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M/M
Teen Wolf (TV)
Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin, Allison Argent, Scott
McCall, Laura Hale
Bookstore AU, Bakery AU, wherein derek is the bookstore owner, and
stiles is the bakery owner, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Tattooed Stiles, a
disgusting amount of pop culture and literary references tbh, brief
smoking reference, manic pixie dreamgirl trope!!
Published: 2015-02-28 Words: 25804

Someday When You Leave Me

by standinginanicedress
Summary

Every thing is so fucking temporary, including people it just feels nice to accept that
nothing lasts forever. Right?
Derek narrows his eyes. Are you telling me your entire life philosophy is based around a
Taylor Swift song?
Stiles narrows his eyes directly back at him, turning in his seat so his entire body is facing
in Derek's direction. Would that be a problem?
or the one where Stiles is a manic pixie dream boy who doesn't ~believe~ in relationships
and Derek is the idealistic booknerd trying to nail him down

Notes

Okay, first thing's first - the prompt for this was literally just Wildest Dreams by Taylor
Swift (which is actually really funny because in real time, it's a Scallison song through and

through, but here we are). That's it. That is fucking it. That is what I based the entire fic
around. Do I suggest listening to Wildest Dreams before reading this? Not really haha it'll
make no difference, it's only referenced (but you fuckin' should anyway because it's the
greatest thing she's ever created and PS I did make an 8tracks with Wildest Dreams as the
first track just to you know...inspire you)
if you've read my past fics then you know good and well that I can't write 20k without
mentioning Taylor Swift at least once and I have literally zero shame about it ever; so I was
like you know what lmao why don't I just get this out of my system and write an entire fic
inspired by a Taylor Swift song let's just get this over with because it was only a matter of
time
But to be as clear as possible, this isn't a song fic. I don't randomly spout song lyrics at you
or anything - although if you've heard the song before, there are a couple moments where
you'll be like "ohhh I see what you did there lmao" - but that being said, I do use Taylor as a
correlational and relational tool for Stiles' character (and you'll see what I mean)
also I wasn't kidding in the tags - COPIOUS amounts of pop culture / literary references
(and, for the record, just because Stiles and Derek like or dislike something doesn't mean
that I personally do tbh)
okay onward I'm sorry I know I always yap in my author's notes okay read on
(8tracks playlist)

See the end of the work for more notes

"I think the way I used to approach relationships was very idealistic. I used to go into them
thinking, 'Maybe this is the one we'll get married and have a family, this could be forever.'
Whereas now I go in thinking, 'How long do we have on the clock before something comes
along and puts a wrench in it?
---Derek owns a used bookstore, aptly titled Used Bookstore in downtown Beacon Hills. His
fingers constantly smell like old, yellowing pages, his clothes always seem to have a very fine
film of dust from head to toe, and he spends most of his time sifting through gigantic cardboard
boxes of books from tired looking mothers whose children moved out and left literature behind,
or coffee-stained, pizza sauced books from the library down the street. Derek is pretty much the
grim reaper of books; collecting them and giving them a place to live, like purgatory, until
someone else comes to give them a second, real home.
For a long time, after the fire, he didn't do anything. Laura forced him to go to school, graduate,
to take at least one semester worth of college classes to decide whether or not he liked it. He
didn't. He hated it. But he kept right on going, anyway, just so he wouldn't have to see that thinlyveiled look of disappointment his sister would get on her face anytime Derek seemed like he
wasn't handling things as well as she was. (Which, she always did the best that she possibly
could for a twenty year old who never got the opportunity to finish school, but working herself to
death and spending nights sleeping on the couch in her office doesn't really constitute as
handling it.)
He majored in English, which Laura said time and time again was the most useless thing he
could've possibly chosen; but she said it with a smile and a hair ruffle, like she was proud that at
least he had a fucking interest in something. His room in their studio apartment started filling
with book, after book, after book, piles of them stacked underneath his bed, some of them used
as little tables for him to store whatever knick knacks he had, others he used as coasters after the
twentieth time Laura screamed at him about leaving coffee stains on all the furniture.
She started bringing him books from thrift stores and yard sales, dumping them on his bed while
he was out at class or leaving them in a pile outside his door if he was already asleep when she
got home. He read so much that it started to become the only thing he and Laura ever really
talked about; Lauras job, and whatever book Derek happened to be reading on any particular
day. And he read everything.
Teen romance and dystopian fiction, fifty cent paperback science fictions from CVS, poetry
collections from Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson, epics like The Odyssey, classics like
Huckleberry Finn and The Great Gatsby, self-helps, published journals, autobiographies,
memoirs, travel books, fantasy, erotica (50 Shades included he can't say he's a fan), and on and
on and on. Nothing was off limits. Even if he found himself sighing and rolling his eyes every ten
seconds (once again, 50 Shades), he kept trucking on through until he finished it off to the very
last word on the very last page of every series.

Laura and he started bonding over movie nights once a week, where they would order takeout
and watch any and all movie adaptations of the books Derek polished off that week, all while
Derek gave commentary of what they changed in the book and whether or not it did the literary
version a disservice. The Perks of Being a Wallflower (which Derek dubbed good but not the
best), The Virgin Suicides (amazing and accurate), To Kill a Mockingbird (Laura called it
boring and why is this shit in black and white? But Derek loved it all the same), It's Kind of a
Funny Story, Holes, The Time Traveler's Wife, Running with Scissors, The Devil Wears Prada,
and on and on and on. Laura would buy tickets to midnight showings of the Harry Potter movies
(some of the few books of Derek's she actually deigned to read), and for the first time since the
fire, they had something fun to do together, and Laura stopped looking at him like he needed
some kind of intervention.
When he graduated college and used the money bequeathed to him in their parents' will to buy a
used bookstore of all things, his sister beamed at him proudly and said she'd help with the fix up
of the place.
The thing he loves the absolute most about reading and books and watching their movie
counterparts is that it makes him feel like some things can go on forever. Stories can be told
again and again, and their characters can become immortalized within the pages, remembered
long after they're gone; almost like they'd never really gone at all.
After the fire. After every thing was taken away from him, gone in a wisp of smoke...he kind of
needed that reminder. Some things are forever. Maybe one day he'd be able to write about his
experiences, about his family, and make them forever, as well.
Now, he peddles old books to artsy girls in square glasses that carry in coffee cups from the
bakery and cafe' next door, debating with one another on the bean bags in the corner about
Vonnegut and Bukowski, coming up to him and asking when he's going to hurry up and expand his
women's studies section (which, after some pressing from the female community at large, chiefly
from the sharp-eyed Lydia Martin who comes in three times a week with a croissant and a
steaming latte, is now the biggest section in his store.)
Like Lydia Martin, he typically sees the same forty or so girls (and it's mostly teenaged and
young adult girls who come in Laura used to tease him and say it's because he's man candy, but
Derek always surmised it's because he plays Neko Case and Regina Spektor softly over the
speakers and puts out plates of sugar cookies for twenty five cents each), and most of them are
on a first name basis with him at this point. Erica Reyes comes in and tries to get into debates
with him about her favorite mystery novels while shrieking if you spoil the ending I swear to
god I'll castrate you, Kira Yukimura buys two cookies and two books once a week, and Allison
Argent smiles at him with dimples and a box full of donations.
He and her have already had the so...my aunt burned your entire family alive conversation.
Many, many times. So many fucking times, until Derek finally had to put his hand up and say
I've told you six thousand times that I don't have any problems with you or your family, you can
stop apologizing, it's getting annoying. Kate got put away in Eichen House, and he's moving on.
Picking up the pieces, starting a new life. It's not like Allison didn't experience pain and strife

from what happened; in many of their long talks she revealed to him that they were more like
sisters, best friends, that she never knew about that side of her, or maybe she should've seen it
coming, that she shoulders some of the blame for not reading the DSM cover to cover. Allison
shoulders more of the blame on her shoulders in her own mind than Derek does; no matter how
many times Derek tells her that these things happen, she still brings in the boxes of donations.
One day she comes in, drops a small box of books down on the counter, pays for a cookie, and
says, are these from next door?
Next door meaning Wake and Bake, where all his clientele get their coffee and muffins before
coming inside the store; he has literally never set foot in the place before. Because...well. My
sister bakes them.
Hmm, Allison says, chewing her cookie thoughtfully, you should check his cookies out.
They're really good.
Derek raises his eyebrows. And my sister's aren't?
Allison and Derek get along well enough now that they can tease each other like this; so she just
purses her lips in to a smile and raises her own eyebrows right back at him. Did your sister
graduate top of her class in culinary school?
He puffs out a breath and rolls his eyes.
I'm just saying, you guys could have a partnership or something, she glances around, and Derek
knows she's counting how many people are milling around holding the plain white cups with
WAKE AND BAKE stamped on in huge pink letters, everyone who comes here, goes there, too.
You'd be saving everyone a trip if you guys got some kinda system going here.
Derek says something along the lines of yeah, I'll think about it, just to get her to wander off and
peruse the books and drop the subject of Wake and Bake completely and altogether.
Because, like he said, Derek has never set foot in the place. He's never eaten any of the pastries
or cakes or cookies, never taken a single sip of the coffee; he's only smelled the stuff from the
steaming paper cups and crinkly white pastry paper that the girls all bring along with them. It
explains why only half of his cookies ever sell, because the cookies that kid makes look about
fifty thousand times better than anything Laura could ever come up with.
There's a reason he's never been inside. Oh holy God, is there ever a fucking reason a reason
he can't admit out loud to Allison or any of the other girls because they'd tease him, and he sure
as fuck couldn't mention it to Laura because she'd just join in mercilessly, and they'd start
meddling into his life with their manicured nails because it's what they do.
He's never been inside, but he's seen inside. Quick glances out of the corner of his eyes as he's
walking past to unlock the store at ten o'clock in the morning. It just looks like any old bakery, he
thinks; with those glass display cases and pastel colored dcor, tiled floors and tiny little cafe

tables with people munching on paninis and, by the way, the single most attractive person
Derek has ever laid eye on in his entire life standing behind the counter in a white apron
covered in flour and pastel icings.
It's so embarrassing. It is so embarrassing.
Luckily, the kid usually gets there at around five o'clock in the morning to do whatever it is
bakers do at bumfuck o'clock, so the most Derek ever really runs into his business neighbor is if
they just so happen to be leaving at the same time. Which, thank fucking god, doesn't happen that
often.
And it doesnt happen that often because Derek sometimes literally hides out in his store
pretending to be stocking books, but really he's listening and waiting until he hears that shitty
engine start up outside, until he hears the Jeep pulling out and driving far, far away from him.
Maybe this seems like a little much like Derek is being way too overdramatic or just in general
being a fucking coward and acting like a thirteen year old with a crush.
But, okay, they've met before. And it did not go well on Derek's end. Not at all.
One day, about three months after Wake and Bake opened up, the owner himself came tingtinging through the glass door and Derek nearly dropped a stack of books down onto his feet in
surprise. A couple of them wound up toppling down onto the ground while Derek cursed and
grumbled under his breath in embarrassment.
At that point, Derek had only seen him through the glass. He knew, in a distant way, that the kid
was good looking. He knew he had attractive features, generally speaking.
So when he just burst in with his huge brown doe-eyes, spiky brown hair and long fingers,
tattoos running up along his arms and across what little of his collarbone that Derek could see
around the v-neck he was wearing, tall and lanky, Derek started writing sonnets in his fucking
head.
Without missing a single beat, he was crouching down in front of Derek to scoop up the few
books the fucking spazz had dropped on the ground. He straightened up, slowly as he scanned the
titles of the books in his hands, and Derek felt like it happened in slow god damn motion. Derek
watched, wide eyed, as the entirety of this kid's body stretched back to his full height in front of
him from the ground, and his mind went blank.
I love this book, the kid said, smiling directly at Derek as he dropped Tuck Everlasting on top
of the pile sitting in Derek's hands. I think I hated it in school like I hated everything I was
forced to read, but. I like it now.
Bizarrely, all Derek could think about is that episode of Spongebob Squarepants where tiny little
Spongebobs run around inside of his mind, tearing open filing cabinets, trying to think of
something to fucking say or do; that's how he felt. Like he didn't have a filing cabinet marked
Talking to the Hot Guy Who Works in the Space Next to You. His mind was blank.

He snapped his jaw shut, squinted his eyes off somewhere, and said, Uh.
I just own the place next door, one long finger pointed to the opposite wall, and Derek
followed it with his eyes. I thought I'd come in and see where all the books people bring in
were coming from.
Derek didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything; it had been a very long time since he had talked
to someone this good looking to him, this attractive. He just nodded his head up and down and
made a mental, conscious effort to not scan his eyes up and down the kid's tattoos like some kind
of fucking creeper.
I'm Stiles, he said, bumping his hand against where Derek's knuckles were gripping the bottom
of the book pile in a parody of a handshake. And you're...?
Um - oh holy fucking God... ...Derek.
Stiles nodded, smiling back at him like Derek wasn't the hugest freak he'd ever met before.
Cool. Anyway I thought I'd take a look around.
He started turning around, eyes already scanning up and down the bookshelves and,
unfortunately, that's when Derek's brain decided to pull open the cabinet marked Normal Human
Interactions, because he blurted out in a near yell, you like Tuck Everlasting?
Stiles turned his head back to look at Derek with his eyebrows raised, an amused smile playing
along his lips. Yeah. Top ten favorites of all time, probably.
Derek wanted to know every single fucking book Stiles has ever read. He wanted to know his
top ten, his top twenty-five, his top five hundred books off a list; distantly, he knew this was a
weird bizarro thing to think about a person he just met but that's just how his mind works. He
sees a person, and he wonders what their favorite books are.
Just, with Stiles, maybe it was more desperate than just a casual wondering. Plus, Alexis
Bledel in the movie, right?
Oh. Oh. Right. Because Stiles was straight. Stiles was straight and thought Alexis Bledel and her
huge blue eyes and swaying hips and vagina were sexually appealing.
Derek nodded. Alexis Bledel, of course, is attractive. He had a crush on her for a while; his
sisters, the entire lot of them, were huge Gilmore Girls fans when he was growing up. Laura still
owns the entire series in a boxset. Suddenly, though, he felt like he and Alexis are long time
enemies, that he could never look at her the same way again, because the hot straight guy that
works next door thinks she's hot. Yeah. Not the worst movie adaptation.
What is the worst movie adaptation? Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at him,
genuinely interested in Derek's opinion, it seemed.
He cleared his throat. The books were starting to feel particularly heavy in his arms. If this were

anyone else, if he were having this conversation with literally anyone else, he'd immediately
say, holy shit, how much time do you have? Let's talk about The Golden Compass, A Walk To
Remember, The DaVinci Code, and unpopular opinion time : Harry Potter and the Order of
the Phoenix; this could and would become a twenty minute conversation. If it were anyone else.
Since it was Stiles, though. Oh, um...The Cat in the Hat.
The Cat? In the? Fucking? Hat? He closed his eyes and cursed himself internally. Yes, all right?
The Cat in the Hat is probably not just one of the worst movie adaptations of a book of all time,
but probably just one of the worst movies of all time period.
But, that's all he has to fucking say? The Cat in the Hat? No twenty minute tirade about the semidisturbing Michael Meyers dressed up like a cat/human hybrid? Nothing about the horrible
attempts to make the set look like a Seuss novel come to life? It should've been a fucking
cartoon, the live action choice was so unbelievably obtuse and None of that came out of his mouth. It was just out there. The Cat in the Hat.
Stiles laughed, his whole body shaking with it as he threw his head back. Derek swallowed as
he stared at the pale column of Stiles' throat, insisted that it wasn't weird or creepy to do so
inside his own head. Oh my God. I forgot about that you know I used to have fucking
nightmares about that movie? I think I mentally repressed it after a while.
Derek nervously laughed along. Thought about just dropping the books down on the ground.
All right, okay. I can get with that. What about best movie adaptation?
The big leagues. The biggest question Stiles could've possibly asked him. Almost as big of a
question as what's your favorite book? And Derek can never just go eh, maybe The Kite Runner
maybe The Book Thief it's a toss up like perhaps anyone else would do. He has to say what
genre? Which author? What time period? Fiction, non-fiction? Country of origin? He's spent
some time with a chart alone in his bedroom mapping out his favorite books from each genre and
his favorite authors, color coded and nerdy and lame and suddenly the last thing he wanted on
earth was for Stiles to see that thing.
Where does a person fucking begin picking a best book or a best adaptation? Just one?
Derek's brain did the work for him; his brain-to-mouth filter flew out the window, as he spat out,
Fight Club.
It would be the second thing he toothlessly managed to actually say right. Stiles' eyes went wide,
he pointed one long finger right at Derek's chest, and said, with passion, yes. Yes, yes, yes.
How good was the casting? Derek smiled and adjusted the books in his hand, finally managing
to make this a semi-decent conversation. That was probably Brad Pitt's best role. Ever.
Stiles grinned and nodded enthusiastically. Especially in terms of the whole, like, he waved

his hands in the air vaguely, shirtless part. Shirtless, ripped, fighting Brad Pitt is the best Brad
Pitt.
Just as the conversation was starting to get good...it went out the fucking window. Again.
Stiles thought Alexis Bledel was hot. He thought Brad Pitt was hot.
Derek's piddly little mind made the connection in slow motion, the filing cabinets opening while
pages flew all around his head, before finally digging up the litany of terms meaning attracted to
more than one gender. All that went to his mouth, however, was a squeaked out noise of
agreement.
After that, not much was said. Stiles drifted off to paw through the book shelves, and Derek more
or less hid behind the counter, pretending to be busy doing something back there with a pen and
paper, furrowing his brow like he was writing something super important. When in reality, he
was drawing a never ending scribble, filling the entire page from end to end with black ink.
He's honestly not usually like that. He's shy and maybe a bit glum, but he's not usually so fucking
inept.
When Stiles left, he waved and said, you should come next door some time! with a wink
before vanishing out the door to go back to his own job. Derek wound up just standing there
staring after him for a solid two minutes, jaw clenched.
He convinced himself he had made a complete fucking ass of himself, and was under no
circumstances, ever, to go over there and repeat that experience. Never. Stiles was too good
looking, anyway; he probably already had a serious girlfriend or boyfriend, was probably this
close to getting married, and there was nothing there anyway. So, what, they both love Fight
Club? Tons of people love Fight Club. Tons of people also have nightmares about the live action
Cat in the Hat. Tons of people love Tuck Everlasting!
This was not a romantic comedy. Derek's relationships have all been so shockingly horrible, and
he was bound to just repeat that over and over again for the rest of his life. Stiles was way too
good of a person, way too good looking, way too interesting, way too talented for Derek.
Also, not certifiably insane. Which took him straight off the list for Derek.
He avoided Stiles like the plague from then on out; embarrassed and shy and dumb. Stiles never
came in a second time, though every now and again Derek looked up just in time to see him
walking past the front glass windows with his hands shoved into his pockets, squinting inside
and flashing Derek a grin if they managed to lock eyes.
Derek would look away quickly every time, flushing.
Because Lydia Martin is as perceptive as they come, she one time caught one of these
humiliating exchanges and raised her perfectly sculpted eyebrows as she paid for a cookie. So

that's going on, huh?

Derek blinked at her, confused.
You and the bakery boy.
Um I've only met him like once, so...
She turned and watched as Stiles disappeared around the block, probably heading out to where
his Jeep is parked. He's cute.
Derek's cheeks flushed bright red and he started staring pointedly down at the old register,
shaking his head and clearing his throat. Yeah. But, we're not, like...
He's not dating anyone, she affirmed with a smirk. I asked him, once.
Because you wanted to date him?
Because I'm nosy and pushy, she said simply in response, shrugging her shoulders; and Derek
knew that to be a hundred percent the truth of the matter. When he and Lydia first met, the first
week he opened the store, she walked directly inside, took one look at him, and said, aren't you
the guy that knocked over an entire row of shelves at the library last Summer?
He was the guy that knocked over an entire row of shelves at the library that past Summer. It's
not something he liked to be reminded of, or something anyone else would ever just bring up like
that. All the same, Lydia did, with a scrutinizing glare, following it up with, is it safe for you to
be around this many shelves?
I'm not going to sneak in and take him out from underneath your wing.
He's not underneath my wing-
Whatever. You're being shy and weird and stupid. When you can't even make eye contact with a
guy without spazzing out, she started backing away from the counter to wander into the shelves,
shrugging her shoulders, that means you should probably ask him out.
Derek was about to argue with her, because if he can't even make eye contact with Stiles, how
the literal fucking hell was he supposed to ask the kid out? Sure. Derek has seen enough movies
and read enough romances to know the nuances and societal expectations of a classic ask-out.
The perfect time, in the perfect way, while a romance song plays in the background and the
lighting is just right and Derek is supposed to tip his head and shrug his shoulders all
sheepishly if he were the shy-artsy type. Or, if he were the confident type he'd just walk right up
to Stiles and say something like me, you, dinner, my place, or if he were the archetype of the bad
boy he'd fish his old leather jacket out from his closet in spite of the blistering heat outside, flip
the collar up, lean up against the brick wall beside where Stiles' Jeep is parked, say I haven't
asked you out yet, and that's kind of a problem, don't you think?

The problem is, Derek doesn't have a type. As a protagonist, he's boring and trite. Tragic back
story, he supposes, a history of failed relationships, and maybe this would make him the kicked
puppy trope, wherein he's all hesitant about getting his heart broken all over again and needs to
be coaxed and convinced into a relationship.
He's not, though. Kate Argent was an anomaly. She was sick. The antagonist. The villain. In
every story, Derek thinks, there's really only room for one as evil as she was. He considers
himself safe, from here on out, from that kind of horror. Jennifer Blake was the lesson learned,
the huh, maybe I'm not straight after all? turning point chapter. Jackson Whittemore was the
mistake, the jerk-off jock archetype, the one readers would roll their eyes at and say god, this
fucking guy? Seriously?
He doesn't have issues with being too afraid to jump back into it, again. He sees all his past
romances as learning experiences, as individual chapters, and all he ever wants to do is hurry up
and get to the next one as soon as possible so the story can go on, so the end can be
foreshadowed and planned out and outlined.
What does that make him, then? He has the tragic backstory, but he doesn't brood or mope or say
things like and it was all my fault, wasn't it...He doesn't need Stiles to put his hand on Derek's
cheek and say things like oh, Derek, what happened wasn't your fault. And he has the history of
failed relationships, but he hasn't locked himself up in his room or closed himself off to love, he
doesn't say things like I'm just not doing relationships anymore, I don't want to get hurt again
and he doesn't need Stiles to say things like but I swear I'm not going to hurt you and I'm
different than all the rest.
What possible story is Derek going to get out of all of this? When he can't fit himself into a
niche, when he doesn't know nearly enough about Stiles to get him pegged either, he doesn't
know how to ask the kid out.
Where does the story begin?
---After about fifteen minutes of Lydia and Allison harassing him, goading him into it, practically
pushing him out the fucking door, Derek stumbles out into the summer sunshine and stares up at
the sign outside Wake and Bake. It's white, with pink pastel letters covered in sprinkles spelling
the name out dreamily, like the sign itself is a cupcake waiting to be unpeeled and munched on.
He glowers at the thing, thinking how Stiles himself looks nothing like the sign to his business,
thinking about how nothing about Stiles that he's learned so far makes very much sense, doesn't
fit together like he's used to, and then Lydia bangs on the glass of the bookstore.
She points a threatening finger at him, cocking her head in the direction of the wall dividing their
two places, and he sighs. He's not getting out of this one.
All he has to do is go inside. He just has to go inside like Stiles asked him to months ago, order
some fruity little whatever, get a coffee, attempt to make non-spazztic conversation with Stiles

himself, and then leave. It's not fucking rocket science. He has talked to people before,
successfully, believe it or not.
With one last sigh and a hand scrubbed down his face, he pushes the door open and steps inside
for the first time.
It smells good. That's the first thought that crosses Derek's mind; it smells good, like coffee and
sugar and cinnamon, like home, he thinks, like something he could definitely get used to given the
opportunity. It looks like it smells, as well; comfortable chairs and tiny round tables, a couple of
kids sitting on laptops as they drink coffee out of pastel mugs and eat scones off of pastel
saucers, the aesthetic Stiles is going for becoming more and more clear to Derek the more steps
he takes inside.
50's style bakery. It reminds him of Pleasantville, when he compares Derek's dimly lit, dark
colored bookstore and mellow music and musty old book smell to Stiles' bright, happy bakery
and a peppy song playing over his head somewhere. Like going from black and white to color.
He approaches the counter, Stiles nowhere in sight, and glances up at the menu hand-written in
blocky print with cute drawings of cupcakes with faces and arms crawling all over the letters.
He stares at it for an inordinate amount of time, most likely, barely even registering what he's
reading, before Stiles pops his head out from the back and yells hey!
Derek jumps, surprised, as Stiles comes completely out of the back room, wiping his hands off
on a damp rag. He's got a light line of flower drifting across his brow, what looks like cake
batter splattered over the tattoos on his arms, grinning from ear to ear. You finally came over!
Derek nods, clearing his throat. Yeah, um finally got the time?
The smaller man smiles back at him, pushing his hips up against his end of the counter, tilting his
head to the side. For the first time, Derek gets a good, semi-long look at the tattoos on Stiles'
arms notes that they're all as colorful as the bakery he runs. There's a Cheshire cat lurking on
the underside of his right arm, something that looks like a fucking unicorn in the crook of the
opposite arm, matching water-color roses resting on either one of his wrists, and that's all Derek
can make out before he looks back up to meet Stiles' eyes. What'll you have?
He remembers that he's barely looked at the menu, so he makes a confused noise as he looks
back up at it with a dropped jaw; cupcakes and cookies and paninis and mochas, lattes,
Americanos. He glances at the glass cases, sees what looks like miles of pastel icings and treats,
furrows his brow. How does a person just walk in here and pick from all this stuff when there's
this much to choose from?
Stiles laughs in front of him, sliding a single latex glove onto his hand. Want some
suggestions?
He nods awkwardly back at the baker, feeling bizarrely out of place in his dark colored clothes
with his bumblingly huge limbs.

You look like you'd order a meaty panini, Stiles says, looking him up and down as he drifts
behind one of the glass cases, sliding the back open with a fshhhh sound, just because it's in
your comfort zone. But deep down, I get the sense that you're more into something like... he
leans down, disappears for a couple of seconds, and then comes back up with a huge cupcake
topped with light blue icing, holding it out in his gloved hand for Derek to get a better look at.
It's my Lucky Charm cake.
Derek blinks at it; it's not something he would ever order for himself. It looks like something
he'd take one look at, before sliding his eyes over to a plain chocolate-on-chocolate type thing.
It's got sprinkles on top. It's pastel like every thing else in this place. It's called a Lucky Charm,
for fuck's sake.
The frosting is mostly marshmallow. Of course.
Good fucking lord. All right, he decides, because what the hell? It's not like he's all worried
about his masculinity or something like that, because...well, there are a lot of reasons he doesn't
give a shit about his masculinity. The thing might be ridiculous and ostentatious, showy and
flashy and the opposite of every thing Derek inherently is, but it looks good. Really good.
Besides, Stiles was right; he would've ordered something boring like a panini, and maybe Derek
doesn't want Stiles to go around thinking he's boring.
Stile smiles at him, asks him if it's for here to go to-go, definitely, because Derek's eyes are
starting to melt from the sheer number of bright colors in here, and he just wants to run back to
Allison and Lydia like see I fucking did it and I have the ridiculous cupcake to prove it - and
then he pulls out what looks like a tiny little cupcake house made out of white cardboard. Like a
cupholder, only boxed in with WAKE AND BAKE splashed across the sides in, of course, pink
letters.
In a moment of bravery, and normalcy, Derek asks, is that a reference to marijuana? as he
gestures emphatically to the box and passes Stiles a ten dollar bill for him to break up.
Stiles laughs, long and loud, as the register pops open. You would not believe how many
people ask me that! Derek thinks he most likely would believe it, actually, since the very
second he heard that the place moving in next door would be called Wake and Bake he's thought
it would be some stoner bakery with hemp brownies sold under the counter or something. I like
the rhyming thing; and plus, he hands Derek his change and winks, it's not as bad as the idea
my best friend had. Much Ado About Muffins.
Derek places the best friend that Stiles is referring to as the kid with the crooked-jaw who
sometimes works the register, and slinks his way into Derek's bookstore to pretend to read while
actually staring over the tops of books at Allison whenever she's around. This is an easy
connection to make, because the kid one time bought a crinkled up copy of The Maze Runner,
leaned over the counter, winked at Derek, and said, gee, I hope I don't get...lost in this book.
There can only be one person in Beacon Hills with puns that fucking horrible.

Once the cupcake is paid for and the box is sitting in Derek's hand, Stiles says something about
coming over to get some books someday, Derek says something like oh yeah totally do that as
he scurries out the door, out of the pastels, retreating into the safety of his dark and depressing
bookstore where Allison and Lydia are standing at the counter, waiting for him like they had
been manning the store while he was out.
Well? Allison asks with a smile, how'd it go?
Do you like him? Lydia demands, more direct and to the point than Allison would ever be.
Derek puts the cupcake down on the counter, and furrows his brow. The entire exchange that
Stiles and Derek had was nothing to really write home about; or, at least perhaps not on Stiles'
end. Derek thinks he could write an entire novella on what just happened, on the strange little
bakery he was just in, or a book of poetry about Stiles' colorfully odd and eccentric tattoos, an
entire series of books about each and every different kind of pastry and whatever he saw lined
up behind the glass.
Which probably means that yes. Yes Derek likes Stiles. He likes the weird tattoos and the
pastels and the way he could probably hold a pretty decent conversation about books with
Derek, if their first interaction was anything to go by.
Derek likes Stiles, and he's not straight, and he's not dating anyone.
Then you should ask him out, Lydia insists, snapping her fingers like Derek is a dog she's
trying to teach new tricks.
Then he should ask him out. It's the obvious next step the obvious beginning to the next chapter.
What's not so obvious is how he should go about doing it.
Stiles comes in way too early, way too fucking early for Derek to catch him before work; when
Stiles is pulling up in his rusty old Jeep and starting his work day, Derek is still fast asleep in his
dark bedroom at home while Laura grinds coffee beans in the kitchen. So that's out of the
question.
Stiles also appears to be wildly busy every time Derek glances surreptitiously into the bakery as
he walks past; while the tan best friend takes orders and pulls stuff out of the glass cases, Stiles
must be somewhere in the back frosting things or whatever it is he does as soon as he disappears
into the backroom. He doesn't show up to buy any books like he promised at the bakery the other
day when Derek bought the cupcake (which was lifechangingly delicious, by the way), and
Derek can't exactly fault him for that because Derek didn't show up in the bakery for months
after Stiles asked him to.
So the only option is cornering him at the end of the day. The easiest option, because Stiles
struggles with the lock on the back door of the place, and every night at seven o'clock, Derek has
to listen to Stiles curse and mutter about how he really needs to change the fucking locks, so it's

not like Derek has any chance whatsoever of missing him.

He stands there in the dark of his bookstore, right at the back door, listening. Waiting.
Maybe he's become the archetype of absolute fucking creep, like in The Lovely Bones.
Finally, when the digital clock sitting on Derek's counter across the store reads seven twelve,
Derek hears the telltale signs of Stiles opening his backdoor and slamming it shut. He listens as
the keys jingle, as the muttering and aggravated sighing starts up waits ten seconds, and then
opens up his own door.
When they're both outside, Stiles makes eye contact with him, one hand balancing two twelve by
twelve bakery boxes while the other twists and turns the key in the lock of his door, trying to
force it into submission. I don't usually see you out here, he says with a smile, still struggling.
Derek locks his door easily enough because his lock actually fucking works and Stiles should
get his locks changed, and turns to face him. Got done a little early tonight. And every other
night before that. Stiles doesn't need to know that. What's in the boxes? He takes a couple of
steps closer to the baker, trying to look cool and calm and casual.
Finally, Stiles pulls his key out of the difficult lock, huffing out a breath. Leftovers of stuff that
won't keep and some failed attempts. I usually dole them out to my dad and my friends, he looks
Derek dead in the eyes in the fading summer sun, and says, you want some?
Derek takes another step forward, tracing his eyes down the arm holding the boxes the one
with the unicorn and an ice cream cone and nods. Sure. What is it?
Well, Stiles begins, reaching over to pop the top box open, have a look for yourself.
He leans over, and takes a look at a handful of already made paninis, still slightly warm,
alongside some cupcakes that Derek certainly wouldn't call failed attempts, but can see well
enough where Stiles went wrong with uneven piping. He grabs a panini, immediately takes a
bite, then a second one; it's so fucking good.
Stiles laughs. Hungry?
Mouth full of panini, some chicken juice running down his hands, Derek spits out, you wanna go
out with me?
This, he thinks, is not how it was supposed to happen. He tried too hard for casual, way too
fucking hard, and it's coming out all...stupid. Almost as a self defense mechanism, he shoves two
more huge bites of the sandwich into his mouth until there's nothing more but a bite or two left in
his hand.
He was not supposed to be talking with his mouthful at Stiles, eating like a fucking animal, while
the kid stands there laughing at him. Derek doesn't even want to imagine the kind of adjectives
that would be used to describe this scene, right here, right now; things like floundering and

strange and complete and total failure.

He shoves the last of the sandwich into his mouth and avoids eye contact with Stiles. He can
already hear the horribly awkward rejection um...well, you know, I actually just got out of a
really bad relationship, so...but we can be, like, friends if you want?
Okay.
Derek blinks up at him, swallowing a mouthful, wide-eyed. Stiles is smiling at him, holding his
boxes as his pale skin is illuminated by the thinning sunlight turning into twilight. He doesn't look
like he's rejecting him and it doesn't...sound like he's rejecting him. Okay? Like...okay like?
Okay like yes I'll go out with you.
There's a couple seconds of silence, wherein Derek wipes his panini hands off on his jeans and
probably stares at Stiles like an idiot, while Stiles himself just smiles back at him with his head
tilted a bit to the side like he does sometimes. Derek is thinking Christ, I finally did it, I
actually asked out the guy who's quite possibly the guy of my actual dreams, while Stiles is
probably thinking I've made a huge mistake, and the entire thing is interrupted by Stiles clearing
his throat awkwardly; shifting his eyes uncomfortably away.
Just so you know... he's trailing off, and for a second Derek starts to genuinely believe that he's
going to take it back, change his mind, tell Derek to fuck off or something, I made the mistake of
not being up front about this before, so I'll just get it out of the way now. He takes a deep breath
like he's about to admit to having cancer or that he's actually a shape-shifting reptilian and
Derek's heart is pounding in his fucking chest, before Stiles says, ...I don't really do longterm.
Derek snaps his jaw shut. He narrows his eyes in thought; confused and surprised. What do you
mean? Like...you don't do relationships...? Which, all right maybe all of Derek's relationships
have ended in absolute fucking horror and disaster, but he doesn't think he has the detachment to
just fuck someone and then slip out the door in the morning.
Having a family as huge as he did, where everyone was so close and tight-knit he just doesn't
understand the point of relationships that aren't dedicated and real. What's the point of hooking
up with someone if you have no intentions of ever going any farther? Derek, despite being
slightly aloof and shy and kind of a grump, isn't a very distant or cold person.
So if Stiles doesn't do relationships, then Derek can't do Stiles. So to speak. The thought is
depressing.
I do relationships, he nods, smiling, sending relief through Derek's mind, but I just don't like
to stick around once things have run their course. Do you know what I mean?
Derek does not. Not at all. When things have run their course? This suddenly, out of nowhere, is
a very fucking bizarre conversation. Derek cannot think of a single books he's read or movie he's
seen where someone says I do relationships, but like I know when to leave after being asked

out for the first time. Um -

Stiles laughs, clutching tighter to the bakery boxes, shifting them in his arms like it's
uncomfortable to be holding them like that. On auto-pilot, Derek says here let me and takes one
of them in his hands, mostly just for something to do that isn't blinking like a confused dog at the
guy he's currently trying to ask out. It isn't going well. Or maybe it is? He said yes so?
I mean I have no interest in the whole let's be together forever thing. I know when to leave, and
I know how to cut the strings. Clean breaks. You know?
Clean breaks. Derek wants to laugh in his face, because now he gets what Stiles is saying. Oh,
how Derek has been want for a clean break just once in his entire fucking life. I think I get what
you mean, he smiles, and it feels strange for the topic of conversation, but Stiles smiles right
back at him, like he's pleased.
Maybe it's weird to say that now.
A little bit. A little bit weird; but nearly every thing about Stiles is a little bit weird, unicorn
tattoo included, and Derek guesses it's nice enough that Stiles cares enough to be brutally honest
like this. So, he doesn't want to get married. Okay.
Is that going to be a problem, with you?
It's funny, how Derek is the one in this situation people probably would've expected to be the
hesitant one. The one who pulls back, terrified of getting hurt, of being left alone, since all he's
been through would indicate that that's how he would've turned out in his adult life. The death of
his family, and his shitty relationships; he finds himself wondering what exactly it was that
happened to Stiles that made him this way.
The thing is, Derek doesn't think it's going to be a problem at all. Is this any different than a
person who thinks they can get away from relationships, who thinks they can sleep with someone
repeatedly and feel nothing, who thinks that they don't need to give themselves completely to just
one person?
And how do all those stories end, Derek thinks. What happens in the end?
The only difference here is that Stiles might leave someday; Stiles might have it in him to just
walk out right when things are starting to get good, and Derek thinks he could survive that. They
haven't even had the first fucking date yet; so far all Derek knows, he doesn't even really like
Stiles as much as he thinks he does.
It's too early to be thinking about it anyway. It's a date. It's a kiss.
Derek smiles at him again. I don't think so.
----

The first date goes by more or less seamlessly. Derek is nervous and awkward when he meets
Stiles at the restaurant, some burger and fries place that Stiles had suggested, nervous and
awkward when they sit down together in a booth. He jiggles his leg up and down as he scans the
menu and Stiles says, in a callback to something he said when Derek bought one of his cupcakes,
want a suggestion?
It's like Stiles can just tell without hardly knowing him that Derek is the single most indecisive
person on the face of the planet. He suggests the bacon cheeseburger, and Derek happily goes
along with it.
The nervous awkwardness lasts for only a couple more minutes, because the fact that Derek is
honest to god struggling at coming up with something to say is overshadowed by the fact that
Stiles talks. He talks, and he talks, and he talks. And not in a me, me, me, way, like chatty people
usually do he says things like well, I got into cooking and baking because my mother left me
all her cookbooks and I thought that meant it's what she wanted me to do, and it's a good
thing I wound up loving it what about you? Do you write books too, or just read them? opening the conversation up for Derek to say something aside from yeah, right, mmhmmm; and he
watches Derek's face with wide amber eyes as he listens intently, playing absentmindedly with
the straw in his milkshake.
Derek doesn't think he's ever met a talkative person that he hasn't been annoyed by, before.
Talkative people tend to be self-centered, obnoxious, and in general the worst people Derek's
ever met. Trying to read while someone is hovering over his shoulder going what are you
reading what's that about what's it like do you like it have you seen the movie is the single
most annoying fucking thing on the face of the planet Stiles seems like he'd read the cover of
the book himself and move on.
He also doesn't have a problem being forthcoming and honest; although, it's not like Derek
doubted that after the experience he had asking him out. Halfway through their burgers, he wipes
his fingers off on a napkin, leans back in his seat, and says, so, how come you asked me out?
Derek shrugs. Because I like you?
Specifically, though. I don't need you to tell me you like me when we're sitting here like this. I
mean, like, what did you like about me?
I liked your cupcake.
Oh, so that's what this is about, he laughs and points an accusatory finger in Derek's direction,
you're using me for baked goods. I see how it is, now.
You've caught onto my evil plot.
Well, I guess I can admit now that the only reason I said yes is because I'm using you to get
discounts on already discounted books. He munches on a crispy french fry, scans Derek with
his amber eyes, and tilts his head to the side. But I would think a guy like you wouldn't want to

date a guy like me.

Derek puts his hamburger down, sensing that this is a conversation Stiles genuinely wants to
have, not one that he wants to joke around about.
Look at my tattoos, Stiles holds his arms up, as if this all the proof he needs for why Derek
shouldn't like him. Derek eyes the unicorn warily; unsure of why this one, out of all the ones on
display, is the one that always catches his eye. Probably because it's just so fucking ridiculous.
A man like you should not be into this, right?
He shrugs right back at him, again, not taking his eyes off the unicorn. I like those, too. It's not
a lie.
On the second date, Stiles comes by Derek and Laura's apartment in his Jeep to pick him up and
drive them off to a really good ice cream place, according to Stiles. Laura glares out the window
through the blinds at him, at the way Stiles throws his car into park, the way his face gets
illuminated by the glow of his phone screen as he texts Derek a gun emoji, because that's his
signal. (A gun is your signal? That's how you let people know you're outside?) (Yeah. It's like,
shotgun.) (What about one of the cars?) (You can text me a car when you're outside my house.
My signal is the gun and you're gonna deal with it.)
When Derek climbs into the car, Stiles leans over and kisses him on the mouth without preamble.
His lips are soft, and he's covered in the faint, muted smell of frosting and coffee. It's not a bad
scent. He wonders if Stiles can smell the old books on Derek, the dust and the ink, if he thinks
that's not a bad scent, either.
Is it okay that I did that? Stiles asks, flicking his amber eyes up to meet Derek's head on. Derek
swallows; nods yes without hesitating. Who wouldn't be okay with getting kissed by Stiles, he
thinks in the back of his mind as the Jeep revs up and they're driving off who would mind that
at all?
Stiles plays the weirdest hodgepodge of music Derek thinks he's ever heard as they sit in the car
and eat their ice cream Stiles got cotton candy, because of course, and Derek got double
chocolate, because of course. Everyone he's ever known has been very set in what music they
like; Laura, for example, likes rap and hip hop and not much else, turns her nose up at country
and indie and alternative music like it has the fucking plague. The girls that come into the
bookstore never complain about Derek's steady mix of female singer/songwriters, and all his
siblings had been split amongst themselves half loved pop top 40, the other half couldn't
fucking stand it and would only listen to underground stuff.
Stiles apparently doesn't have a problem with anything. He plays rap, top 40, country, heavy
metal, screamo even, and he doesn't blink or get embarrassed when a Katy Perry song starts up.
He just continues on with his conversation, as if this is an absolutely normal thing that happens
and he has nothing to be ashamed of. If Laura were in this car, she'd hiss and turn the song off
immediately, citing something about I don't know how that got on there I don't like Katy Perry
I've never even heard that song before.

When Taylor Swift comes on, and it's not one of the songs played ceaselessly over the radio that
Derek would know so he recognizes it only from the unmistakable voice, Stiles leans forward
and turns it up halfway through the chorus, a dribble of pink cream dripping down his face
before he wipes it away. See, this is what I'm talking about.
Derek blinks, not understanding. Seconds ago they were talking about which film adaptation of
The Great Gatsby was better, with Derek supporting the original and Stiles, unsurprisingly, going
from the glitz and glam of the Leonardo DiCaprio version; and Stiles just stopped mid sentence
to turn the music up.
For a couple of seconds he just sits there listening, blinking and tilting his head to the side like
he does, as if he's feeling the music sift down through his very bones. I feel that shit, you know
what I mean? He leans back in his seat and lets the empty cone where his ice cream used to be
fall limply in his hand. Every thing is so fucking temporary, including people it just feels nice
to accept that nothing lasts forever. Right?
Derek narrows his eyes. Are you telling me your entire life philosophy is based around a
Taylor Swift song?
Stiles narrows his eyes directly back at him, turning in his seat so his entire body is facing in
Derek's direction. Would that be a problem?
Anyone else would be sheepish haha, what? I don't, like, listen to her or anything. My little
sister does or whatever but I'm just...I don't know. She has some catchy songs? Stiles doesn't
even blink. He stares coolly back at Derek, as if he's just fucking daring him to say something
about how idiotic it is.
So, instead of going down what would very clearly be a dangerous road, Derek shakes his head
and says,it's weird then that you like Tuck Everlasting so much, then that entire story is about
things lasting forever.
Slowly, a smile spreads across Stiles' face, and he turns back around to face the ice cream
shoppe the kids crawling around outside of it in the twilight of summer time, the parents
sighing and rubbing their temples. Winnie Foster chose to die rather than wait around for some
dude for a hundred years, Derek, his voice is even, like he's thought about this a lot, has had to
explain this many, many times before. I'd die before drinking that shit, too.
Derek stares at the profile of his face - for a person with such happy tattoos, he can be a bit of a
downer; even more so than Derek, which is really saying something. He guesses that Stiles
simply believes that all things are finite, that maybe he's lost a lot in his life, things that he
doesn't know Derek well enough to explain to him, and is now going through the motions, jaded
and sad and listening to fucking Taylor Swift and saying things like I don't do longterm.
And instead of wondering if he's made a mistake, Derek finds himself wanting to know. He
wants to know what happened.

At the end of the night, Derek leans over to kiss Stiles, and not the other way around this time,
and Stiles responds by wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and pulling him closer up against
his body.
---Three weeks later, and the entire apartment is littered with empty white cups reading WAKE
AND BAKE in pink lettering on the sides. Coffee cups perched on top of books in Derek's room,
on top of the television, a pile of them sitting in the waste basket; some of them with a scribble
in Stiles' neat, delicate handwriting that reads something like Harry Potter and the Order of the
Phoenix was a good fucking movie or where's my book rec list!? or dinner tonight?? or Derek!
surrounded by a cacophony of hearts.
Stiles, for his part, has books scattered all over his own tiny one bedroom yellow house, now
with writings on the inside covers in Derek's blocky all caps writing saying things like you'd
like this one, so read it first or the movie of this is shit so don't bother watching it even if it is
on Netflix or I'll pick you up this time or a crude drawing of the Cat in the Hat with the caption
haunting your dreams...
To put it lightly; they're super into each other and are really, really lame about it. Derek buys at
least three cups of coffee a day, with the Stiles' Boyfriend discount of course, and Stiles wanders
in to buy books off of Derek's recommendation list during his lunch break nearly every day,
munching on a panini and occasionally making out with Derek behind one of the science fiction
shelves.
The girls all give him wary looks and whisper behind his back about his tattoos and his 'weird
laugh', the way he always scratches at his face and tilts his head to the side when he's talking to
Derek. Lydia seems pleased whenever she walks in with a croissant from next door, served to
her by Scott, and doesn't make any comments other than to flip her hair over her shoulder and say
hello, Stiles as she skirts past them to the women's studies section.
They argue constantly about books and movies. Like how Stiles thinks Kill Bill is better than
Pulp Fiction, or how Derek still thinks Harry Potter five is a shitty god damn movie when
compared to the rest Stiles likes Sarah Dessen and Derek likes John Green, Stiles likes
Monsters Inc. and Derek prefers Brave, and on and on and on. It's like the bickering never
actually ends between the two of them, even when the subjects change. They'll be sitting on
Stiles' couch eating Chinese food out of takeout containers, having a perfectly reasonable
conversation about how nice the delivery boy was, and suddenly they just pick right back up
where they left off when a commercial for the latest Nicholas Sparks movie comes on.
You don't like Nicholas Sparks but you read John Green? Stiles accuses, slurping a noodle
into his mouth.
Nicholas Sparks is fucking boring and can't even write that well. John Green is at least-
They're! The! Same!

They most certainly are fucking not.

Are!
Not.
White guys, Stiles raises his index finger in the air, munching on a tree of brocoli, wear
glasses, a second finger, have movies made out of their dumbo romance novels, a third finger.
It's like the pot calling the kettle black?
Nicholas Sparks doesn't wear glasses.
You wannt bet!?
Yeah I do actually, Derek leans forward and grabs the container of spring rolls, waving them
in the air, whoever's right gets the last spring roll.
Oh ohohoho, Stiles fishes his laptop out from underneath the cushions of the couch, you are
on.
Nicholas Sparks does not wear glasses. Derek winds up splitting the last spring roll with Stiles
anyway.
Their other favorite pastime is trying to set up Scott and Allison. Stiles will press his face up
against the window of the bookstore, still in his work apron, getting frosting and cake batter all
over the place, and peer in. If he spots Allison, suddenly Scott is in there with a list of books that
Stiles asked him to get. (If he doesn't, suddenly Stiles is getting a hickey while Erica pretends
she doesn't notice them.)
Derek will sometimes say things like been over to Wake and Bake lately? On a Wednesday? At
one o'clock? And Allison, who is all kinds of crazy book smart, doesn't pick up on the fucking
hints; she just furrows her brow and says nooo... confused and slightly freaked out by Derek and
Stiles' constant badgering to get her over there. Since Scott is fucking useless and won't even so
much as look in Allison's direction if they're in the same room together, and Allison has
absolutely no fucking idea what's going on, it's not going very well.
Stiles and Derek, however, are going very well. Very, very well.
In the sense that Derek doesn't have one complaint except that Stiles is constantly trying to fatten
Derek up with cookies and cupcakes and poundcake. Derek makes the joke that Stiles is planning
on cooking him, Stiles laughs and ices another three dozen cookies, and his entire life has
become this fluffy pink cotton candy thing that smells like coffee and sugar.
Sometimes he thinks, probably unfairly and probably bizarrely which is why he'd never admit it
to Stiles out loud, that it's like his childhood was. The way Stiles gets carefree and doesn't
hesitate to squirt Derek in the face with toaster strudel icing while yelling you eat this
garbage!? I can make something ten times better than this shit! Stiles likes to drag Derek

along on long, aimless drives with music blasted, windows down, sunglasses on yapping at
him a mile a minute as he goes ten miles over the speed limit no matter what the speed limit is,
eats doritos while using his laptop and gets sticky cheesy dust all over the keys, collects shiny
things he finds in thrift stores that has no use or merit, and on and on and on.
In a way, Stiles is like no one he's ever met before. In another, he's reminiscent of a relic from
his old life when he was happier, and not a sad grump that runs a dusty old used bookstore.
The first time they have sex, it's in Stiles' bedroom, underneath the glow in the dark stars he has
taped to the ceiling and walls, and Stiles insists on turning the lights of.
Why? Derek demands while tearing his own shirt of, as Stiles stares up at him from the edge
of the bed, fingers thumbing along the hem of his own shirt. You can't bear the sight of me in the
light?
Stiles laughs. I like the ambiance, he points at the ceiling, and Derek thinks, well, what the
hell. There are so many stars stuck to every flat surface, including a couple of books that Derek
loaned him which they'll have a conversation about later, that they can still see each other, though
their skin glows odd and green.
Stiles pulls his shirt up over his head, and for the first time, Derek gets a full and complete look
of every tattoo that Stiles has. The ones on his side he hadn't known existed, the ones snaking
around his collarbones that he'd only seen glimpses of, each and every one of them iridescently
odd colored in the green glow of his bedroom, and Derek traces some of the lines with his
fingers as Stiles shivers underneath is touch.
Do any of these mean anything? He asks, watching Stiles' eyelids flutter against his cheeks.
Stiles looks up at him, and his face falters for a second like Derek's asked him something
fucking heartbreaking and awful and he kinda wants to take it back but then he's smiling.
Falsely. But a smile, none the less. He grabs onto Derek's wrist to stop his fingers. Slowly, he
brings Derek's hand to rest over the light pink and blue cherry blossoms spreading across his
collarbones like vines. It means life is fleeting, he says, gently, dragging Derek's fingers
across the flowers on his skin carefully, they fall so quickly.
He picks Derek's wrist up and pulls his hand down to Stiles' hip, where a long line of birds in
varying colors spiral up, up and up the side of his body, and drags Derek's index finger across
them lazily. It means away.
Away? Derek repeats breathlessly, and Stiles looks up and meets his eyes. He doesnt explain
it; he just lets it hang there in the air. Away. Before he pulls on Derek's neck, burying him into
another kiss that Derek could never even think to pull away from.
Afterwards, when they're just lying underneath the green glow of the stars, Stiles asks, what's
your favorite memory?

Derek thinks for a second. So many of his memories are tainted, now, ruined and turned into ash
especially when it comes to his childhood. He's envious of how people reflect on their
childhood and laugh, how people get to go home to their childhood houses and look at the pencil
marks on the wall, the faded drawings in permanent marker. He tries not think about that much.
It's painful. Maybe when I rode a bike without falling for the first time. He had been alone, at
the time, no dead relatives to haunt the memory, now.
Stiles hmm's like he thinks it's cute, turning over and staring at the side of Derek's face with a
small smile. Human memories are crazy. I don't know. It's just weird how we can see people in
memory differently than how we saw them in the present. Like nostalgia paints every thing up to
be much prettier than it really was.
Like always, Stiles takes the conversation down a completely different path than Derek would've
ever thought he could. He blinks up at the ceiling, furrowing his brow, before turning to look
directly into Stiles' eyes. You don't really think that all your memories are just sugarcoated,
though, do you?
He sighs. Like he's tired and exhausted of the conversation already, even though he started it. I
think I can't trust them. I don't like looking back on things, because I can't trust my own mind to
not fabricate at least some of it.
Derek thinks about his family. He thinks about how the only place he can ever really be with
them, now, is in his memories; how they dance around his head like ghosts back from the dead
every time he closes his eyes at night, how on the anniversary of the fire he doesn't even get out
of bed because the memories are so intrusive and paralyzing.
How much of that is fabricated, he wonders. How much of the past that he's been clinging onto
so tightly has his mind painted over to seem more enticing, more worthy of being missed?
My family died in a fire. He spits it out like acid on his tongue, abruptly and immediately he
feels the telltale signs of Stiles' entire body tensing up next to him. Derek knew that eventually
he'd have to come clean about it, have to be honest and tell him the truth, because everyone
always asks how come they haven't met his family yet. And it's horrible. They I was dating a
girl and she turned out to be...you know. Crazy.
Sociopath, Stiles supplies quietly beside him, voice a tight knot.
She just no reason, you know? I didn't see it coming. She acted so normal and...they all died.
Except me and my sister. All twelve people in the house burned alive.
Stiles doesn't reach his hand out to touch Derek. He lies there and stares at the side of Derek's
face while Derek doesn't dare to look over at him, doesn't dare to see the pity etched all over his
face.
I don't like those memories so much.

Finally, Stiles swallows thickly beside him, clears his throat, and says, yeah. That's the other
thing. Memories that hurt, like that they tend to be the most vivd. Like he knows the feeling,
like he understood, he said this; but he didn't offer anything over to Derek. Nothing about the
death of his mother, or where his father is, or...anything.
Just silence.
---Derek forgets about that pesky little I don't do longterm detail, and it's easy to. The way Stiles
can act sometimes, the way they are with each other. It feels longterm. And that's an incredibly
simple term for the way it feels to be with Stiles, sometimes. The way they just flow together
and vibe, how even on days where they don't have the time to really see each other, Scott brings
over a cup of coffee with Stiles' handwriting saying something like sigh... :(; and never I miss
you, but it's not like he has to say it.
It's not like he has to say it. Right?
He doesn't think about what it means that Stiles will just flat out never say certain things how
it's been three months and Stiles won't say I miss you or when Derek says it he'll just go quiet
on the other end of the phone before changing the subject. He doesn't think about what it means
that when Derek suggests Stiles leave a spare change of clothes in Derek's room at he and
Laura's apartment, Stiles shrugs his shoulders and says nah, that's okay in a cryptic tone of
voice.
He doesn't think about how Stiles always returns Derek's books when he's finished with them,
covered in glow in the dark stars, while Derek holds onto Stiles' loans, keeps them stacked
neatly up on his bedside table; until eventually Stiles asks for them back. How Stiles refuses to
watch his favorite movies with Derek because he doesn't want to associate them with anyone or
anything; doesn't want to ruin them. How Stiles never calls at midnight, how Stiles has started
pulling back from setting Scott up with Allison, how Stiles keeps all the books he bought from
Derek's store and finished not in one of his many bookshelves, but in a pile in his closet, hidden
behind his jeans hanging down.
He doesn't think about any of this stuff, probably because his mind actively rejects all of it.
Until one day he's standing in line at the bookstore, picking up a brand new copy of Fight Club
because his has fallen to pieces and tatters, the back page torn off long ago finally starting to let
some of the pages flutter off as the glue from the binding wears down.
Standing there. That's all he's doing. He's literally just standing there, thoughtless, staring blankly
ahead while he waits his turn; and he hears that fucking song.
From he and Stiles' second date, when he had turned the radio up and said see, this is what I'm
talking about. Something about it freaks him the fuck out; legitimately scares the shit out of him,
the thump-thump of the bassline sending chills up his spine, and all he can think about is Stiles

tilting his head in the fading sunlight three months ago, I don't really do longterm, the way Derek
had more or less heckled at him, rolling his eyes.
Stiles' favorite thing about Tuck Everlasting is how Winnie Foster would rather fucking die than
wait around for a forever, and nothing lasts forever.
He turns Fight Club around and around in his hands; the cashier has to say sir? about three times
to finally get his attention, finally rip him out of getting sucked into those thump-thumps playing
over the speakers.
When he gets over to Stiles' house, he slams Fight Club down on the kitchen table, and says, we
need to fucking talk.
Stiles blinks at him, freezing in the middle of kneading a cone of pink icing. All right, he says
slowly, dropping the icing down onto the counter, crossing his colorful arms across his chest.
What are we actually doing, here?
The baker tilts his head to the side, blinks those huge amber eyes, and frowns. I'm softening the
frosting that was in the fridge
Derek feels like pinching Stiles' cheeks. Like, in a threatening way. He wants to pinch Stiles'
cheeks. I meant us, Stiles. You and me, what are we doing.
Well... he glances around the kitchen, at the ceramic cats and the fucking unicorn statue sitting
in the middle of the mint green table, and frowns even more deeply, scratching at his eyebrow.
...you can help me soften the frosting...
You know that's not what I mean, because Derek knows well enough by now how much Stiles
enjoys an evasive answer. Like he doesn't understand the question or he thinks he can find some
clever way around it, and he's always trying to be fucking clever and a smartass. Don't play
games.
Stiles huffs out a breath, goes back to kneading at his frosting cone, this time with a bit more
fervor; his long fingers jabbing mercilessly at the thick, creamy blob like it's done him wrong,
somehow. I'm not trying to play games. That's the entire point.
And another thing he loves doing is saying weird, cryptic shit like that. Derek stares at his arms
as they work at the frosting, mouth agape, wondering what the actual fuck is going on here. The
point of what?
Another huff, another vicious jab of a fist against the frosting, his eyes downcast. Where is this
coming from, Derek?
Derek feels absolutely idiotic saying I heard that fucking song at the bookstore and it freaked
me out, because...it is idiotic. It's fucking ludicrous that a song is freaking him out so much, to
the point where he honestly feels like getting into an actual fight with Stiles, when the two of

them have never had a single real fight before. He just stands there, opening and closing his
mouth, trying to think of the words to say, but they won't come to him.
He has piles upon piles of stories and words saved inside of his head, and not a single one of
them is coming to his rescue, now.
What do you think we are? Stiles furrows his brow, actually turns to look at him. Last time I
checked, we were dating. While the word is, at its most basic definition, true, it sounds so
simplistic the way he says it. Like calling a film a movie or a novel a book. The watered down
version. So I don't get what we're talking about, here.
From the tight line of Stiles' shoulders, the way he refuses to make direct eye contact and keeps
kneading the frosting even though he's about to turn it into soup, Derek can tell clear as day that
Stiles knows exactly what they're talking about. Or at least what Derek is fucking trying to talk
about, here. Are you breaking up with me?
Stiles deigns to look Derek dead in the eye for the first time, mouth dropped. What?
Derek motions his hands in the air, like you heard me.
The frosting is finally discarded down onto the counter as Stiles turns away from it, cocking his
head to the side. What the fuck no? Do you even understand what I...what my whole life is?
Apparently not!
Stiles runs his hands down his face, sighing out through his nose in aggravation. Listen that's
not...not how it is all right? I just don't fucking factor you in. Does that make sense?
Not at all. Not at fucking all. Derek thought he understood this shit back at the beginning, but the
more he's gotten to know Stiles, the closer they've gotten, the less he really understands about
him.
As close as they've gotten, Derek still feels like there's nothing he really knows about Stiles.
I don't think of you when I think five years. Or even one year, his voice softens, and he says,
or even next month. If I don't think of you as something longterm if I just think of you as
something that I'll eventually have to wash off of my hands, then it'll be easier, when the time
comes. When I look over, and you're not standing there anymore, it'll be easier.
Like the cherry blossom tattoo, he thinks. Life is fleeting. They fall so quickly. It's the only thing
Stiles knows, from what little Stiles has actually told him about his past; that idea of things
ending, all the time, of every good person and experience being like smoke in his hands every
time he tried to hold on. It's not so much that Stiles is always two steps away from bolting out the
door, never to be seen again it's that he's never settling. He is never, ever settling down, he's
not rooting himself with anyone; not leaving his clothes or books at Derek's place, not letting
Derek's things sit in his place for any longer than they need to, not drinking from the stream

underneath the tree marked with a T.

He doesn't say I miss you because, Derek thinks, one day, missing is all he's going to know.
There should be a maybe, in front of that sentence. With anyone else, endings are maybes. Not
sure fucking things, not things that one counts down to, not something that's planned for.
What if I want to be standing there?
Stiles smiles at him, but it's faint. Barely there. You won't. One day, you won't.
It sounds like a challenge. Every thing sounds like a challenge to Derek, after having siblings
who would raise one eyebrow at him and say oh, really? If Stiles wants to play a game, if he
wants to unroll the ball of yarn and let it drag out behind him like a string for Derek to chase
after, then Derek is going to fucking grab onto the string and hold on for dear life.
---I used to write some pretty terrible poetry, actually.
Stiles raises his eyebrows as he uses his deft and agile fingers to carefully and expertly frost
cupcake after cupcake. He does it like it's the easiest thing on the face of the planet. He picks a
cake up, rolls the frosting over it with a flick of his wrist, drops it down onto the cookie sheet,
starts on the next one. On and on and on; when he messes one up, as much as he can, he hands it
off to Derek without even asking if he wants it.
Derek has started eating two cupcakes a day, minimum. On a related note, he's also started going
to the gym a couple more times a week.
No fucking way, Stiles laughs as he scratches at a patch of dried frosting on his arm, revealing
the unicorn in its full glory. like about what? How totally dark and mysterious you are?
Derek hmm's. They were more like sonnets, honestly. I wrote a lot about my second girlfriend.
Oh my God, he drops a cupcake down onto the sheet and whirls around on Derek, grinning
from ear to ear, where are my sonnets?
It's funny to Stiles; it really is. The thought of Derek hunched over his desk with a candle burning
as he scribbles in his notebook and mutters about rhyme schemes under his breath is probably
the funniest thing Stiles could ever imagine ridiculous or out of the question. So he jokes about
it.
Derek, however, doesn't find the idea of him writing sonnets about Stiles all that fucking
ridiculous. When he first met the kid, that very first day in the bookstore, it's more or less the
first thought he had; what kind of emotions could he drag out the contours of Stiles' face, the
shine in amber eyes.

He wouldn't be good at it. Of course he wouldn't be.

Some people just aren't meant to be put down in words. Trying to write Stiles down is like trying
to write down the ocean it changes, and it changes, and it moves on and flows and disappears
over the horizon, as the last tendrils of the sunset light what they can of the waves. And by the
time you've got the first sentence down, when you look up, something brand new is sitting in
front of you; other.
Stiles sometimes says things like I want to be in New York City or Europe or Asia, and Derek
knows that he'll go. He says I want to see the grand canyon and Derek knows he will. He says I
want to just, not, anymore with this stupid fucking place and I just want to fucking leave and
go and stop with all of this and Derek knows he will. He'll put Scott in charge of the bakery and
hire a team of people to follow his recipes exactly as they're written, and disappear.
The only thing he's never quite sure of is whether or not Derek will, too.
Derek would follow the currents, of course he would; but he just doesn't know if Stiles would
want him to.
Like Allison had suggested before Stiles and Derek were Stiles and Derek, the two of them
decided to do some consolidating. Or, some capitalizing, as Stiles called it.
Derek put out coupons for Wake and Bake, printed on glossy sheets in pops of pastel blues and
pinks, on the front desk, sticks them into the front cover of every book he sells and says you
know, there's great coffee over there. Stiles sometimes leans over his counter reading a book, or
pretending to read a book, and when a customer comes in he looks up and says I got this from
next door there's no better combination than coffee and a book, right!?
They drum up business for each other like that for a couple of weeks, until they both pretty much
have the exact same fucking customers shared between them on a rotary; Derek actually starts
getting some older clientele, fucking finally, some of them even of the male persuasion, while
Stiles' bakery turns into the spot where kids cozy up next to the windows to read while getting
cupcake frosting all over the book covers.
Laura shows up in the bookstore, with a Wake and Bake coffee cup and a scone, smirking at him
before saying, your boyfriend's annoying.
Derek raises his eyebrows at her.
I tried to go in there for a regular coffee and he tricked me into buying this thing, too, she holds
the half-eaten scone out as evidence of this great wrongdoing done upon her, and Derek sighs.
Stiles constantly does shit like that someone tries to order a plain coffee and he says you know
what goes great with that...a pink-swirlacorn cupcake (which isn't what any of his creations
are actually called but it might as well be Derek wouldn't be surprised if he came into the
bakery one day to see some pink monstrosity with pale blue innards and a fondue horn sticking
out of the top. At the very least it's in that weirdo anal notebook of ideas that Stiles keeps next to

his bedside table.) He presses on people in such a way that they start to genuinely believe they
want the pink-swirlacorn, like they were fucking foolish to ever think they didn't secretly harbor
a desire for eight hundred calories to go along with their coffee.
That's what he does, he shrugs back at his sister before going back to organizing the filing
cabinet underneath the front desk.
Right, she agrees. The coffee cup gets slapped down on top of the desk as he continues straight
on munching through the scone, a sign for I'm here to have a conversation with you; or, as Derek
knows by now, I'm here to meddle into your life. Sisters. You guys have been dating for a
while, now.
Nearly five months, Derek notes. They had started dating in the summer time, with blazing heat
and ice cream and drive-in hamburgers, and now it was September, nearing October.
Derek nods at his sister, not looking up.
Hmmm...long time.
Pretty average relationship time, I'd think.
And you work right next to each other.
Really? I hadn't noticed.
Her face sours at the sarcasm, like she wants to lean forward and smack him in the back of the
head for it. I think you haven't entirely noticed, Derek.
He sighs, rubs his hand across his forehead, and accepts his fate. What is that supposed to
mean?
Laura takes a sip of her coffee, staring at the wall that divides Stiles' bakery from Derek's
bookstore, sweeping her eyes up and down it. You've been dating for a while, and you work
right next to one another.
We've established this.
Have you really not thought about that?
Derek narrows his eyes at her, and points to the stack of pastel coupons sitting a foot away from
where her hand is resting. She looks at the coupons, unimpressed, and shakes her head.
You've been dating for a while and you work right next-
Jesus Christ. The point, Laura!
She holds her arms out, coffee cup resting in one hand while the other splays palm out, and

gestures to the dividing wall tersely. What if you fucking break up!
Derek drops the file he was holding in his hand down onto the desk and stares at her, wide-eyed,
lips parted.
Because, no. No he hadn't thought about that.
Derek doesn't think well, what if we break up. Ever. He doesn't think that far ahead into the
future; he doesn't like to think about the past, and he doesn't like to think about the future. He
likes to keep himself entirely grounded in the present at all times; and if he's not in the present,
then he's in some fantasy world, somewhere else, hidden away in a book. That's how he deals
with shit.
Being crudely reminded that if Stiles and Derek ever break up it'll be, in a word, weird, and in
an even stronger word awkward, and in the strongest possible synonym, horrible, is thinking
about a future that isn't exactly bright and shiny.
I mean, I assume it's serious.
Derek thinks about Stiles' tattoos, the way he sometimes doodles recreations of them across his
notebook whenever there's a lull in the store, and swallows. It's yeah.
This is some Luke and Lorelai shit, bro. It's been a long time since he's sat and watched
Gilmore Girls all the way through, but the reference is, unfortunately, not lost on him at all. Luke
owned the diner. Lorelai owned the inn. When they broke up, the town had to choose between
the two businesses.
This is, in comparison, worse. So much fucking worse. For starters, Stiles doesn't own a
completely irrelevant inn all the way on the other end of town he owns a completely nonirrelevant bakery right next to Derek's bookstore. Coffee and books.
Coffee. And. Books.
Like Stiles says as he winks behind the register at new customers, slapping whatever book he
was reading shut with his languid fingers, there's no better combination than coffee and a
book, right?
Damn, Laura shakes her head sadly back and forth, like she can see clear as a bell all over
Derek's face what he's thinking, the absolute inner-turmoil he's going through. Sorry I brought it
up?
Derek comes in the back door of Wake and Bake not because he has a key, since Stiles has
never thought to give him one, but because the lock is so fucked up that if Derek jiggles it just
right he can get it open. Breaking and entering, if he were literally anyone else since he's
Stiles' boyfriend, the point feels a bit moot.
When he comes into the kitchen, Stiles is piping roses onto a wedding cake, music blaring and

thumping at Derek as he sweeps across the tiled floors to turn the volume down. Stiles,
surprised, turns around with big eyes smiles when he sees it's Derek.
Hey, buddy! He greets, turning his eyes back to the roses. What's up? Want a snack?
Derek puts his hands on his hips, puffs out a breath, and says, what happens if we break up?
Stiles' hands stiffen up enough that he pulls away from the cake before he ruins it, and Derek
thinks belatedly that it was a dick move of him to just barge in while Stiles is working on
something as delicate as this and try and have a conversation about their future; but Derek is
notorious for making dick moves whenever he's upset.
And right now, it's safe to say he's upset.
Stiles, for his part, frowns lightly; really more of a subtle pursing of his lips as he lowers his
eyes and gently drops the cone of frosting down onto the stainless steel counter. He keeps his
eyes downcast as he wipes as much of the sticky frosting off of his hands as he can, only raising
them back up through his eye-lashes right as he says, when.
It takes Derek a second to catch on to what Stiles means.
As soon as he does, his heart drops all the way down into his stomach, and he realizes that while
Laura might've been the shove and the push that Derek needed to even consider something like
that, while Derek had blissfully been happy to completely forget about I don't do longterm and
that conversation they had in Stiles' kitchen nearly two months ago...
Stiles has thought about this. Stiles has been thinking about it. Stiles didn't forget the
conversation, he didn't need someone to remind him that there is such a thing as tomorrow, that
things change at the drop of a hat, that any wrong move and this entire thing could come
collapsing down around them into a flaming pile of shit.
When. Derek repeats the word in a monotone.
Like Stiles knows what's coming, he starts saying something in a voice that Derek recognizes as
his placating Derek voice; all quiet and cautious like Derek is a ticking timebomb waiting to go
off, like Stiles thinks he's done something wrong and that Derek is going to chastise him for it.
Like a little fucking kid. Derek starts near-shouting over him, repeating when? Fucking when?
When?!
Because it's a shitty thing to say. It's a fucking shitty, thoughtless, negative thing to god damn say.
When? Who just says something like that? Who the fuck just acts like that? Like it's nothing? If
you're just constantly thinking about how it's going to fucking end, then why are we even
bothering?
Stiles sighs through his nose, and runs the back of his hand across his brow, like he's wiping
sweat off. It's realistic. I'm just being realistic. People don't stay together forever, I'm just -

You're constantly waiting for it, aren't you? Derek cuts him off, looking Stiles up and down
like he thinks he could fucking figure him out or at least make a half decent effort at it but he
should know better than that, by now. For the other shoe to drop?
In a quiet voice, Stiles says, I'm prepared. How there's nothing, not a single thing, in his
apartment out in the open to remind him of Derek. While Derek and Laura's place is covered in
the discarded coffee cups, sheets of pastry paper pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen with
Stiles' handwriting smattered all over them, and the only thing Stiles has is a pile of books he
keeps hidden in his closet. How Stiles won't give him a key to the back door of the bakery, how
Stiles won't watch certain movies with him, and on and on and on. Prepared.
And how the fuck are you prepared for this? Derek throws his hand out against the wall right
beside him where, on the other side, there's a shelf of books about horses and Stiles' lips thin
out into a scowl. What's the big plan, there, Stiles? That's no clean break.
You're being hysterical, Stiles accuses in a low voice, turning back around to pick his frosting
back up and get his work started again. Why don't you come back to talk to me when you're not
yelling at me.
He evades his way out of the conversation. Manipulates Derek into a way that gives him no other
choice but to feel like the asshole and that's just what Stiles does. It's a character flaw. It's the
ugly part of him that Derek thought he'd have the time to learn to love just like all the other, better
parts of him.
Derek sees straight through it, though. Five months isn't longterm, maybe, but it's long enough to
be able to recognize another person's true motives. Stiles just plain doesn't have an answer to
Derek's question. He doesn't know what he's going to do about the fact that they work right next
to each other, that they own spaces right beside one another; maybe the thought keeps him up at
night, while he lies there trying to plan his escape route, plotting his way out of the maze of he
and Derek's relationship, he keeps smacking up against that wall dividing the bakery and the
bookstore.
And, in some way, Derek sees that as some kind of progress. Some kind of proof that he was
right in the beginning, that all these stories end the same way people think they can just up and
leave whenever they want.
Things don't work that way. Derek knows that. Stiles can pretend all he wants.
---Stiles leaves pre-made breakfast paninis outside of Derek and Laura's apartment door; they
probably arrive at around five o'clock in the morning on Stiles' way to work, get picked up and
half eaten by Laura at around six o'clock before getting shoved into the fridge to wait for Derek,
who stumbles out of bed to an empty apartment at eight o'clock, and eats the remaining panini.
There's usually a piece of pastry paper wrapped around Derek's reading something like come

over on your lunch break! :) or panono's...I messed up:( or finished Running With Scissors
trigger warnings!? anyone!?? and Derek sits there wondering what Stiles is going to say at
lunch today (maybe a long winded rant about how nobody ever drops their used dishes in the
proper bins while waving his fork around and Derek watches how the tattoos on his arms look in
the light) or how he possibly messed up the paninis since they seem and taste perfectly fine to
Derek (until he notices that maybe the mushrooms are a little too browned) or what possible
triggers Stiles has that were pulled by Running With Scissors, what happened to Stiles in his
childhood, why he never tells Derek fucking anything.
How he'll sit there and talk, and talk, and talk, and it's like throughout it all, he's never actually
saying anything, and Derek will sit there and stare at his tattoos and wonder why Stiles has
never bothered to tell him about his story.
When Derek has put it all out there; in a really big heart on his sleeve way. And Stiles will just
listen. He listens and doesn't say anything. He reaches his hand out and strokes his fingers across
Derek's cheek or just leans against him, resting his chin on Derek's shoulder. But he never. Says.
Anything.
Just because things don't last forever doesn't mean that they don't last for a while. Stiles glares
out into the fading autumn sunlight with a tight, terse frown across his face from the driver's seat.
Some things are worth it, no matter how brief they are.
In a roundabout way, it's like Stiles is trying to pay Derek some kind of a compliment. Like he's
worth leaving, or something. That's such a shitty way to think, Stiles.
It's realistic. He says it the same way he always does, his amber eyes glowing in the sun.
Derek would come to hate that phrase, in the coming weeks. Realistic. Fucking realistic is shit
non-fiction has always been more boring to Derek than fiction. He'd rather have fucking dragons
and magicians and animals that talk than he would reality.
Reality is his family burning alive. Reality is that Stiles doesn't act the way he should. Reality is
he's not the same as he was when they first started going out.
How the ocean changes in the blink of an eye. How cherry blossoms fall too soon.
And Derek he does something shitty. He tries to escape reality, the way he always has; by way
of a story, of a fictional person that can be created and mapped out and perfected. Fictional
characters can be interpreted a million different ways by a million different people, like how
some people see Winnie Foster as selfish and stupid and others see her as smart and willful and
independent.
So he makes up a Stiles in his head the same way he would were he writing a novel. Book Stiles
doesn't say things like it's realistic, and he doesn't press his lips into a grim line and glare out
the window. Book Stiles smiles and leans back in his car seat, turning to Derek with huge amber
eyes, tilting his head to the side and saying let's get out of here, together.

Around this time, with the fabricated Stiles running rampant and beautiful inside of Derek's head,
Stiles and Derek stop being a story. When Derek thinks about these things in the future, he doesn't
see proper timing, or proper spacing or proper pacing he doesn't see any discernible
chronological order.
He just sees these moments. Pictures. Flashes across his eyes.
---Stiles draws on his walls.
He pulls back the hideous wallpaper in his bathroom to reveal countless doodles and paintings
and quotes from movies written in huge block letters. Of course there's a fucking unicorn, the
hugest thing on the wall, with a pastel pink mane and purple eyes that leers out at everyone who
gets to look at it; the thing honestly makes Derek uncomfortable. All he can ever fucking think
about when faced with Stiles' unicorn obsession is that scene in Dodgeball when Vince Vaughn
bursts into his love interest's apartment to find unicorn utopia, or Tina Belcher, or My Little
Pony. Stiles laughs at all of that.
There's an octopus, a gangly rainbow thing drawn in permanent marker on water stained
drywall, that catches Derek's eye every single time he goes to take a piss and the wallpaper is
hanging back for him to look at. It has a smile and a top hat like Oswald, which Stiles claims
was completely unintentional, but all the same Derek sketches a tiny little Weenie dog right
beside it in black pen.
When Stiles notices it one night, he doesn't laugh like Derek had expected him to. His lips pull
up in the corners, barely, and he says that is a horrible recreation of Weenie, in a voice that's
meant to be joking but comes off more cold and bitter.
---I hate it here.
Then why don't you just leave?
Silence. Stiles' face is illuminated by those fucking glow in the dark stars and his skin is green
and alien and foreign, otherworldly. Stiles loves to talk, and he likes to say things like fuck this
place and nothing ever fucking goes right for me and I don't do longterm, but he hates
explaining. Derek tries to force answers and reasons and explanations out of him like pulling
teeth, and every time, Stiles just flips over and changes the subject. Recedes back into being the
half of him that Derek doesn't quite get or understand.
The part of him that fluxes and flows like the way light bends, and every time Derek thinks he's
finally getting a grasp on what goes on inside of Stiles' head, it vanishes out of his fingertips.
Derek waits. The silence drags.

In his head, he writes a scene.

Stiles turns his face just enough so that I could lean over and kiss him, if I wanted to. And I
always want to, I fucking always want to. He turns his face towards me, blinks his long eyelashes, and smiles. The rare smile that only comes when he's feeling particularly happy; and
despite the tattoos and the pastels, Stiles is rarely the emblematic definition of happy.
I just I want to leave. You know?
Then leave.
Stiles tilts his head to the side against the pillow, scrutinizes my face the same way he
scrutinizes his handiwork on a finished water color, on a finished tattoo design; searching for
any mistakes or fallibility with such calculated movements of his amber eyes I think for a
second he's going to pull a paintbrush out from under the pillow to paint a new expression
across my face.
Something he likes better. Something he can make something out of.
Instead, he sighs. And it sounds sad. It sounds fucking sad, and Stiles sounds so fucking sad
so fucking often, these days. I can't.
Why?
I expect the answer to be Stiles flipping over onto his other side to face the wall. I expect a
huff and a roll of his eyes. I expect the perfunctory ugh, fuck, I just want to sleep, all right?
Because I don't want to leave you behind. I don't want hindsight, with you, I want now. I
always want fucking now, with you, Derek.
That'd be the scene, he thinks. That'd be the one that would have readers sighing; the one where
they have to put the book down across their chests for a second, clasping their hands over their
face or staring at the ceiling with doofy smiles on their faces because, finally. They'd play it
over and over again in their own heads, imagining Stiles' moles and their placement across his
face, imagining the glow across their skin, imagining it until it plays like a movie inside of them.
Until the movie adaptation comes out then they'll frown and grumble about not how I ever
imagined it and shit acting and that kid looks nothing like Stiles, his fucking eyes are blue for
god's sake.
The Stiles that Derek has crafted inside this imaginary book inside of his own head is demure.
He's sadness balanced out perfectly with honesty and vulnerability, anger balanced with
forgiveness, darkness balanced with the sunset.
Real Stiles' measurements don't add up. He's too much sadness and not enough of anything else,
he recedes like fading light across the waves of the ocean until he vanishes into the bleak
darkness of the horizon.

He doesn't say he loves Derek.

He turns over and says, I'm exhausted.
---Let me fucking ask you this since you're the master here, Stiles grins at him from down on the
wooden floor in the bookstore, leaning back against a shelf full of science-fictions. Which
genre is better sci-fi ooorrr...hi-fi?
Stiles fixes him with that know-it-all smirk that he loves so much, amber eyes dim in the low
lights; and Derek smiles back at him. It's hard not to. Getting teased by Stiles is like getting
teased by someone lost in the fire, like someone from another lifetime; the one where he wasn't
so fucking jaded and fucked up all the time.
Plus Stiles knows beyond any shadow of a doubt what's about to come out of Derek's mouth.
Because Stiles knows Derek like that. Stiles knows Derek well enough that, if he wanted, he
could finish his sentences, he could just talk for him for the rest of his life, and get it right
probably a good seventy percent of the time; more than anyone else he's ever known, and that
includes his parents and siblings. There is no such thing as a better genre, Stiles.
But you have a preference.
My preferences are individual and not exclusive.
Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs for dramatic effect, banging his head back on a particularly thick
book behind him. Blah blah blah. You're such a fucking book snob.
And you're not a music snob?
At this, Stiles perks right up; the way he always does whenever Derek teases him back. A game
is starting, a playful bickering match, and the both of them know that that's when they are at their
absolute best. When they're arguing about books and music and movies, they're just Derek and
Stiles. They're not Derek who sometimes calls Stiles too many times in a week and follows
him around like a little lost puppy and gives sad eyes and gets angry whenever Stiles gets
evasive, or Stiles who turns cold and bitter at the drop of a hat and doesn't get enough sleep at
night and bullshits his way through half of their conversations.
They're just them.
Singling out entire genres of music is fucking disrespectful, Stiles smiles as he says it, like
he's loving where this conversation is going.
I don't like R&B. Lock me up and throw the key into the ocean.
So when I Believe I Can Fly comes on during Space Jam, you what? Leave the room?

Derek narrows his eyes; he can just feel the satisfaction rolling of Stiles in waves.
Alicia Keys comes on and you roll your eyes about-
I don't like Alicia Keys.
If I Ain't Got You is the single greatest are you fucking kidding me? Don't like Alicia Keys?
Everyone -
Not me.
Unsurprisingly, Stiles starts screeching in what he probably thinks is his best impression of
Alicia's raspy, reaching voice some people want diamond rings! Some just! Want every thing!
He tilts his head up like he's in a Charlie Brown cartoon, squinting his eyes shut as the girls
scattered all around the store peer at him with dirty looks. It's exactly the kind of thing he's
always doing just because he knows it's ridiculously out of Derek's comfort zone; in a way, even
though it pisses him off and makes him self-conscious and embarrassed of the scenes he starts, it
also...kind of makes him feel like Stiles is trying to help him get over that.
That weird patch of himself that turns shy and glum.
Derek shhh's him, reaching to slap his hand over Stiles' open mouth but every thing means
nothing!, Stiles this is a place of books and- if I ain't got yoou-ouu-ouuu!
Yes, Stiles, Derek pulls his hands away from Stiles' face, presuming that the song is over, now,
that's exactly the kind of thing I don't like. Maybe your problem is that you're not selective
enough. Like, for example Taylor Sw-
Do. Not. Start.
I'm just saying. You know Taylor Swift largely writes about, you know...true love and all that
shit, right?
She used to, Stiles asserts, maybe on her fucking sophomore or junior releases. If you're
going to talk Taylor Swift, he turns away from the bookshelf, to face Derek head on, his eyes
narrowed down into slits, you should probably understand her descent from hopeless romantic
teenage girl into a grown woman who's been burned one too many times from her Love Story
days.
Stiles going on lengthy rants about the merits and cultural importance of Taylor fucking Swift is
not something new to Derek; he's heard variations of the exact same speech about a half dozen
times, while Stiles gets this look on his face. This eyes straight forward, lips curved downwards
into a frown, intense gazed look. Like he's defending himself, and not some twenty-something
year old girl he's never met in his entire life.
What's new is this. A descent from hopeless romance into what could easily be described as
jaded cynic; a person who shuts herself in, avoids certain situations, turns down dates and

repeats over and over again that she doesn't need anyone except for, like, her super amazing
friends and some fresh baked cookies. Relationships? Psht.
None of that shit lasts, so why bother?
He thinks, for a second. Wonders. He stares at Stiles' face, as he continues to jabber on and on
about this that or the other thing, and he fucking wonders. Not for the first time, he wonders what
it was, what events transpired in Stiles' life that have made him this way?
This person that doesn't say I love you and doesn't say I miss you, like he's scared of what'll
happen if he admits either of those things out loud.
---There's nothing, Derek. There's not one single thing on this earth that lasts forever, that stays the
same forever.
We could be forever. It's not the first time he's said it. It will not be the last.
Don't say that again, Stiles warns, his voice low; he slams his mint green tea kettle down onto
his gas stove Derek watches as the blue and orange flames erupt underneath the metal. I
fucking hate it when you say that. I hate it.
What are you so fucking afraid of?
Stiles keeps his back turned to Derek. Very deliberately. He leans over the counter beside the
stove, the one with the salt and pepper shakers shaped like tiny birds and the pastel pot holders,
tilting his head downwards. He takes a few deep breaths, and Derek sits there and watches him;
knows how how he fucking gets.
I'm not afraid of anything.
Really? Really? Derek rises from his usual seat at Stiles' kitchen table, the one closest to the
back door with the wooden antique chair that Stiles said he got at an estate sale, and looms.
You're not afraid of anything, Stiles? When there are things you won't even fucking-
I don't want to talk about this, Stiles' shoulders are a tight, tense line. Like any second he's
going to whip around and throw a glass against the opposite wall, shattering it into a hundred
pieces while screaming at Derek to get the fuck out.
I do. I want to fucking talk about this, for once! I don't want you to fucking manipulate your way
out of another conversation-
Stiles snorts an indignant laugh, shaking his head; he still hasn't turned around. Right. I'm
manipulating you.
You do.

I have never been anything but honest with you, Derek. I'm just trying to be honest with you right
now. I don't. Want to talk. About this.
Book Stiles tilts his head to the side, and scratches his cheek, and looks Derek in the fucking eye
for once. He shrugs his shoulders and pinches his lips together in thought, or shame, or a
combination of them both.
It's not easy for me to talk about. Just some things that happened when I was a kid...
Derek would listen. That's the hardest thing about all of this. If Stiles would just once, just one
fucking time, just please, tell him. Just open his mouth and say it.
Whatever it is. Whatever it was that built up huge walls in-between them long before they had
ever even met.
---There's one last good memory. One last good thing between Stiles and Derek.
When Derek thinks of it, he sees it as the last time they ever saw it each other. He thinks it's a
better ending not more fitting, not more realistic, but just better. Something he could've lived
with.
It's nothing, really; it's just during this period of time where, for the first time in days, they aren't
fighting or screaming at each other. Derek isn't getting annoyed by every little thing Stiles does,
isn't fantasizing about picking up the ceramic unicorn off the kitchen table and throwing it as hard
as possible at the opposite wall. Stiles isn't being classically evasive, is looking Derek in the
eyes, is smiling and not throwing himself into his work just to get away from Derek.
They're just sitting at the kitchen table in that ridiculous house of Stiles' with all its weird quirks
(Derek can jiggle his way in through the back door there, too.)
Stiles leans forward; resting his chin on both of his hands, he blinks his eyes at Derek, and says,
I'm going to think about you, you know.
Derek leans back in his chair, looks Stiles up and down. He looks at the Cheshire cat and the
roses and the unicorn, the cherry blossoms half hidden behind his v-neck, the unseen birds rising
up, up, up the side of his body. Yeah?
Stiles smiles. It doesn't feel out of place, or strange, or like he isn't taking it as seriously as he
should be. It feels like Derek could sit there, pull out a piece of paper, and write five hundred
pages just on the way Stiles' eyes crinkle up at the corners as he does it.
Derek would look back and wish that he had done exactly that.
He knows that every thing is just about to dissolve into finality. It has been dissolving for weeks,
and it was only a matter of time until Stiles finally just didn't answer his phone. It was only a

matter of time before Stiles really did point to the back door, hissing get the fuck out, it was
only a matter of time.
For Stiles, it has always been only a matter of time. Derek thought he just thought. He thought
differently.
It's committed into his brain like a brand; the way Stiles smiled at him that night, the way he
tilted his head to the side and was so nonchalant, honest, open. Vulnerable.
He became the living embodiment of that Stiles he had been writing inside of his head, blinking
at him from across the table.
Two days later, and Stiles breaks the unicorn himself.
One second, Derek is saying you think I don't fucking know what it's like to lose people,
Stiles?
And the next, Stiles is picking the unicorn up off the table, hurling it across the room, like he
somehow can't stand the fucking sight of it anymore.
Derek just talks right over it. He watches as Stiles growls something under his breath, as he
pulls at his hair, runs his hands down his face, and keeps going; doesn't let Stiles cut him off,
doesn't let Stiles try to back his way out of this one. I know what it's like to have only memories
left over, all right? I know what it's like to have to turn around and only see people in my fucking
head, people I loved!
Stiles doesn't say anything. He backs himself up against the wall, drops his head into his hands.
You act like you're the only one who's ever been hurt before! And I just - I don't understand how
you could be so fucking selfish?
I told you, Stiles warns, his voice low, nearly a growl from between his fingers. I told you
before we even started this shit. I was upfront, and honest I never fucking tricked you or made
you think I felt someway that I didn't! He laughs, a cold, humorless thing, shaking his head as he
finally pulls his hands off his face; his cheeks are red, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. Maybe
you're the fucking selfish one for thinking you could come in and change me to your fucking
liking!
Derek knows that's true. Of course he knows that's true; he thinks about how he had laughed
when Stiles first told him the way he approaches relationships, and the way he rolled his eyes
every time he heard that fucking song, and when Stiles said when instead of if.
He thought he could change him. He thought he could be that person, that game-changer. The
archetype of I'm not like the rest of them of you can't just get rid of me that easily of just
fucking try to stay away from me.
It didn't work. He didn't factor in the detail that Stiles changes himself, for himself, for no one

else. Stiles descends down into the depths of himself and comes out the other side someone new,
doesn't talk about all the people who was before, doesn't mention the bones of who he used to be
lying dormant inside of himself, repressed and broken into pieces. Maybe that person buried
deep inside of him would've been the one who'd have stayed.
Like all fictional people, Derek will never meet that Stiles. Yet he tried to create that Stiles in
front of his very eyes. Tried to change him.
You think you understood me, you always fucking thought that, Stiles glares at him, rolls his
eyes over Derek's body with an unimpressed sneer. You think you've got me all mapped out?
I'm not some fucking wet dream, you know I'm not just something for you to wring your shitty
poetry out of. Nothing about me is poetic, nothing about anyone is poetic. You can't just use me
for-
Who the fuck said anything about using you?
Stiles pushes his body off of the wall and storms the five steps it takes to get into Derek's
personal bubble of space, and this close Derek can see the way his eyes start fading into yellow
the closer they get to the iris. The way you look at me says it loud and clear! The way you look
at me like I'm like I'm some flower that you're trying to force into blooming when in reality,
his face gets right in Derek's, so close he can smell the sugar on his breath, that coffee and home
and cinnamon smell, I'm just the dirt underneath it.
Derek grits his teeth. But he can't think of anything to say back.
You think if you can fucking write me then you can own me.
That's not how I-
Isn't it? Tell me you didn't turn me into one of your little characters, Derek. Tell me you didn't,
look me in the fucking eyes.
And Derek can't say that.
He isn't a good liar. He's never been a good liar. He can't pretend like he hasn't been drawing
Stiles' tattoos as representations of the person whose skin they were on. He can't pretend like
there's not another Stiles inside of his head, right now, staring at him tilting his fucking head to
the side and smiling and saying I'm going to think about you, you know.
So he doesn't. Stiles tells him to leave, starts throwing books at his back as he retreats out of the
house, yelling take your fucking shit with you, and Derek leaves.
Tries not to hear thump-thump in the back of his head as the door slams shut behind him.
---It took Derek a long time to realize that Stiles wasn't a selfish person.

Stiles was right. All he ever tried to do was be honest, was not get too attached. All he ever
fucking did was keep his word from the very start, and Derek used it against him at every
possible opportunity.
Weeks. It took him weeks to finally man up, look himself in the mirror, and say you fucked up.
You. Not that Stiles didn't have his shortcomings, because of course he did. Not that Stiles didn't
string Derek along uselessly. Not that Stiles didn't crawl inside of Derek's head, make a home in
there, only to abandon it without ever looking back.
But it took him an even longer time to realize that maybe he had treated Stiles like shit, and that it
wasn't always the other way around. Every situation and every fallout has two people and two
sides and two radically different viewpoints, and sometimes it's not clear whose side is the right
one. Stiles was never a character that he could take and interpret as he fucking felt like. He was
a real person and he had pain inside of him that Derek didn't understand, and...
It doesn't matter anyway. Stiles is a dream figure. Existing in that plane of his memories where
the sun sets across the ocean while Stiles goes ninety on the highway alongside of it, smirking at
Derek and saying let's get out of this town...
Derek thinks about the fabrication of memories, like Stiles would say. If Stiles were here, if
Derek could admit to him in person how often he replays the memories of their time together,
he'd frown at Derek, purse his lips judgmentally, and say oh, Derek, you're remembering
things better than they were, like you do with every thing.
The problem is, Derek remembers every thing with an undercurrent of thump-thump, as if Stiles
is there in bed beside him sleeping and Derek is listening to his heartbeat. He always thought the
heartbeats in that fucking idiot song were, again, idiotic and pointless and pretentious trying
too hard to be artsy and original.
Now, he gets it. He really wishes he didn't.
Stiles was more or less gone overnight; and at least he had the decency to tell Scott to come into
the bookstore with those sad puppy-dog eyes and go um, so, I'm going to be running the bakery
from here on out...just for a while. I've got a staff and all because I can't do what Stiles does
but he um, trained them. So...he's just not going to be around anymore. He said he wanted
you to know so you didn't...
So Derek wouldn't spend his time at the counter waiting for Stiles to walk past the front of the
store and grin in at him.
He does anyway. He drives past Stiles' shitty house and never sees the Jeep in the driveway. The
girls all start bringing in Starbucks cups and crinkling brown paper with dark green writing,
giving him sorry looks. Derek guesses it's probably better off this way, since the darker colors
go a lot better with the dcor in his store than those garish pinks and whites ever did.
He throws his copy of Tuck Everlasting into a box in the back of his closet.

---Just because it's been two months, and just because Derek has entered the acceptance stage of
their shitstorm of a breakup, that doesn't mean that he doesn't nearly jump out of his fucking skin
when he sees Stiles walk past his store.
Stiles doesn't turn his head to look inside he stares determinedly forward with his lips in a
deep frown, the keys to his jeep dangling from his long fingers, wearing a white frosting-covered
shirt. Derek follows his with his eyes with a dropped jaw while all the color drains completely
out of his fucking face like he's just seen a zombie climb out of a tomb.
Which, more or less, is exactly what's going on here.
If he's wearing one of his ten zillion white work shirts glooped up with pink dye and coffee
stains, then that means he's back to running his bakery all over again. It means his Jeep is
probably parked outside of his house again. It means he's back.
Derek shifts his eyes over to the wall that divides them. Swallows.
He resolutely decides not to fucking think about it. Stiles had to come back eventually he was
never going to just leave his bakery to fester and die without him, not just because he and Derek
dated. And, if Derek remembers correctly, Stiles was not the one way too emotionally invested
in their relationship.
Stiles was the one who was actually prepared for the fall out. So, naturally, he was going to
come back at some point.
Derek had just kinda hoped it would be at a point in time where Derek could just shrug his
shoulders and say something along the lines of eh, whatever, right? What's past it past. But he
hasn't even had the time to think of his memories as past, yet; for him, Stiles is still walking
around inside of his head, following him around. It wasn't supposed to be this soon.
Allison comes into the store about ten minutes later; and from the look on her face, Derek knows
that she just glanced inside of Wake and Bake and probably saw Stiles standing behind the
register, or helping a customer. She's seen the god damn ghost.
With huge brown eyes, she stands in front of the counter and says, um. So.
Derek's hands are still shaking when he says, So.
She blinks at him. I heard that they're making a movie out of um... she searches her mental
rolodex for a book that doesn't already have a movie version, eyes going blank and vacant as she
struggles to make small talk. To not mention the fucking elephant in the room. ...The Kite
Runner?
Already has a movie, he says back simply, clicking a pen again and again just to give his
fingers something to do.

Oh. A pause. Remake?

Just fucking say it, Allison.
She swallows, and runs a single finger across her eyebrow like she's distressed. Say what?
You and I have had much worse conversations than your ex-boyfriend is back. You realize that,
right?
Allison huffs out a breath and nods, sullenly. Yeah. All right. Stiles is you know. Back.
Shrugging his shoulders up and down in what he hopes is nonchalance and boredom, like he
could care fucking less, is one of the hardest things he's ever had to force himself to. An actor,
Derek is not. Okay. I saw him.
She gives him a scrutinizing look like she's trying to read into his soul, or something. Find the
hurt there and pinpoint it so she can think of the right thing to say. She must come up empty,
because she just sighs before wandering off into the bookstore with one last glance over her
shoulder at Derek.
At the end of the day, he sits in the darkness of his store like he used to do before Stiles and
Derek ever started seeing each other, waiting until he hears Stiles slam his backdoor shut and
start fumbling with is keys. He knows for a solid fact that Scott had the lock replaced while
Stiles was away, and he knows that if he's going to be making a decision, he better hurry up and
fucking make it.
Go outside have the awkward, terse conversation. Look into Stiles' face for the first time
outside of his memories.
Don't go outside put it off for another day.
Eventually, they have to do it. They have to look at each other and grumble out some sort of
apologies, move the fuck on; they work right next to each other. It has to happen.
With one final deep breath, he rips his own back door open and steps out into the cool night air.
It bothers him that Stiles doesn't look surprised. It bothers him a lot. He's just standing there,
already facing Derek's door like he waited for a couple of seconds for Derek to finally pluck up
the courage to open the fucking door, like he knew he would.
Because Stiles always knew Derek. From cover to cover, Stiles knew him. Knows him, still, it
would seem.
And, Derek? Derek still isn't even halfway through Stiles.
Stiles stands there frowning at him, tattoos barely visibly in the dark of the night, scraping his
eyes up and down Derek like he isn't impressed or interested at all.

Stiles tilts his head to the side and grins, purring long time, no see, as he drops his eyes
down to the ground like he'sNo. No. Derek's not going to do that shit anymore.
The Stiles standing in front of him is the only Stiles he gets. The one that Stiles wants to be.
The first bizarre thing Stiles says is, want an apology?
Derek shakes his head. No.
The second bizarre thing Stiles says is, you can have one, anyway. I'm not proud that I ran away
like that.
Derek shrugs, and squints at where Stiles' Jeep is parked a good several feet away from Derek's
SUV just so he doesn't have to look into Stiles' face. I knew you would.
At that, Stiles doesn't say anything. He just lets out a breath like he'd been holding it in for too
long.
Knew you'd come back, too. We don't have to...do this.
Do what?
The the awkward conversation thing? Derek clears his throat and shuffles his feet. I'd rather
not.
Stiles jiggles his keys in his fingers the way he always does when he gets uncomfortable. We
have to have some kind of conversation-
I'd rather not.
But I want to talk to you about this, because-
Well I don't, Derek crunches across the gravel towards his car; makes it about three steps
before he whirls around and glares at Stiles. How's it feel to be on the other end of that? How's
it feel being the one left just standing there?
Like he's ashamed, Stiles sets his jaw and looks away. You do want an apology.
Derek cannot believe he's doing this. This is not what was in the plan for this conversation. The
plan was, say as little as possible, jump inside his car as if the gravel was hot fucking lava, and
drive off. Like ripping off a band-aid, essentially. All they really had to do was mutter fake
apologies at one another, shake on it, no hard feelings, and start just being two people who
happen to own businesses beside one another.
They were not supposed to rip the band-aid off just to start dousing the thing with rubbing

alcohol, prodding at it with a fucking scalpel.

I've learned better than to expect anything from you, Stiles. Explanations, reasons, apologies-
I'm trying to give you one right now and you're being-
Evasive?
Stiles looks about ready to launch himself the ten feet across the gravel he'd have to in order to
knock Derek the fuck out. Don't. Don't, Derek. That's not fair, and you know it isn't. Don't treat
me like I came in and shit all over your life while you just stood by innocently. Don't do that.
Derek rubs his hand across his forehead and growls. What do you want me to say?
"I want you to listen to me. He advances on Derek, maybe two feet, still a sizable distance
away. Just fuck. I'm just...I'm just sorry.
You're just sorry.
Stiles sets his jaw like he's mad, annoyed, furious, and Derek knows he's being an ass, but Stiles
just nods his head all the same. I know. Anything you want to say to me about how shitty I was
I know it already. Okay? I've been thinking about it. I'm shit. I'm a shitty fucking person, and I'm
sorry that I'm that way.
He gets that look on his face that Derek remembers pretty vividly from their time together it's
the same look he'd have on when he'd say things like I fucking hate it here. Sad, in that way that
Derek never really quite understood, because how can anyone ever understand the sadness of
another when they won't even tell you what it is they're so horribly upset about?
It's enough to soften Derek's resolve to be an asshole, at least marginally. That's not don't say
that.
Stiles shakes his head and laughs without humor, avoiding eye contact with Derek. Disagree
with me, Derek. Explain to me in detail how I'm not a horrible fucking person. I'd love to fucking
hear it.
This conversation is not going the way Derek expected it to at all. This is suddenly feeling a lot
like it's slipping wildly out of his fingers, going down a road that spills out into territory he's
unfamiliar with. He opens his mouth and a scratchy noise comes out, as he tries to think, for a
second; tries to answer Stiles' question, tries to prove him wrong.
Nothing comes to him.
Stiles nods. He nods and runs his thumb along his jaw, laughing again, and Derek doesn't like
how it sounds. Anyway. Yeah. I just wanted to say I was sorry.
Then he's crunching off and creaking the door to his Jeep open, slamming the door closed,

revving the engine, backing out.

Nothing?
Nothing, Lydia.
You said...nothing? Like you said the word nothing, or -
Silence. Absolute dead silence.
Oh, Derek. She releases a breath and rolls her eyes to the sky. But that's not how you see
him.
I don't think that well in the moment. And Stiles knows that about him. That's exactly why he
said that because he knew he could get away with it. He knew he could manipulate the
situation in such a way that, once again, Derek would come out the other side being the fucking
asshole.
Except, it's kind of sullied and watered down, considered how the thing Derek couldn't think of a
response to was Stiles talking shit about himself. Which is a twist.
Oh, Christ. Oh, Derek. She holds her Starbucks cup against her cheek, warming it up from the
cold air out back, where she's smoking a cigarette with a copy of a Kafka book tucked under her
arm. That's that's...
If Lydia is speechless, that probably means he's really gone and fucked it up. Or, more
accurately, both he and Stiles have really gone off and fucked it up.
For the first time, Derek got to play the whole hurtful, mysterious silence card on Stiles, like
Stiles used to fucking constantly do to him, which prompted Derek into writing Stiles' dialogue
for him inside his own head. Only, he doesn't feel good about it. He feels like a fucking monster
for it, because Stiles was actually saying something.
Not a good something. Decidedly a pretty bad something. But a something, all the same.
Yeah. It's bad.
Bad. Fucking catastrophic. She blows out a puff of smoke. Titanic crashing into an iceberg.
Who's the boat and who's the iceberg, in that scenario?
Lydia purses her red lips and looks out into the blue sky in the mid-winter afternoon. Ha. That
is a very, very good question.
It is a good question. Who's crashing into who? Who's the one steering every thing all wrong,

and who's the one with cold edges and a merciless streak inside of them?
Did the iceberg sink the Titanic, or did the Titanic sink itself by being in the wrong place, at the
wrong time?
Well. Stiles was the iceberg. Sitting there in the middle of the ocean, and Derek fucking saw him
coming, was warned, again and again, and he just...kept coming straight for him. He didn't
change course. He should've changed course, because it would've spared them both a lot of pain
in the end. Stiles declared himself deadly on day fucking one, and Derek just barreled right into
him; but he wants to blame the iceberg for doing what it was meant to.
You look like you're having an epiphany. Leave it to Lydia to be the one to lead him into a
fucking breakthrough about his shitty relationship.
Yeah.
Am I interrupting something?
Kind of.
She stubs her cigarette out on the ground with one last puff. Leave you to it, then.

Stiles does look surprised this time.

He opens up the door, his amber eyes go wide, and his lips part. Oh, he squeaks out.
Derek takes a deep breath in, gets the scent of Stiles' house (sugar, coffee, paint) inside of his
nostrils, and then releases the breath once more. I want you to tell me.
In front of him, Stiles scrunches his eyebrows together, shaking his head in confusion. Tell you
what?
If you want to apologize to me, Derek takes a step closer, so Stiles has no choice but to back
up into his living room, to let Derek inside, then tell me.
Stiles looks like an animal that's been backed into a corner as Derek closes the front door behind
him and stands there in Stiles' happy little living room among the hideous furniture and bizarre
works of art exactly as it was before. He blinks his amber eyes and avoids looking into
Derek's, focuses on a point just beyond the larger man's head. I don't...
You do, Stiles. You owe me an explanation, you've owed me one since the beginning and
that's the only thing you owe me. Just an explanation, and we can put all of this behind us.
Derek needs to know how Stiles became the iceberg that he went sailing into how he fucking
became so distant and hard when he clearly hadn't always been that way. Cold, hard people do

not grow up to get unicorns tattooed onto their arms while smearing pink frosting across
cupcakes with names like Lucky Charm.
How he grew up to say things like I'm a shitty fucking person, when Derek knows better than
that.
Stiles lowers his eyes down onto the ground. He crosses his arms over his chest and his chin
starts to wobble, like any second he's going to start bawling his eyes out. I'm I don't talk about
that.
I'm asking you to. The first tear slips out of Stiles' eyes, down his cheek to hang onto the
bottom of his jaw. I'm not forcing you.
He lets out a shaky breath and sniffles deeply; a second tear. It's the first time Derek has ever
seen Stiles cry, and it's more than a little disconcerting not a sight Derek particularly ever
wanted to see, himself. I I'm messed up.
Stop saying shit like that. You're not.
Stiles finally raises his eyes but it's not to look at Derek. It's to stare pointedly up at the ceiling
like he's trying to suction up all the tears back into his eyes and erase this moment from existence
altogether. Maybe you want to wait until you hear what I have to say until you tell me what I am
or am not.
Fair enough, Derek thinks. He stands and watches Stiles sniffle and swipe angrily at the water
running down his face, waiting.
When Stiles starts talking again, his voice is low. Quiet. You always asked me what it was I
was so afraid of. He looks down at the unicorn on his arm, traces it with his eyes a couple of
times like it's egging him on or giving him courage to speak. At first, nothing. I thought, you
know I had control over the situation and I could leave whenever I wanted. He smiles wryly,
still not looking at Derek. Took me a long time to leave, didn't it?
Nearly seven months. By the time Stiles did finally leave, they were both exhausted, worn out,
spent, bags under their eyes, barely hanging on by a shared thread. When the thread finally
snapped, of course it hurt, but there was also a wave of relief that came along with not having to
hold on anymore.
Towards the end there maybe closer to the middle, actually...I was afraid of you.
Derek blinks at him. Scared of him? Stiles was scared of Derek?
That time you told me about your family. I don't know. I just knew I knew. From the way you
looked at me, I could just tell and...I knew you loved me and it scared the shit out of me.
Why would me loving you...

Because people don't love me, Derek, with a sigh and a lilt of his head downwards, towards
the ground, I'm I usually get out before there's enough time for that, but, with you I just
couldn't leave.
It's more than Derek has ever heard Stiles say on the subject; the way Derek felt about Stiles was
always swept underneath the rug, to the point where Derek learned to just flat out not admit how
he felt about Stiles at any point on time out of fear of how Stiles would wind up reacting. You
couldn't leave, Derek repeats, still confused and floundering.
Stiles shakes his head back and forth, and flicks his eyes up to meet Derek's, finally. We were
supposed to be done in four months. That's my time limit. Four months.
It's a shitty thing to hear. That Stiles had a time limit on his time with Derek, that he was just
sitting there counting down the days until he could finally break it off and move on before the
wound started bleeding.
I don't know. The time came, and I just felt paralyzed, and the fact that I couldn't make myself
leave, it made me... act like a fucking asshole. It would explain why Derek was so hellbent on
making up another Stiles in his head; the reality is, that the Stiles inside of his head wasn't so
much a figment of his imagination, but a memory of how Stiles was before all that shit happened.
Book Stiles was the Stiles from the early days of Summer. Who wasn't trying to force himself out
the door and having an internal battle with himself every time Derek said he loved Stiles.
I kept waiting for you to do it for me, but you never did. People always leave, right? That's
what I always thought. People leave, and change their minds and... those amber eyes bore into
Derek's, and for a few seconds there's nothing but silent, intense eye contact between the two of
them. ...but you didn't.
Derek shakes his head side to side. Still haven't.
Stiles laughs, out of nowhere; shaking his own head side to side and averting his eyes away form
Derek again. See? I hate when you say shit like that. Like it's so fucking easy to just fucking
say how you feel all the time. I'm not good at stuff like that, I'm not good at being honest,
I'm...messed up.
Stiles hasn't said anything about what happened to his mother, or why even though Derek has
been sitting in the same room with him as Stiles accepted calls after Dad flashed across the
screen of his phone, Derek has never met Stiles' father or even heard anything about him. Stiles
hasn't said anything about his past relationships, what made him so scared in the first place.
It's the kind of thing Derek would expect literally anyone else he'd been in a seven month
relationship with to tell him. People are supposed to talk about their pasts; no character is ever
introduced without a fucking backstory.
But, with Stiles, Derek thinks it just might be different. Stiles isn't the kind of person who can

pull his heart out of his chest to wear it on his sleeve like Derek can do with people he cares
about enough; Stiles tattoos over his own skin to hide whatever scars there might be and he
never wants to talk about anything and he runs away. He's not like Derek. Sometimes it's hard to
accept the parts of other people that aren't pretty or endearing, the parts of a person's character
that constitute flaws. Stiles reads his own flaws and thinks that he's a shitty person because he
can't love fully without holding back out of fear, and the second he does start to fall into that pit
of getting too attached he usually turns tail and runs the other way so he can hold onto the good
things in hindsight.
And, for the first time, Stiles fits together. The part of him that smiles and laughs and teases
Derek finally fits together with the part of him that closes in on himself and turns his back on
Derek the pieces line their jagged edges up, and the entire picture is finally sitting there in
front of Derek's eyes.
Derek gets now that nothing lasts forever for Stiles because he forces them to not last forever.
That might be something that not even Stiles himself has ever realized, or has been suppressing
in favor of believing that no one could ever actually love him enough to want to stick around. He
understands that Stiles believes wholeheartedly that every single person he meets is a cherry
blossom that's just waiting to fall.
The only thing he doesn't know is what to do about it, now. Every thing is out on the open, sitting
on the table. Stiles is staring at him coolly; like if Derek says well...bye forever he'll just shrug
and say I figured as much.
Instead, Derek says, people aren't that simple. Everyone has their issues. Right?
Stiles says, did you read that in one of your books?
He narrows his eyes, quirks his lips up into a smile. More or less, yeah.
Well, Stiles shrugs, and his eyes are still bloodshot from tears and the bags under his eyes
look even more pronounced, that's really all I have to say on any of that.
Okay.
I'm not going to bug you anymore with all that I just kind of had to say some stuff because...I
felt like it was the right thing to do.
It could've been. Maybe Derek and Stiles would've been better off just ignoring each other for
the rest of their lives, pretending the other never existed to begin with. Derek imagines Stiles has
already scrubbed off Derek's sketch of Weenie the dog beside the octopus in his bathroom and
has shipped all of Derek's books off to Good Will or a charity bin somewhere.
The truth floats in the air between them. That Derek loved Stiles enough to put up with his
bullshit and Stiles loved Derek enough to actually stick around, but they didn't communicate
right. Neither of them know what to do with that, now. And Derek wonders what overdramatized

and melancholy Taylor Swift song Stiles is going to put on the second he walks out the door;
what's the song about two people who fucked every thing up mutually and now have to
awkwardly live with the consequences while working right beside each other?
Right as Derek is turning to leave, gearing up to walk out and leave Stiles' house behind and
hopefully never drive past it again, he pauses. You said you were going to think about me,
Derek says quietly, angling his body more in Stiles' direction. Did you?
Stiles' lips quirk into a barely-there smile. Hindsight, right?
Hindsight, Derek repeats with a nod. And I guess you think all your memories are fabricated.
Nostalgia making every thing look better, right?
It's quiet for a second. Stiles drops his arms down to his sides and lets a breath out through his
nose, running his eyes up and down Derek's body before settling on his face again. Even the
fights felt like good memories, after a while.
Derek knows what he means. About two weeks after Stiles had gone, two weeks of not seeing
the Jeep parked out back, Derek started longing to hear Stiles' voice in person screaming at him
to go fuck himself or something, anything.
He started thinking about all those fights that they had at the end, and he never changed the
dialogue. He never made it any better. He just accepted it for what it was. He accepted that
Derek himself can't handle real people without drifting off into dreamland, and Stiles can't
handle real people without thinking about how they're going to eventually fuck him over.
The point is, there was no fabrication on Derek's end and he wants to tell Stiles that he's full of
fucking shit. "All right," he says instead, turning his body back around towards the front door to
make his exit.
He wraps his fingers around the doorknob; and then Stiles clears his throat. "Hold on."
Derek lifts his eyes and turns back towards him for the second time, frowning.
"That's a shit ending," Stiles decides, straightening his back and raising his chin the air. "I don't
like it."
Derek didn't much care for it either, but he wasn't going to comment on it - he's trying not to
rewrite shit anymore, remember?
"I - I don't want to make excuses. You know? I feel like I just fed you excuse after excuse-"
"Explanations," Derek corrects.
"Whatever fucking synonym you prefer, booknerd," Stiles rolls his eyes and huffs, crossing his
arms across his chest. "I don't want to do that anymore. I fucked up, and that's it, and I'm sorry.
Period."

Derek sighs through his nose and lets go of the doorknob - clearly, Stiles isn't finished with this
god damn conversation. Which is funny, considering how it used to be two months ago with the
two of them, how trying to get Stiles to talk to Derek about anything that wasn't completely
asinine was like trying to solve a rubik's cube. "You know you're not the only one who fucked
up, right? I tried to turn you into someone you're not, if you remember that."
"Okay. Fine. You fucked up," he points a finger at Derek, then back at himself, "and I fucked up.
But you know good and well that if you walk out that door and if we just leave it at that...that's
not the way a good story would end."
"No," Derek agrees, his face blank and expressionless, confused, maybe. "It's not." Or, at least,
not a good romance story. For a tragedy, this is going pretty fucking well.
"And maybe -" he lets out a long sigh, like this is a physically hard thing for him to say, "...maybe
I don't want an ending at all."
It's the most shocking thing Stiles has ever said to him (and Stiles once admitted that he doesn't
think Neko Case is that great, so that bar was already set pretty fucking high). The only thing that
comes out of his mouth at first in response is "um..." while he runs his fingers through his own
hair, shaking his head. "Coming from you, that's -" one hell of a fucking thing to say. Stiles
nothing-lasts-forever Stilinski doesn't want an ending at all.
Stiles stands even taller, setting his jaw and keeping his eyes cool and level with Derek's. "I can
be surprising."
Derek knows that to be the solid truth; but this particular subject is something he felt was a lost
cause. After seven months of pushing at Stiles to want to stick around, trying to get him to just
stop and pause and have something more than a fleeting memory with Derek, he had kind of
given up. So this kind of transcends above surprise and into impossible territory. "What do you
even plan on - what are we supposed to do, Stiles?"
"You think I fucking know?" He throws his hands up in frustration, growling. "I have no fucking
idea what to do, all right? I just - I don't want you to fucking leave. I don't want you to leave.
I don't want hindsight with you, anymore, Derek."
Derek's heart thuds in his chest, and he freezes. He doesn't know what to do, or say, scared that if
he moves this moment will vanish into thin air and disappear before he even gets the chance to
enjoy it.
Stiles runs a hand through his own hair and swallows audibly, averting his eyes away from
Derek to glare at the wall. "And I never should've left. And I never should've treated you the
way that I did, like something to give up when the time came. And...I want you."
He takes a couple steps further into the room and away from the door, and this time, Stiles
doesn't move to step backwards, away from him; he just stands his ground, waiting. Derek eyes

the bits of the cherry blossoms that he can see through the v in Stiles' collar, and then meets
Stiles' amber eyes. "Forever?"
"I don't know."
And there it is. That's what Derek has been trying to convince Stiles of since the very, very
beginning. Since that first day out in the sunset behind the building - you can't know. You can
never know.
Things turn out the way they turn out. Some things go on, and on, and on, and never really leave
you. Derek still wakes up some nights smelling smoke that isn't there, still hears giggles and
laughter echoing down the hallway of his apartment, hears his mother's voice in his head. Stiles
has those tattoos running along his arms and collarbones and up his sides, still has Scott, still has
his work and the drawings on his bathroom wall.
Other things vanish. Every now and again, Derek wants to nudge his older brother in the side and
make a sarcastic remark that only he would appreciate, or he wants to go home. Every now and
then, Stiles wants to turn to his mother and ask her for advice on something, wants to hear her
voice congratulating him for how far he's come.
The point is, you can't know. Derek was right about that from the beginning you can't fucking
know.
"Is that going to be a problem?" Stiles asks him; like this a brand new beginning. Like they're
starting the story over, scrapping the first two hundred pages and diving back in headfirst.
Consequences be fucking damned.
Derek answers him by closing the gap in-between them, grabbing Stiles' face, his bony jawline,
and kissing him.
Derek doesn't know whether or not Stiles is going to freak out again - he doesn't know if he's
going to get scared, run, try to escape another forever before it escapes him first. He doesn't
know if Stiles is ever going to tell him anything or be honest with him, he doesn't know if Stiles
is already thinking four months into the future, doesn't know if Stiles is going to look at him
someday and be unimpressed, doesn't know if something's going to come in and ruin them.
And that's exactly the way he likes his stories - twists, and turns, and surprises. Where he can't
see what's coming next.

End Notes

*hypnotizes you* go listen to Wildest Dreams, love Wildest Dreams, you are getting very
very emotional over Wildest Dreams
and, once again, just because Stiles and Derek like or dislike something doesn't mean that I
do haha I feel the need to stress that

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