It's been 4 months, 3 weeks, 1 day, 11 hours, 53 minutes and 11, 12, 13 seconds since Derek left not that Stiles is counting.
Stiles is fine, not missing the stupid Sourwolf at all.
Not missing his stupid jacket.
Or his stupid good looks.
Or the stupid way he says that he's the alpha and Stiles prays that the stench of fear overpowers the one of arousal.
Or the way he would push him against the wall and Stiles' breathing would become ragged and all sensible ideas flew out of his head because Derek was right there and if he moved his head just an inch closer their lips would be touching and they would be-
No. Stiles thinks, he's gone and this stupid crush of yours is stupid. You should be focusing on more important things, like the fact you're going insane, thanks to the Nemeton.
No matter how many people ask him if he's okay, his answer his answer will always be that he's fine even when he's nowhere near it.
No one notices; Stiles hides it well.
Life has gone on, Scott is the alpha now. Peter had gone off alone 3 days later people started dying two weeks after that heended dead. For real this time, they're made sure of it.
Derek was still driving to where he didn't know. Cora had made a few friends in Florida, got a flat-mate, even a boyfriend. She assured him she would be fine, to go off, drive, have fun. That was a week ago, he was still trying to find that place where he could have fun. All he'd come up with was Beacon Hills, no matter what happened he had his pack. Well, not really. Considering two of his betas are dead and the last remaining one had probably switched packs now. Oh, and he isn't an alpha anymore. Not even a beta, he is an omega. Derek was surprised a hunter hadn't killed him yet. But for some reason he'd think of one specific human back in Beacon Hills more often than others.
Stiles.
Derek convinced himself it was because Stiles was not a werewolf or banshee, or hunter. He was a human, plain old human Stiles.
But deep down he knows that isn't the case.
One day Derek just snaps-turns the car round and sets his GPS.
Nine hours later he is outside Stiles house, car littered with coffee cups. He doesn't know how he got up there, or when but Derek is hauling himself over Stiles' window ledge. Then Stiles is standing over him brand-new baseball bat in hand.
Huh, maybe I hadn't thought this through properly. I must have made a bit of noise.
"What the hell?" Stiles asks, stepping closer to get a closer look at the person in front of him. "Derek."
He looks tired.
"Hey Stiles." Derek replied, a crash rang round the room as Stiles dropped the bat and walked over to the werewolf. Stiles flings his arms around him nearly knocking Derek over, even with his werewolf advantages he is still shocked. Before either of them register it their lips are crashing together. Breathing in each other scent checking they're really there. Checking it's not a dream and they are both about to wake up alone. But it is real and neither of them are letting go any time soon.
"You were gone. No phone call. No note. Nothing." Stiles' voice broke on the last word.
"I know I'm sorry it's just-"
"I thought you were dead, idiot." He shouts, pushing Derek against the wall.
You're a freaking werewolf, Derek tells himself. He's human, when could human push you up against a wall?
"Where were you?" He asks.
"I don't know. Places. I drove for a long time."
"You must be exhausted, how long were you driving for?" Derek doesn't reply and so Stiles assumes that means a long time." Sleep." His tone didn't leave much room for discussion so Derek follows the boy's lead and lays down.
It's nice to sleep on an actual bed with a mattress, Derek thinks, compared to the steering wheel I've been using as a pillow and an old, frayed jumper as a quilt.
Stiles pulls the covers over them, the werewolf's arms around Stiles' waist and the human's head on Derek's shoulders.
Both finally happy, home and with each other.
Where they will remain until morning leaks through the curtain and they'll deal with the pack and Stiles' father.
But now they are just happy together.
