Work Text:
A vase of fading silk roses unfurled their petals. The summer sun seared the air. The petrichor scent of warm, drying grave dust mingled with the cloying fake rose scent clinging to the fabric as they both warred, and lost, against the overwhelming smell of freshly cut grass.
Puffy clouds lazed about. Derek watched them, watched the trees, watched the way the graveyard looked in the sun for the first time since high school.
The fake flower scent drew his eyes back to last week's rose, left in the dead of night, still clinging to its colors beneath the inevitable bleaching light of the sun.
Derek thought back, thought of Laura, of burying her so far from home. He thought of his flight back to Beacon Hills, hunted; he came back to die, came, selfishly, to be buried beside the people they'd lost.
Derek fingered the rose in his hand. That first night, that first rose, the first time he saw the man behind that cramped, crowded little counter he—no, his wolf knew, somehow. It wasn't fate, wasn't some perfect soul-mate bullshit.
All the same, his wolf knew.
He'd fought his wolf tooth and claw only to find himself back again the next week, then the next. Week after week he scowled at the vivacious clerk. His wolf raged at Derek's inaction. Time and time again he caved, cursing himself as he left a rose, let his wolf preen.
Derek had felt the eyes watching him, had smelled the fetid stench of Kate's perfume on his car, inside his home, spritzed along the walls in quiet corners at each and every place he dared to frequent.
Derek's eyes trailed along the stiff plastic stem as he remembered the hunt. She'd played with him; he'd fought his wolf to keep her off the trail of the mesmerizing clerk.
Derek's fingers traced the petals. They'd come to his house in their ridiculous outfits. A bullet caught him in the side as he ran out the back.
He remembered the way his mind swam as he ran, navigating on instinct, remembered the stricken jolt through his chest when he saw, when he realized where—no, who he'd led them to.
He remembered hiding behind the counter, too weak to fight Stiles off, too addled to tell him to save himself. He remembered the stench of wolfsbane, remembered the click of her gun.
He'd known, then, with every fiber of his being that he'd doomed them both. Derek wouldn't die first, she'd see to that. She'd catch the way Derek felt driven to protect him. She'd use that against them, torturing them both.
It wouldn't be quick.
She was never kind enough to make it quick.
In the cemetery, Derek looked back to the sky, that beautiful, lazy blue sky, the sky he hadn't believed he'd ever see again.
Four snaps of Stiles' fingers.
Four snaps of Stiles' fingers and everything changed. Four snaps of Stiles' fingers and, for the first time since Derek was fifteen years old, he wasn't hunted, wasn't running, wasn't resigned to an excruciatingly slow early grave.
Derek fingered the rose, fresh from the gas station, still pungent with the parody of a flower's aroma. Warm grass and fake rose filled Derek's nostrils.
"I think—" he started, unused to talking to graves. It'd seemed pointless while he still had one foot in one, "I think I'm gonna be ok."
The admission winded him. It felt like tempting fate, but maybe, maybe it was time to tempt fate.
"Kate's gone. Her men, too, they—" he faltered, "they won't be hurting anyone ever again. And I—"
He paused, spinning the rose slowly in his hand, watching the way the light caught on its contours.
"I have someone to protect me."
It felt lame. What could he say to his dead parents after so long? After so much?
How could he begin to explain all the years on the run? How he planned to have Laura brought back home to be interred beside them? How, for the first time since their deaths, he was free? How Peter was alive, part of the local pack? How, miraculously, Stiles had a lead on Cora?
He had family again. He wasn't alone.
How could he begin to describe just how thoroughly his life had changed? How could he speak of so many years, so many things that clamored for his halting voice as he stood in the expectant silence of the cemetery?
"Derek?"
A voice sounded to his left. Footsteps crossed the lawn. Fresh grass-scent rose in their wake. The perfume of fake rose still clung to the bearer of the voice as they made their way over from where they'd left their rose on another grave.
Derek looked over.
Stiles took Derek's hand.
"Done with your mom?" Derek asked.
"Yep," Stiles answered, "got to tell her about this super hot, super grumpy bastard who finally stopped being an asshole and actually fucking talked to me. It's ok, though. Turns out he was trying to protect me."
Stiles' shoulder knocked Derek's companionably. Derek couldn't help the bashful smile that crept across his face. "Sounds like an idiot. Couldn't tell you could handle yourself," Derek joked.
Stiles snorted. "That's my own fault for masking my magic. Besides, it was sweet. Been a while since anyone's tried to protect poor, helpless little Stiles."
Stiles laughed brightly enough to make the sun itself jealous. Derek pulled him close. He kissed the side of Stiles' head, drinking in the scent of him. Stiles leaned into the touch.
"You done with your parents?" Stiles asked.
Derek reluctantly released Stiles just long enough to nestle the newest rose amongst the others.
He'd need a bigger vase; he'd be by for many weeks to come.
Years, he corrected himself; he would be visiting for many, many years.
He stepped back and took Stiles' hand, twining their fingers together. He smiled as they walked off towards the rest of their long, happy lives.