Chapter Twenty-Six:
"You're a really weird guy."
Stiles glanced up over the diner booth at his companion, who had decided to offer up this comment immediately after Stiles took a (possibly unreasonably) large bite of his panini. Mouth full of food and unable to protest, Stiles cocked his head inquisitively.
"Well, for starters, all of this."
Chewing languidly Stiles rolled his eyes and twirled his free hand in the air, gesturing for further details.
Isaac huffed out a low breath that might've hidden a laugh. Slumped in the vinyl booth seat he had his hands wrapped around his half-empty mocha, absorbing the lingering heat.
"No, really. I know you were going on about people helping people or whatever the other day, but I just don't get it. I don't get you." His face twisted into a slight grimace momentarily before smoothing out again. "I'm not complaining, okay? You're just a confusing weirdo."
When Stiles' mouth was empty, he took a slow, unhurried sip of water.
It was true that from Isaac's point of view – from everyone's point of view, really – Stiles' sudden and unexpected interest in him didn't have a logical basis in anything anyone could pinpoint. There was just no easy way to come out and say that Stiles had known Isaac in a now-alternate future where he'd learned a thing or two about the guy that he would probably never have shared had the situation not forced his hand in so many ways.
Even if he did have the words for it, making Isaac think he was losing his mind would only be counter-productive in Stiles' efforts to help.
"Are you looking for any particular answer here? Because I'm not sure what you want me to say. It's not pity and it's not a dare. That aside, do you really need some deep meaningful reason to talk to someone? People'd never make friends like that."
"I didn't ask for a philosophy lesson," Isaac drawled, unimpressed but not offended. "But whatever. You're probably right."
Although it sounded like a concession, Stiles didn't think Isaac was truly willing to drop the topic just yet. That being said, Stiles' verbal opinions may no longer be a necessary variable Isaac would use to form his own conclusions. That was fine. Stiles wasn't here to regulate anyone or anything.
"Of course I am. Now shut up and enjoy your free drink."
Isaac kicked him under the table. Stiles laughed.
oOoOo
When Stiles received a text from Derek on Sunday containing a street address and nothing else, he was somewhat torn between suspicion and curiosity. Of course, given that those two feelings were his default reaction to most things these days, it wasn't saying much. The thing that was really needling at him was that Derek practically never started conversations – and there were plenty of times atop that when Derek would straight-up ignore whatever messages Stiles had sent to him – so that meant that, good or bad, surely this had to be something big, right?
So, of course, Stiles didn't tell anyone about the text and proceeded to head straight to the address he'd been given.
Pulling up at the address Stiles found himself looking up at a house – and it was an actual house! Not some abandoned building or crime scene or whatever other sort of place Derek might send him off to. It was a two-storey house somewhat on the smaller side of things, and Stiles was confused for all of the time it took him to climb out of the jeep, before he spotted the tail-end of a Camaro peeking out of the open garage and a sudden realisation washed over him.
Stiles had told Derek to go find somewhere actually habitable to live, and it looked like Derek had actually followed through.
(Unless he had actually been called here to help cover up a murder or something, but Stiles couldn't smell any blood and he liked to think that Derek was far better behaved than that.)
With this new sense of understanding some of Stiles' curious impatience dwindled and he leaned back against Roscoe for a moment, taking in another sweep of the scene without the urgency of questions rattling around in the forefront of his mind.
The house was situated on the far edge of the main residential area, in a suburb Stiles wasn't particularly familiar with. If he peered around the house he could glimpse a forested area a little ways off – probably not a part of the preserve that held any of the marked walking tracks, but whether or not it was technically open to the public was pretty much irrelevant if you were a supernatural beastie who just wanted to get away from civilization for a moment or two.
All in all it was far less suspicious and disheartening than the idea of Derek stubbornly making his home in the half-abandoned industrial district all over again.
(Although Stiles didn't recognise the property from any of the listings he's compiled as ideas, he liked to think his input had forced Derek to reconsider the differences between having a roof over your head and having somewhere to call a home.)
Satisfied, Stiles pushed away from his jeep and wandered towards the house.
He knocked on the closed front door once, because he had manners, but then opened the unlocked door without waiting for a response or permission, because a) Derek would have known he was there before he even parked, b) Derek had technically invited him and so was expecting him, and c) because it was the sort of harmless petty vengeance he could extract against all the times the other Derek had snuck into the Stilinski house uninvited.
When he found Derek the wolf sent Stiles an exasperated glance at his presence, but given that he was basically elbows-deep in some kit-set furniture nightmare he had to have been at least a little relieved that Stiles hadn't bothered waiting for him to answer the door.
"What are you doing?" Stiles asked incredulously, his mouth running off without permission as he stared down at the strangely domestic scene Derek had unintentionally created.
It seemed for a moment like Derek was going to refuse to answer, but given that he'd been caught red-handed and all he just sighed, his shoulders slumped, and mumbled something about how he was "making a bookcase."
"Do you even have any books?" Stiles asked, not 'Do you even read?' because he knew that Derek did enjoy reading, but he also knew – or at least had assumed – that Derek didn't exactly bring anything with him from New York, and his reluctance last time around to commit to anything – the idea of staying in Beacon Hills even though it took him a long time to ultimately leave again, the concept that he was allowed nice things, or even things in general – Stiles hadn't really expected that sort of home-making practicality.
Derek rolled his eyes and said "It's called decorating, Stiles." But he also sort of looked like he wanted to kill something, which was a sentiment Stiles could sympathise with.
"Hand me the instructions," Stiles said as he sank to his knees next to Derek and the mess of wood and screws. He wasn't expecting the instructions to help – they almost never did – but he needed to at least see what they were attempting to achieve before he tried to help.
oOoOo
It always amazed Stiles, he thought to himself when they had finally put together something that actually looked like a bookcase, how a thing that ought to be so simple could always turn into something so unnecessarily complex.
Sure, it gave you a real nice, aggressive sort of sense of accomplishment once you were done, but it wasn't really a sufficient prize to outweigh the seemingly endless despair that could overwhelm you while you were in the middle of it.
Sprawled out on his back on the carpet, Stiles watched Derek move the wooden monstrosity into the corner of the living room.
(It was actually a fairly nice piece of furniture to look at. Stiles might have appreciated it more if he hadn't been part of the construction process.)
A thought occurred to Stiles as Derek took a step back to check on the positioning, and he pushed himself up off the floor with a sly grin.
"We have to have a housewarming party."
For a fraction of a second Derek's entire being seemed to freeze up. Then, half-turned towards him, Derek glared.
"It's a rental," he said gruffly, like that was some sort of excuse, as if you only celebrated a move when it was into a property you now owned.
Stiles stuck his tongue out in retaliation, because he might have been the alpha and technically closer to adulthood than anyone knew, but that didn't mean he wasn't allowed to be immature sometimes.
"Does that mean no one's allowed to visit?" Stiles asked, poking and prodding, playful but also serious. "Why did you bother sending me the address then? I wouldn't have badgered you about it if you'd wanted the privacy."
Exhaling harshly Derek dragged a hand across his face, flapping the other dismissively in Stiles' direction.
"I know," he said eventually, moving to sit on the couch. Stiles followed suit, curling into the opposite corner. "But you were right, about me needing somewhere real to stay. It's a little easier to feel like an actual person again with running water and electricity."
"If you want this house to be a safe space, a place for you and you alone, that's okay, you know? You're allowed to want that, and you deserve to have that if it's what you want."
Derek shot him that weird fond-exasperated-disgruntled look Stiles was becoming familiar with receiving whenever he tried offering up life advice to people noticeably older than himself. With most people Stiles would allow the look to be a cease-and-desist order, but some people – people like Derek – needed the push.
"That's not what I meant."
"Sure it's not," Stiles allowed, only half believing him.
"It's not," Derek insisted.
Stiles eyeballed Derek sceptically but switched tracks without comment.
"Don't feel like you can't leave Beacon Hills either, okay? I didn't say you should find somewhere to live in order to tie you down here. Being in town can't be easy for you. I wouldn't be surprised if you wanted or needed to get away for a while. Lord knows it's been years since my mother died and I still can't stand spending time at the hospital."
"…You do realise that I'm the adult here, right?"
Stiles smiled and shrugged.
"By which you mean you're older than me? Sure. But that doesn't mean you're good at adulting." Stiles paused for a moment. "Not that many people are good at adulting. But hey, I'm just trying to be supportive! You're not supposed to complain about that."
"Never said I was complaining," Derek protested gruffly, even though it was a total lie.
"Fine, fine." Stiles threw his hands up in the air, feigning frustration. "Is that a hard no on the housewarming then?"
Derek stiffened minutely again and Stiles laughed.
"Oh man, you're just frightened of that term aren't you? 'Housewarming party.' How scandalous. You know I'm not old enough to drink; do you really think we would trash your place?"
"You're a menace," Derek growled, but it lacked any real malice.
"Don't be a spoilsport. It would be just like movie night: you, me and Erica, only here instead of at my place. Nothing scary about that, right?"
"It's not like I can do anything to stop you."
"You can," Stiles rebuked, voice soft but steely-firm. He didn't elaborate by adding any of the countless things he had ever thought or wanted to say when Derek was being particularly down on himself. The choice was enough for now.
Derek shoved lightly at his shoulder, more brotherly than dismissive.
"Call Erica if you must," he said. "Since you're already here."
Stiles smiled at that, small and soft and private. Derek was a work in progress; he'd find himself again eventually, but Stiles wanted to help him get there sooner this time around.