April 1926
It was a slow morning when Derek entered the shop. Erica poured coffee for the few guests that sat at the counter, she winked at him as he walked past. Tapping a pen against a clipboard, Boyd stood staring at the shelves toward the back, taking inventory. "How are we looking?" Derek asked.
"In good shape. We'll only need half the deliveries this week."
"And?"
"That Chris Argent fellow, he wants our delivery now. Pretty peculiar if you ask me."
"No doubt ours is better." Boyd laughed, and they walked to the counter, Erica handed him a cup of coffee.
"I'll make you some breakfast, kid," Boyd said to Derek, retreating into the kitchen.
"Who you callin' kid?" Derek called after him. Sitting down at the counter, he picked up Beacon Hill's daily paper and read a few headlines. The windows were wide open and a breeze swept over the place, Derek inhaled the fresh air. It's the Spring of 1926, Beacon Hills is just a stretch of road with small stores, a gas station, and houses scattered through the woods surrounding the town. It's a quiet place despite the abundance of travelers that waltz through. The Hale's had been there for years, Derek's uncle, Peter had bought this establishment a few years ago. Not much income came from it, but they did manage, with the help of other business as well. Though he gets lonely, never meeting a new face that sticks around for long, Derek wouldn't rather be anywhere else.
The few customers that had been there exited the shop. Derek got up, began to wipe clean the counter and soaked up the silence peacefully until the screen door swung open again and a skinny kid came walking through. "Excuse me." He said. He smelled of cigarette smoke and looked sick, almost as if he would pass out at any moment. Derek walked around the counter to stand in front of him. "Hello, Mr. Hale, sir." The boy, who straightened his back to appear taller than his average height, stuck out his slightly shaking hand. Derek shook it fiercely, draining the boy's alpha male act. Derek pulled out a barstool with his foot and sat down, the boy took a deep breath as he watched the man gesture to Erica, the woman behind the counter. She brought a plate of pancakes and a cup of coffee over to him.
"What can I do you for, kid?" Derek's voice growled out unexpectedly, making the thin, pale boy jump.
"I-I was looking for some work." He stood behind Derek, hat in his hand, staring at the floor and glancing at the back of the man's head occasionally. "I haven't eaten in a few days and I'm just lookin' to make a few bucks."
"Sorry, kid, we don't need no one."
"Listen, I could sweep up everyday, my sweepin' is real good," the boy's voice dropped to a pleading whine that made Derek begin shaking his head. "I could clean the counters, wash dishes, shine shoes, I'll do anything." He came up beside Derek now, leaning in close. A sharp pain in his stomach caused him to suddenly lean over the counter. He clutched his side and wincing, he looked back at the man next to him, who continued to shake his head silently in refusal. "Please, sir, I'll do it for food. You don't have to pay me, I'll do anything, just a few decent meals. I'll stay out of your hair-"
"We don't do charity, boy," Derek cut him off, a flash of anger glinting in his eyes as he turned to the boy. Derek felt a pang of guilt for a moment after seeing the kid's dark, sunken in eyes. With the overhead light casting dark shadows on the boy's face, Derek noticed how much like a skeleton he looked.
"Derek Hale!" Erica's voice boomed across the room, she had been pretending to stock shelves but had been eavesdropping on the conversation. "Come here. Now." Derek rolled his eyes and got up, his shoulders slumping down. The boy stared at the half eaten pancakes on the counter, his stomach rumbled and pain followed it. He clutched his hat to his stomach and looked around the store. Back behind Derek and Erica stood a couple rows of shelves stocked with basic necessities, the walls were a dark oak, the floor had a thin cover of dust, that the boy had noticed immediately. "This place does need a good sweeping." He mumbled to himself. He watched Erica fiercely speaking to Derek, her hands moved wildly about her as she spoke. Small snippets of their conversation leaked through the boy's hearing.
"...I'm busy all the time! Perfecting your recipe.."
"...we don't need some kid sneaking around..."
"You think it's easy..."
"...we don't need him, Erica.."
Beginning to feel dizzy, the boy sat down at the counter. His eyes drifted shut as a light breeze swept in from the screen door, he rested his head against his hand for a few minutes, still hearing the the couple's chattering. Derek's loud footsteps make his eyes slowly open again. The large, overly intimidating man sat back down next to him and resumed his meal.
"Boyd!" Erica yelled toward the kitchen.
"You get here at noon and close up at ten thirty. Everyday. Unless I tell you otherwise. Clean up the place, stock shelves, whatever else we tell you to do. Don't steal anything." Boyd, a tall, handsome, stocky man came out from the back and set down a plate of pancakes in front of the boy, he winked at the kid then turned back into the kitchen.
"What's your name, sugar?" Erica asked, setting down a glass of juice next to his plate.
"Genim. Genim Stilinski, but you can call me Stiles," he looked down at the plate but hesitated eating.
"Alright, Stiles. I'm Erica, you know Derek, and back there is Boyd." Stiles smiled at her then began carefully cutting up his pancakes. Derek watched the precision the boy took with the food, as if it would be his last meal, as if he was savoring it. Another pang of guilt stabbed Derek in the chest. The boy turned to him. "Thank you, sir. Really, thanks." The man abruptly stood up, grabbing his coffee and walking toward the front door.
"Stop calling me, sir."
"Mr. Grumpy. He'll warm up to you, he always does." Erica watched Stiles slowly pour syrup over his plate, he glanced up at her, his eyes lit with happiness.
"How long have ya'll been married?" Erica stared at him for a moment then threw her head back and laughed. From the kitchen Boyd's deep laugh leaked through the thin wall, Stiles smiled along with her, wondering what he'd said wrong.
"Me and him?" She giggled, glancing through the screen door at Derek who now sat on the porch steps with a newspaper. "God, no, sweetie, we're not married. We grew up together, got into business together, you know."
"Business?"
"Erica!" Derek called from the stairs, his voice a mixture of caution and anger, the newspaper crumpled in his hands.
"Alright! Sorry! Sweetie, everything you need is in that cupboard." Stiles's eyes followed where she was pointing and he nodded. "Sink is in the back, there isn't much to wash, slow day, today. Do as much as you can. Ask Boyd if you want anything to eat."
"Alrighty."
"You'll fit in just fine. Where are you staying?" she asked.
"Nowhere, really."
"Oh! In that case we share a house a mile into the woods, you can stay with us. Derek won't have a problem with it at all. I'm making dinner, another good meal will do you good," she said, pinching his cheek then walking into the kitchen. Stiles finished eating his meal and moved to pick up his plate. Upon standing a haziness swept over him, his full stomach made him drowsy. It had been nine days and thirteen hours since his last meal. He counted every minute he went without eating. The food in his belly felt good, too good, nearly intoxicating. Beacon Hills is the third town he's been to since his money ran out a month ago. Most took pity on him, giving him a free meal here and there, just enough to keep him alive. When he couldn't find work he would move on. His weary eyes sunk in too quickly, his hips protruded much too harshly, he could barely stand to lay on the ground for too long and get some sleep. Thoughts of his father filled his days and made his heart ache. His best friend was gone, buried deep underground alongside his wife.
They lived in a one floor house. His father was a sheriff and Stiles worked on a farm. Honest work it was, his muscles would ache at the end of the day but the burn made him proud. On Sundays they would go to church, Stiles loved the way the priest would reel him in with words of scripture and leave him to reflect on the choices he has made and will make. He'll never forget when his father breathed his last breath and all the time he spent praying felt wasted. Kneeling at the edge of his father's hospital bed Stiles would pray to the lord not to take him.
"Please, god, don't take him from me, please. I need him. I'm just a kid. I don't know what to do... Wasn't taking mom enough? What will I do, god? Just, please, help him. Please, I don't have anyone else... I'm not strong enough."
A week after his father's death he was thrown out of their house. Taking what savings his father had, Stiles went to the funeral, and slept in the cemetery for four nights. After saying goodbye for the last time he slowly made his way to where he is now. He hasn't spoken a single prayer since that day.
-
At the day's end, Stiles wandered up to the house using Erica's directions. He stood awkwardly next to the kitchen counter, glancing up every now and again to find Derek's eyes still watching him. He blushed as he felt the gaze, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Erica handed him a bowl of salad and told him to sit. He attempted to gently place the bowl onto the table in front of Derek, instead he knocked over the salt and pepper shakers and nearly spilled a glass of water onto the man's lap. He turned a bright shade of red as he placed the shakers back upright and Derek grunted his amusement. Erica retreated up creaky stairs to get Peter, Derek's uncle.
"Do I make you nervous?" Derek asked. Stiles cleared his throat, shook his head and shoveled some salad onto his plate. The man couldn't help but stare, the kid was cute and intriguingly nervous. "I don't mean to." His voice dropped and he smiled lightly to put the boy at ease. "I hope you don't mind the couch."
"No," the boy's voice came out a squeak and he cleared his throat again. "No, I don't mind at all. Thank you." He stood politely when Erica and Peter entered the room again. Derek's uncle walked with a cane, the right side of his face scarred from severe burns, he smiled at Stiles and shook his hand firmly.
"And who are you, boy?"
"Stiles, sir."
"Sit, sit," Erica said, serving everyone their food. An uncomfortable silence fell over the table as everyone ate. The meal was over in almost a blink of an eye. "So, what brings you 'round here?"
"I'm looking for work, sir."
"Don't call me sir. You're a young kid, don't you have any family?"
Stiles swallowed. "I used to. They're gone now. My dad...not too long ago, passed away."
"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry." Erica touched his shoulder as she got up to pour herself more water. Stiles stared blankly down at his plate and continued speaking.
"Yeah. I was just me and my dad. My mom died a few years ago so we had to be there for each other. We did everything together. I miss him." Derek and Peter stared at him in unspoken understanding. "I really appreciate this."
"Don't mention it. Derek and I both know what it's like to lose people." At that, Derek abruptly stood and walked out of the kitchen. Peter sighed and Erica began clearing the table. When they both retired to their room an hour later, Stiles poured two glasses of iced tea and went to find Derek. The floorboards were ludicrously creaky, any attempt Stiles made to be sneaky was ruined. He found the man sitting in the living room on a chair, a book in his hands. He didn't glance up when Stiles approached so the boy just put the glass of tea on the coffee table in front of him. There were books stacked up on a table next to the chair and Stiles hovered over Derek, inspecting them. The man glanced up.
"Hi." Stiles smiled, and Derek grunted. Sitting down on the couch, he opened a book of poems and began to read. They fell quiet, each listening to the other's breathing and the turning of pages. An hour passed and Derek began noticing Stiles struggling to keep his eyes open. He watched the boy drop his head back against the couch, his eyes closed, book slipping down his chest. Derek got up to find a pillow and blanket in a cupboard along the hallway. He slid the book out slowly from beneath Stiles's hands, the boy let out a low grunt. The man gently pushed his shoulders over and pulled his legs up so they rested on the couch. Stiles's hand grasped Derek's arm before he stood up. Eyes flickering open, he whispered. "Dad." He let go of Derek and the man unfolded the blanket and spread it over the boy's resting body. "Who did you lose, Derek?" Stiles's voice said sleepily.
"What?"
"Who did you lose?" Derek swallowed hard, looking at Stiles, who kept his eyes closed. Before clicking off the light, he spoke, his voice softer than a whisper.
"Everyone."