. What’s up?”
All of a sudden, Derek feels hesitant about sharing. A lot of things are making sense, now - Stiles’ standoffishness, his regular patrols; he probably started those when he was a deputy, and his father still lived there. It can’t be easy seeing a stranger take up residence in your childhood home.
"Um, nothing, I just… I found something in the backyard, and I knew the sheriff used to live here, and his son is— but that’s you, so you’re the one to tell."
Stiles’ face goes serious. “What did you find?”
"I can show you?"
He seems to deliberate over it for a long moment, staring up at the house. “I’m not— I haven’t been…”
"It’s in the backyard," Derek tells him gently. It’s clear Stiles has no desire to go inside the house when his father won’t be there. There’s a familiar ache at the bottom of Derek’s ribs, knowing that feeling too well.
Stiles licks his lips, and nods, turning the engine off. “Okay.”
Lila gives an enthusiastic welcome when Derek opens the side gate, running the length of the garden and back again. Derek gets the box from the porch, holding it as he watches Stiles take in the changes.
"You pruned mom’s roses," he says quietly, almost dazed.
"I… yeah. My mother used to enter shows with hers, I guess I picked up a few things."
"Dad tried, but he couldn’t do anything with plants that wasn’t eating them while complaining about it," Stiles shares, face going soft. He turns then, and notices the little red container in Derek’s hands. His eyes go big. "No way! I totally forgot about this!"
"I haven’t opened it," Derek assures, thrown off by the enthusiasm he’s never had directed towards him, and holds it out. "It didn’t seem— not when there was someone still around it belonged to."
Stiles looks into his eyes, their hands still brushing. He licks his lips. “Thanks, man.”
"No problem. I— it means a lot, finding things from before. I didn’t— there wasn’t much left, after, and… you know what I mean."
Stiles doesn’t answer, but the expression on his face suggests that he does. He contemplates the box for a few moments, and hedges, “Would you.. I don’t really want to open it alone.” He looks embarrassed, runs his finger over the etching. “It’s stupid, but..”
"Sure," Derek says, gathering what Stiles means. There’s a swirl in his chest that’s completely different than the heavy feeling of earlier - that Stiles is trusting him with this; that he knows that Derek is one of the few people to understand this kind of loss. "Beer? Or are you on duty?"
"Getting off," Stiles tells him, looking relieved, "Please."
When Derek returns, Stiles is sitting on the edge of the porch, absently scritching Lila’s head. He looks younger than ever; like he’s dressed up in his father’s clothes for Halloween. Derek holds the beer out and joins him, leaving just enough space between them that he’s not crowded; a background support.
Stiles drinks, psyching himself up to open the box, and stops himself a handful of times.
"Sorry," he blurts, and Derek knocks his knee against Stiles’, silently encouraging. When he finally unlocks the clasp, Derek sees the muscles in his jaw clench and his hands shake.
On top is a dog-eared comic book, looking like it’s been read so many times it can’t possibly hold itself together anymore. Stiles smiles, laying it aside. There’s a baseball, a couple ticket stubs, and a Fleetwood Mac cassette tape.
"Mom’s favorite album. She never did upgrade to CD," he explains, running his bottom lip over the grooves in the plastic. There’s a small perfume bottle, probably so old it’s gone stale next, and Stiles clutches it in his hand. "We— after she died, it was my dad’s idea to make this. Said the real her was with us, not in the ground. We put our stuff in too - I guess to preserve our life with her. It’s… it helped."
Derek nods, heart aching at what was obviously an attempt to help a child deal with grief. “Sounds like your dad was pretty great.”
"He was the best," Stiles says vehemently. There’s a Deputy pin sitting in the corner of the box, and Stiles turns it over in one hand, trailing his fingers over his matching Sheriff one. Derek gets the sense that the one Stiles wears was once his dad’s. There’s also a Mets bumper sticker, and a little toy motorcycle, more pieces of John Stilinski that only mean anything to his son.
The last item is letter. It’s written in childish scrawl, and decorated with doodles around the margins. Derek doesn’t read anything beyond, Dear Future People/Space aliens from a invading planet, My name is Stiles and I am 8 years old…
Derek busies himself with his beer, and watching the sun set, running his fingers over Lila’s soft ears. Stiles lets out a harsh breath, bordering on a sob, and she steps over Derek’s legs to bury her nose in his neck, whimpering softly.
Her fondness for the guy makes so much more sense when Derek realizes he probably smells like her new home. Stiles turns his face into her fur, getting his breathing under control, and Derek can’t help but put a hesitant hand on his shoulder, wanting to do more.
After a few minutes, Stiles looks up, scrubbing at his face. He looks away self-consciously, and snorts. “Man, talk about putting a downer on your evening.”
"It’s fine," Derek reassures, offering him a smile. "I’d mostly just be working out here anyway. I’m happy I could get this to you."
"Thank you," Stiles says, eyes flitting between his own. "And I’m sorry I’ve been kind of a dick to you. I guess I should have thought it through before selling this place."
Derek shrugs. “I get it. Sometimes you don’t know how something’s going to affect you until it happens. There’s a reason I haven’t been to the preserve in almost two decades.”
Stiles seems surprised by it, but doesn’t judge. “I think you can be forgiven for that.”
Derek’s lips twitch sadly, and he takes another swig. “I, uh, was thinking about getting pizza. Hungry?” Stiles’ eyes dart back to the house, so Derek amends. “We can eat out here.”
Stiles nods. “Sounds good.” He smiles then, and Derek feels his stomach flip, pulse racing, as he pulls out his phone while mentally noting the first time Stiles’ smile was just for him.
It’s different after that. They don’t hang out like friends, and they’re not dating, - but there’s something. Stiles’ hands linger on his; their eyes meet across rooms and sometimes, when they’re in a group and someone makes a joke, Derek finds himself seeking out Stiles’ reaction, only to find him doing the same.
It’s not a relationship, it’s a potential. It cements things for Derek when he’s watering the back yard - something he created new all by himself, and finds himself wondering if his mom’s roses are still there, or if they were destroyed with everything else.
The curiosity is overwhelming, and he finds it hard to concentrate on anything else once he’s thought of it - but that would mean going there to look, and he doesn’t want to do that alone.
Really, there’s only one person he could imagine bringing with him right now.
Stiles picks up on the third ring. “Dude, did we have plans?” he asks, sounding horrified. Derek can picture the look on his face, and smiles.
"No, I… Are you free?"
"As a bird, baby."
"I can’t believe you’re our sheriff," he sighs, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, you’re very privileged," Stiles retorts. "C’mon, stop stalling. What’s up?"
Derek swallows. “It’s time.”
There’s a span of silence, and then Stiles seems to understand. “Today?”
"Today."
"Okay," Stiles says, sounding almost proud. "I’ll be there in ten."
When he arrives, Derek is sitting on the front step, holding a small cutting off the rose bush from his backyard. Stiles looks down at it, almost pained.
"I thought… if my mom’s are gone, I could plant— If you don’t want me to.."
"No," Stiles tells him, putting his hand over Derek’s. "You should. She’d want that. I think they both would."
Derek smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I think they would.”
Before he can prepare for it, Stiles is kissing him. It’s soft and sweet, and Derek’s skin buzzes where they touch, so he clasps his fingers in Stiles’ shirt to ground himself.
Stiles pulls away too soon, resting their cheeks together.
"Sorry, I— At least, no matter what happens, going home won’t be the only thing you remember about today."
Derek kisses him again, has to.
"I think this is my home," he tells him, and Stiles takes his hand, gently tugs.
"Yeah," he says, "I feel like it’s still mine, too."