Notes: Written between emotional episodes of bawling and yelling at my cat. Enjoy. Title from the song Manhattan by Sara Bareilles.
Stiles is waiting for Derek and Cora as they come down from the loft for the last time. He's perched against the little broken cinder block wall that Derek's SUV is parked next to, his ankles crossed casually, and his arms crossed not so casually across his chest.
He looks up when he hears the door swing shut, the sunlight hitting his eyes and making him squint. Derek almost stops in his tracks, watching the young man, his friend, look up at them with a look Derek's never seen on his face before.
Is it sadness? Is it remorse? What is it? Derek wonders.
He doesn't stop, though only because Cora smiles next to him and keeps walking, right for Stiles, who stands when she reaches him.
Cora drops her backpack with her few worldly possessions on the ground, reaches out for Stiles hand.
He takes it, lets her pull him up off the little half wall.
"Stiles," Cora says, and her voice sounds fond. Derek wonders, not for the first time, what has happened between them, what made Cora trust him. Their joined hands remain between them for a moment, and then Cora pulls Stiles into a hug.
Stiles' arms wrap around Cora's waist, holding on and squeezing tight, and he shuts his eyes tight as Cora whispers something in his ear that Derek doesn't hear. It isn't for him; he doesn't need to know what she says.
When they pull apart, Stiles' eyes have tearing up, but no tears fall. He let's go of Cora, who looks back at Derek with a small smile. "I'll wait in the car," she says, and then she grips Stiles hand tightly before dropping it and circling around, opening the passenger side door and getting in.
Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, looks at the ground and then back up at Derek. "Scott told me you were leaving," he says, by way of explanation.
"I figured," Derek agrees, nodding.
They're silent. Stiles watches Derek, and Derek slugs his duffle a little higher onto his shoulder.
"Are you coming back?" Stiles asks abruptly, his voice sounding horse.
"I don't know," Derek answers honestly, looking Stiles in the eyes.
Stiles blinks hard, nods, smiles a hollow smile. "It won't be the same around here without you," he jokes, looking away, "No creepy lurkers hanging around in the forest, no one to slam me up against walls threateningly."
To be fair, it's been a long time since Derek has threatened Stiles physically, but even he smirks at the memory. "I'm sure you'll manage," he says, and Stiles grins.
"Yeah," Stiles agrees, nodding. "Any idea where you're going?"
"Not yet," Derek admits, "But Cora deserves a chance at a normal life, and I've lived in California my whole life and never seen the ocean."
"First stop, then," Stiles guesses, and when Derek nods he smiles. "Send me a postcard."
It's not an order, but it's not a request either. It's something in-between, something Stiles won't say, and all Derek can do is nod at him.
Stiles offers his hand out to Derek, holding it up firm and open. Derek smirks, but he takes it, grips Stiles hand and shakes it, and at least, Derek thinks, at least out of all of this, he and Stiles will part as friends. As equals.
Derek lets his hand go, and Stiles steps aside so that Derek can get to his car. He steps past Stiles, throws his duffle in the back seat and closes the door.
Derek has his hand on the door handle when Stiles says, "If you get far away, and you need a reason to come back," with a small lump in his throat that comes through, makes Derek look back at him and his heart ache, "Come back for me."
Stiles heart is beating faster, and Derek can smell the saltiness of his the tears threatening to spill over from a few feet away. He is half tempted to go back, to hug Stiles like he deserves, but he knows that if he goes back now he'll never leave.
So instead he just nods once, slowly, firmly, before he gets in and starts the car. He pulls away, and Stiles waves at him in the rear view mirror.
Cora reaches over and places a hand on his arm as they drive out of Beacon Hills, squeezes tight.
Its three weeks later when Stiles is bringing the mail in. "Your Sports Illustrated is here, dad!" Stiles call into the kitchen, where his father is cooking them a healthy dinner.
"Set it on the table," his father calls, and Stiles does, dropping with it a few bills and some junk mail.
He's walking away when something bright catches his eye in the pile of mail, and he stops, twists slightly to see. He goes back, pushes the junk out of the way and finds… it's a post card, Stiles realizes as he picks it up.
It's of the ocean. It's a simple picture of the sunset on the beach, and its post marked San Diego. Stiles turns it over, feeling his throat clamp up a little. There's nothing there, save for his address, but the return is blank.
In the space where a note should be written, there is instead just a paw print. Just a paw print, like one that might have come from a real wolf dipping it's paw in ink.
Stiles smiles, let's out a puff of air and swallows down the lump in his throat.
The postcard hangs on his fridge like a promise. A promise to come back.