Chapter Six
...
"Stiles. Were you expecting someone else?" Rafe asked, seeing his expression fall.
"Food delivery," Stiles lied. "What are you doing here? Do you always make house calls to recruits or is this a special - and creepy - visit, just for me?" he snarked.
They weren't at the FBI, so he didn't have to be nice anymore.
Rafe sighed. "I wanted to apologise."
Stiles' eyes narrowed at that. "For what?"
"I haven't exactly been a great role model as an agent, and I know that if I ever want to have a relationship with my son again, I have to get through you first."
"Yeah, through my dead body, McCall. Just because you saved my life, it doesn't mean I'm forgiving you for anything you've done prior to that."
"I know. I'm not expecting you to. Hell, I don't deserve it. But I know that what I did was wrong and I'm trying to make amends. I'm trying to be a better person and move past that."
"Congratulations, I'll get you a medal engraved with: trying not to be a dick!"
Rafe looked frustrated, but he nodded. "Fine. I'm going to therapy and anger management sessions, so I really am trying. I want to be there for Scott, to see him grow up."
"Do or do not, there is no try," Stiles quoted and Rafe frowned. Before he could say anything, Stiles continued, "As for wanting to see Scott grow up, you already missed that boat and train: he's a grown damn man!"
"You don't think I know that? You think I haven't regretted leaving every single day since I left?!" Rafe snapped, his voice loud and almost enough to draw out Stiles' neighbours.
"Oh, yeah, I do think that, actually. You were in a drunken haze for a good four months, at least, since you missed Scott's seventh birthday party. You promised him that you'd come and you didn't; you broke a promise to a kid, and you never keep your promises! Even when you came back to Beacon Hills two years ago and then left again, you still didn't keep your promise to Scott then either. And you know who has to pick up the pieces every single time? Me."
Rafe clenched his jaw at the reminder of the things he'd done wrong over the years. "I'm trying to rectify that. I understand that you're angry and upset, and you have every right to be. I just... I don't know what else I can do."
"How about not being an asshole? You could start with that," Stiles sneered.
"Look, do you want to take a swing at me? Go on, get even with me, one clear shot," Rafe offered, almost desperately.
Stiles stared in disbelief. Some part of him really did want to, his fist already clenched by his side in anticipation, but he forced himself to relax his hand instead. He shook his head firmly. "No, I'm not like you. You said that you'll have to get through me to get to Scott, and you're a hundred fucking percent correct. But if you think I'll let you anywhere near Scott just so he can be hurt by you again, then in that, you are a hundred and ten fucking percent wrong."
With that said, Stiles slammed the door shut in Rafe's face. He locked it, and sat on his bed, his hands shaking and his anger making his whole body tremble.
...
Barely five minutes passed before there was another knock on the door. Stiles let out a growl of annoyance, then opened the door and glared. He was halfway through saying 'go the fuck away' when he realised that it wasn't Agent McJackass, but Derek.
"You have a beard," Stiles said, feeling stupid.
Behind said beard, Derek smiled. "Nice to see you too, Stiles. Were you expecting someone else?" he asked, scenting the tendrils of anger, even though they'd dissipated to shock and happiness already.
"No, Scott's dad's just left. Get your ass inside in case he decides to come back," Stiles said, stepping back and allowing Derek to walk inside.
It was a tight fit and Derek sniffed as the door closed behind him. "I thought I recognised the scent. It was after Mexico, wasn't it?" he asked, sniffing once more.
"Yeah. You couldn't say no to egg rolls," Stiles said, rolling his eyes.
"That's because egg rolls are amazing."
"Everyone knows dim sim are like a thousand times better; do you want to start this argument again?"
"No, I still remember all of your points from last time. It doesn't mean that egg rolls aren't amazing," Derek added, setting his bag on Stiles' bed and looking around curiously. "Already set up, I see," he said, nodding to the walls covered in string and paper.
"Yeah. Keeps me focused; I think I've almost figured your case out," he said, looking to Derek's wall and frowning at it. It felt like he knew the answer, but just needed that last bit of proof that was constantly out of reach. Stiles sighed, scratched his head, then turned his attention back to Derek once more. "Hey, how was your flight?"
"Not bad. I managed to get a flight without too many people, so the smell wasn't as bad as it could have been."
"I need to ask: how did you get on the plane in the first place? Your name and photo's been sent to every airport in the country."
Derek tugged at the beard he'd been growing since returning to Beacon Hills and grinned. "This helped. I stuck close to a family, and a few other people who were on their own. They didn't seem to mind my company," he added with a shrug. "Oh, and Peter left me a stack of fake passports before he left."
Stiles laughed incredulously. "Of course he did. Have you heard from him lately?"
Derek shook his head. "Not for a few weeks. He said he'd be out of range anyway."
"Let me guess: Peter's decided to take up deep-sea diving?" Stiles asked, rolling his eyes.
Derek snorted and shook his head. "Who knows with him?"
Stiles grinned a little and then held his arms out. "It's been five minutes of small talk, reckon I could get a hug now?"
Derek laughed and hugged Stiles close. Stiles still felt a bit shook up from Rafe's unexpected house call, so he clung to Derek a little longer and tighter than he usually would have. They pulled away after a moment, Stiles coughing in embarrassment and stepping back.
"What was McCall here for anyway?" Derek asked.
"Trying to use me to get to Scott," he muttered, sighing.
"Why doesn't he just contact Scott? He's got his phone number, doesn't he?"
"Exactly! He's a coward and he's trying to use me as an excuse so he won't have to talk to Scott himself!"
Derek shook his head. He saw the notebook and workbook sitting on Stiles small laptop desk, the highlighters and pens crowded on the paper. "You've got work to finish?"
"Uh, yeah. I can do it later," Stiles offered.
"I'm not going to be the reason you're kicked out of the FBI. For that or this," he said, indicating to Stiles' notebook and then to the wall behind him. "I need a shower anyway, so I'll leave you to your work," Derek said, smiling.
"All right. The bathroom's tiny and there's no fan, so leave the window open to get rid of the steam. Death by mould isn't exactly what I want on my tombstone," Stiles said.
Derek shook his head and went into the bathroom. Stiles sat down to finish his workbook, resolutely not thinking about Derek naked in his tiny apartment's shower.
"The red towel is a spare; there's just nowhere else to put it," Stiles called, referring to the towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door next to his blue one.
There was a tiny basin with storage, but since Stiles couldn't open the door unless he was sitting on the toilet, he hadn't bothered to keep anything in there. The bathroom door had towels hanging internally, with a shoe organiser on the side facing his kitchenette. Stiles used it to hold his pens, highlighters, string, and box of thumb tacks. He'd also taken to stuffing his clean socks in the compartments to keep them separate from the dirty ones he had in a bag on the floor. Stiles decided Sunday would have to be laundry day.
Sitting at his desk, he started writing the answer to the last article, trying to keep within a single A4 page limit this time. He soon got caught up in the history of the Dreyfus Affair, antisemitism, and the role that both the press and public had over the injustice served.
"Hey, mind if I have a nap? I think the flight affected me more than I realised," Derek said, coming out of the bathroom and rubbing a hand over his face, barely stifling a yawn.
His shirt was a little damp and sticking in places, and had managed to move up above his stomach, revealing a small stretch of skin. Stiles' mouth went dry at the sight and he looked back to his workbook abruptly, hoping that Derek wouldn't comment on the change in his scent.
"Go ahead. There's only the one bed," Stiles said, wincing when he realised that unless one of them became a night owl all of a sudden, they'd probably have to share the bed.
"Thanks, Stiles," Derek said, moving his bag under the bed and collapsing on the mattress.
Stiles forced himself to focus on his work rather than the man sleeping in his bed. If he stood up ten minutes later to find Derek sleeping splayed out across his bed, well, there was no one else in the apartment to see his smile.
...
End of the sixth chapter.