.
Three - Perhaps
.
The remaining Hales don't really seem to feel the cold.
It doesn't register until Derek mentions that he's going to be up on the roof, if Stiles needs anything—and Stiles watches him head toward the front door of the house in a henley. It's not snowing right this second, and a lot of the snow has melted, but still.
"Aren't you gonna take a coat?" Stiles calls, and then instantly regrets sounding exactly like his mom used to.
"Oh." Derek furrows his brow, and then a weird oops, my bad kind of expression crosses his face. "Oh, yeah, I'm gonna just..."
He disappears down the hall and comes back a few minutes later wearing a leather jacket, which, okay, wow, better, but still. Stiles has been toting around an old insulated jacket of his Dad's, and it still doesn't always feel warm enough in the chill of the night. But he's always been the kind of person to huddle under blankets and complain about winter until it's over, so he doesn't say anything as Derek heads out the door.
Peter's not too far off that mark either. The upstairs is somehow colder than downstairs, in spite of the whole "heat rises" thing. Probably since the heating all over the house is still a work in progress. When Stiles shuffles upstairs, shivering and drifting quietly through the empty hall in search of Peter, he's not sure he understands how the guy could choose to spend all his time up here.
"I thought I told you to stay downstairs, stray," a voice calls from a few doors over. Stiles jumps, backing out of the empty room he'd poked his head into, and follows the creak of a floorboard.
"Derek says he has a list ready for you," Stiles replies, coming around the corner. "Of, um, more materials and stuff he needs delivered. For the half bath."
Peter grunts, unimpressed, and Stiles takes a moment to look around. This spacious room is one of the few in the entire house with actual furniture, aside from Derek's bedroom downstairs, the kitchen, and the living room where Stiles has been crashing. Here, there's a desk facing the window, files and papers strewn across it, and the room is lit by the glow of the laptop balanced atop a stack of books. Which, speaking of...
"Whoa. You have so many books," Stiles adds, awed. There are bookshelves rising from floor to ceiling on each wall, crammed with old tomes Stiles has never seen before. Some of the titles shimmer in the dim light, real weird stuff: Bestiaire de Guillaume le Clerc, The Complete Illustrated Encyclopedia of Herbology, Dark Things: Into the Murky Lore of Americana.
Peter clears his throat behind him, and Stiles realizes he's stepped toward the bookshelves without meaning to. He straightens instantly. "Oh. Um, they're really cool."
The man's expression bounces between irritation and amusement. "And they're really off-limits."
"Right. Sorry. Uh, I should…"
He steps away, jerking a thumb awkwardly toward the door, but Peter leans forward in his chair and rests his elbows on his knees. "You've been helping Derek."
Stiles isn't sure if there's a question in there somewhere. "Kinda," he says finally. "I mean, I'm not good at it or anything, but since you guys haven't...you know, kicked me out yet or anything. I guess it feels like the least I can do?"
Peter's eyes glint red, and for a brief second, they seem almost to glow like a cat's. "What are your intentions, exactly, in staying here?"
"My...intentions?"
"What do you plan to do?"
Stiles is at a loss. "Uh, for the moment, just...not die of exposure? That's the main thing, for sure. But if you're asking about, like, long-term stuff, I guess I was just thinking at some point I'm gonna have to leave the woods and find a job somehow. So I can get my GED. I don't actually know how that would work, though, since my dad's probably…"
"Still looking for you," Peter finishes, studying Stiles's face.
Clearing his throat, Stiles nods. "Um, thanks for letting me stay this long," Stiles adds uncomfortably, feeling like it has to be said, even if it's right to the eerily stony face of Peter Hale. "It's just, I was fine on my own before, but I don't know what I would have done if I actually had to stay out there all winter."
The man grumbles something under his breath, slowly leaning back in his seat. "Don't mention it, stray." After a beat, Peter swivels to face the desk again. "But from now on, stay downstairs."
Stiles heads back to Derek, who's still frowning grumpily at the exposed pipes of the shower. He drops onto the closed toilet seat. "Do you think your uncle hates me?"
Derek tilts his head for a second, then snorts. "No, he definitely likes having you around." Then: "C'mere, hold the shower arm for a sec."
Stiles obeys, balancing gingerly on the bathtub wall to hold the pipe in place. Derek frowns again as he matches the fit against the next pipe. "But, like...does he mind me being here?" Stiles adds. "'Cause I could go. You know, if I had to."
"What?" Derek shakes his head right away. His eyes flick to Stiles's face. "No—you can stay here. We don't mind you being here, seriously. You can stay as long as you need."
For a minute or so, Stiles is quiet, and Derek goes back to whatever it is he's doing. "You're probably gonna regret saying that," he says solemnly.
"No, I don't think so," Derek replies, stepping away with a tiny, rare smile.
.
"Do you ever actually do any work around here?" Peter asks later that afternoon, suddenly leaning around the corner of the bathroom, one eyebrow raised.
Somehow, Stiles is the only person who jumps, nearly falling from his perch on the bathroom counter and into the sink. Below him, Derek's been poking around in the plumbing, and though Stiles can't actually see his face right now, he can sense his amusement bubbling like something palpable.
"I'm—uh—" Stiles fumbles for something other than I'm just the comedic relief, just in case Peter's actually mad.
"He makes the food," Derek says, his voice muffled by the granite. He's on his back, long legs stretched across the floor, and Stiles has been trying his actual best not to stare at them the entire time he's been in here. There are a bunch of tools strategically positioned around him, because once upon a time, it had been Stiles' job to hand things to Derek as needed—until he'd proven himself so useless at recognizing tools by name that Derek had given up on the idea.
"Yeah, I do," Stiles agrees, warmed. "And I'm, you know, charming and entertaining and all."
"You have been talking for almost an hour," Peter replies amiably. Stiles isn't sure how Peter could have known that, except that he's almost positive the man has the ability to just know things. "I'm going to town for a few errands," Peter adds. He glances down at Derek, who has by now emerged from below the sink. "I'll put in the delivery order in person this time, since I'll be out there anyway."
Stiles doesn't always pick up on stuff, but there's some pretty pointed eye contact going on between the two of them, though he's only got a view of Derek's profile. Before he can think about it too hard, Peter looks up at Stiles. "Want to come?"
It feels like a trick question, because Peter definitely knows by now that Stiles doesn't want to go back to Beacon Hills. But Stiles isn't sure which way to play it. "Pass?" he says at last, uncertain.
Shrugging, Peter backs out of the bathroom. "Alright, then, suit yourself."
The sounds of his footsteps recede, and then the front door opens and closes. Stiles fidgets on the countertop, pulling the sleeves of his shirt further up his palms. The granite is kind of a speckled peach color, sort of like the counters in the kitchen back at home—his mom had always said it hid the kind of stains and spills you get from having three clumsy people in one house.
"So what happened next?" Derek asks. He's rifling through the toolbox, with a look on his face that says his mind is actually elsewhere.
"Huh?"
"With the story."
"Oh—yeah." Before, Stiles was aimlessly chattering about his second grade birthday party, where he and Heather had gotten in trouble for smashing cupcakes into each others' faces. But now, the memories have scattered. "I guess it doesn't really matter," he says at last.
Derek pulls his eyes up to Stiles. "You know he's not going to tell anyone about you."
"What do you mean?"
"If that's what you're worried about." Derek shrugs, though he's still studying Stiles's face carefully. "No one's going to drag you back home if you don't want to go."
Stiles tries to make himself relax. "Yeah, okay."
The sound of a door slamming. Stiles straightens on the counter, scraping his heels against the bare cabinet frame below, and then he belatedly tries to play it cool in case that's not Peter coming back in.
It's not. A babble of voices rises from somewhere down the hallway, maybe in the direction of the living room. It sounds like Olivia again, and maybe the boys.
"You know, you…" Derek begins, and then he pauses. Stiles tries to make out what the kids are shouting about. "You should think about getting in touch with your dad, maybe."
Stiles's eyes slide back to Derek's. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"It's just that he's your family. If it were me, and someone in my family disappeared, I'd want to know where they were."
The voices are rising, coming closer now. Someone shrieks in laughter. "You don't know the whole story," Stiles replies shortly, distracted.
"Then just tell me the whole story," Derek says firmly.
Cece backs into view through the doorway, wearing a pink dress and the world's cutest, tiniest socks. She's reaching up, shrieking for someone to hold her—and the person who swoops in is Olivia. Their heads bend together, and the brilliant gold colors of their hair are perfectly identical, as if to show the world they're a matching set.
"Stiles?" Derek asks, glancing over his shoulder. "What is it?"
Olivia laughs, hugging Cece close as she steps down the hall. Stiles can hear them murmuring to each other as they pad away.
Somehow, Stiles feels sick to his stomach "No, it's just...my thing. You know."
Derek nods slowly. "Does it...I mean, are you okay? When it happens? Or..."
"Yeah, no, I'm fine. It just makes it hard to focus," Stiles says apologetically. And then, realizing the direction their conversation's been going, he clears his throat. "Anyway, I'm gonna...make a late lunch. Maybe chili or something. You in?"
Derek opens and closes his mouth. "Yeah, sounds good," he says finally.
"Cool," Stiles says, and then he unashamedly flees.
.
The thing is, having these visions of the past, or whatever they are—it should feel like snooping. It is snooping. But honestly, there's not much else to do, and Stiles can't find it in himself to be too bent up about it.
As he chops vegetables for the chili, a whole host of scenes plays out in the kitchen behind him: Talia scolds one of the boys for a fight at school, and then a man—maybe her husband or another brother—makes his first-ever appearance to read the newspaper over breakfast. Olivia sings to music as she and Elliot scrub the kitchen floor. From outside the window come the sounds of an impromptu football game.
Stiles keeps half an ear out as he works, mostly lost in thought and trying to remember the ratios for the chili recipe his mom used to make so often in winter. But half an hour in, one of the voices makes him turn around. It's strangely familiar, but different somehow, and it takes him a beat to recognize it. He walks to the window over the sink, where the vision of football now presents itself outside. Fall leaves crunch underfoot as the six figures play—the newspaper man from breakfast, and a tall man who looks like he has to be Laura and Derek's dad, and Derek's two brothers, and Laura, and Derek.
It's not often that it happens, that Stiles gets a vision of someone who's still alive. His running theory it only happens when the living person is inextricably wrapped up in the actions of the ghosts themselves, an integral part of the actions of the past. To be honest, he realizes, it's amazing that he hasn't seen Derek yet.
Derek at sixteen. Clean-shaven, with a baby face that still somehow hits all the right notes, the perfect curves to convince Stiles he's the same guy as the one grumbling away in the bathroom. Except the smile—that's different. It's the kind of smile you make when you're happy. Truly happy. When you think there will never be a time when you don't have what you have now, the people you're with.
He watches the way Derek moves, like he's completely at ease. And not just in the game, though Stiles can tell he's the type to be first-string on an actual team. It's more that he's at ease with himself, or maybe with his family—not stiff and standoffish, not hesitant. Past-Derek laughs, ducking around one of his uncles to pass the ball to one of the raven-haired boys. The kid scrambles past the cones of their makeshift endzone, and they all howl with excitement and praise.
Stiles's chest feels tight, and he doesn't know why.
There's no telling how long he stays there, wrapped up in the scene. Eventually it fades away, the colors starting to dim, the players starting to recede into the grey woods. And then Stiles just stands there, watching the dead leaves rattle in the wind outside.
After what feels like hours, he becomes aware of another presence behind him. He turns, reluctant, and finds that it's now-Derek.
"I think you should leave," Derek tells him firmly.
Floored, Stiles works his mouth open and closed for a moment, mostly because his emotions are running wild and he's having a hard time processing. "Wh...I thought you said I could stay," he finally manages, tone accusing. Then he remembers he's just some drifter that Peter picked up out of the snow, rescued from his own stupidity. "I mean, yeah, sorry. I can just grab my—"
"No." Derek barks, frustrated. He scrubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw. "I just mean you should go, to your dad. I think you should be with him."
Stiles slowly crosses his arms. "I thought we were done with that conversation."
"You ran away from that conversation."
Stiles frowns, but Derek's not wrong. "I don't want to go back to my dad. I want to stay here." He crosses back over to the cutting board, picking up the knife to chop the veggies again. And pointedly doesn't face Derek.
"I think you'll regret not going back."
"You can't know what will or won't regret."
"I know you miss your dad. I bet he misses you. And I'd give anything to talk to my family again. Anything."
Stiles stops with the vegetables instantly, setting the knife down. He stares at it so he doesn't have to look Derek in the eye. "It's not that easy. We'd end up right back where we were, with me being me and him not believing me. And I'm...I'm so sick of lying to him, and being there in that house. You don't understand—I can't do that anymore. It's better for me if I'm not around, and for him."
Carefully, like he's afraid to startle Stiles, Derek pulls his wrist away from the knife, turning him so they're facing each other. "Do you actually think that?" he asks.
Derek's still got a gentle grip on Stiles's forearm. It feels warm under his touch. Hot, even. "It's better for him if I'm not around," Stiles repeats, firm. "Look, maybe it's hard for you, thinking about not having your family, but—trust me when I say it's just...better if we're apart."
Derek's face is stony. "You can't stay here just because you're afraid."
Stiles pulls his arm away and backs up. "So what if I am?" he asks, incredulous. "You don't...you can kick me out if you want, or you can let me stay, but there's no in between. You don't have the right to tell me what to do out there. You don't even know anything about me, or what I'd be going back to. You have no idea, and I—"
"Then tell me what's going on."
"I'm not going to do that."
"Why not?" Derek asks, exasperated.
"Because I don't need you looking at me the way my dad does!" Stiles replies, realizing how loud his voice is only when Derek stares back at him, confused. "Look. it doesn't matter." Stiles shakes his head, turning away. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna go for a walk. I just need to like, not be here for a little while."
He heads to the living room, grabs his coat off the sofa, and walks to the front door. It's only when he throws it open that he remembers how much colder it is outside than inside, but it's too late to take it back. He pulls the door shut behind him and walks into the fading winter sun.
.
.
.
A/N: Stiles's reaction to the cold is basically me at all times. Poor baby...
I love getting your kudos and comments, and any feedback is very welcome!