The academy really sucks. It’s been raining a lot this fall, and the instructors don’t care that the cadets are only humans who can get cold and sick if forced to run outside every day. Stiles has managed to avoid getting sick, so far, but most of his group has come down with a cold, if not something worse. It’s like their primary instructor thinks they’re in the military instead of cop school. His dad keeps telling him to just hold his tongue, warns him that some of the instructors can be assholes, and says it’ll get better, like some damn PSA or something.

Some days, he really regrets the night he encouraged Scott to go look for a dead body. If the supernatural bullshit hadn’t invaded their lives sophomore year, he might have maintained his GPA and kept his position in the top of his class. There would have been scholarship opportunities, and he could be bitching about eight a.m. classes and annoying professors instead of the academy. Really, it’s six of one or a half dozen of another. Maybe he should have just forced himself to not care about anyone and take off with no forwarding address, do the Derek thing with random postcards occasionally but no sure way for anyone to get in touch. Best way to avoid getting dragged back into shit is to never tell anyone where you are, just where you’ve been.

That’s not an option, though. Not with his dad, not with Scott, not even with the pack, such as it is. With Lydia in Boston dominating the halls of MIT, and Kira off finding herself, it’s really only Scott and Malia around that much anyway. Jordan is technically pack, but he tends to keep to himself mostly, and the junior edition are just too young and still somehow wide-eyed innocent despite what they’ve already dealt with for Stiles to stomach for long periods of time. Small doses is about all he can handle. Hell, it hasn’t really felt like his pack since the whole Theo drama, getting pushed out of the major planning with Scott, no longer needed so much when another beta joined the ranks.

Despite only being eighteen, Stiles feels so much older sometimes. It’s like the last three years have aged him by decades instead of months. He already feels nostalgic sometimes, sitting at home listening to the rain and remembering everyone they’ve lost. Hearing Erica’s laugh in the wind, seeing Allison’s smile when he closes his eyes, feeling Boyd’s hand squeeze his shoulder when he wants to just give up, smelling Heather’s perfume in the air. Gone but never forgotten. And the ones who just left, chose to get out, probably the smart ones not that he’d ever admit it. He wonders if Jackson likes London. Is Cora back in South America? Is Isaac still in France? Where did Danny even go? And Derek. Well. His last postcard was from Calgary, and the one before that was from Michigan. Who knows where he is now.

This melancholy has sort of lingered on him since last year. Unsettled, restless, missing something without knowing exactly what. His dad worries about him. Stiles can tell, so he tries to pretend like it is all okay. Like the world is normal, and like he’s never changed, but then that seems to worry his dad even more. He can’t seem to get it right these days. Not having high school to distract him throws him off. There are pack things he doesn’t even attend because it’s for the wolves and whatever the hell Corey is, and Mason has stepped into his shoes, taken his place as the researcher, and Mason’s got a heart of gold. He’s better for Scott, really, than Stiles is with his distrustful cynicism and pessimistic nature.

It’s raining again today. He’s got mud on his track suit, tripped on the course through the woods, banged his knee against a rock, but he finished the damn race. The athletic shit doesn’t bother him that much, but he can’t wait until it’s done. The physical fitness portion is over soon, and he thinks it’ll get better. The firearms skills class has been easy. Despite his lack of finesse when Braeden wouldn’t give him a gun, he’s actually been able to shoot since he was a kid. His dad took him to the range and taught him gun safety when he was young, figuring it might help prevent an accident since firearms are in the house. Stiles is able to focus now in a way he hadn’t when he was younger. He figures getting possessed by centuries old fox spirits and having blood on his hands combats ADHD pretty fucking well.

His other classes are all pretty solid, too. He’s impressing his instructors, not even gloating when he’s able to kick ass in self-defense because Derek taught him those basic skills during breaks when they’d been searching for Erica and Boyd. And his CPR and first-aid skills are off the charts. How could they be anything else when he spent three years constantly having to tend to his wounds or other people’s? Plus all the time he spent at the hospital when his mother was dying, and he’s always paid attention when Melissa is doing nursing stuff. The other class he’s currently taking is a mediation class, and his supernatural experiences are even helping with that because he spent a lot of time mediating things between Scott and Derek for those first few months and later, well, Peter was a conflict all on his own.

The house is quiet when he opens the door and steps inside. Water is pooling on the floor under his feet, and he glares down at a chunk of mud that splats into the puddle. Since he doesn’t want to deal with cleaning up a mud trail from the front door to his bedroom, he holds the doorknob for balance so he can take off his shoes. Then he shimmies out of the gross sweat pants, dropping them in a muddy wet ball on the floor. His hoodie soon follows. His t-shirt is soaked, but there isn’t any mud, so he debates taking it off, too, before he finally just does it. He keeps his underwear on because the last thing he needs is for his dad to come home early and start asking why he’s running around naked through the house.

Stiles gathers up the sopping mess of clothes and takes them to the laundry room, tossing them into the washer. After considering it a moment, he takes off his socks and throws them in, too. Looking down at him, he rolls his eyes. It’s not like he’s got anything his dad hasn’t seen anyway. He shoves the underwear down, adding them to the washer before tossing in one of the pod things his dad thinks somehow saves them money (okay so it probably does because Stiles doesn’t actually ever measure detergent, alright? He pours it in until he thinks it’s enough) then starts the washer.

Of course, being naked on a cold rainy day is pretty stupid. He’s got goosebumps on his skin, water is trickling down his collarbone, and he’s shaking, just a little. Still, he gets paper towels and cleans up the muddy puddle by the door, tossing the paper towels in the kitchen trash. After getting one of the dish towels and using it to try to get his hair less drippy, he heads upstairs to take a hot shower before putting some warm clothes on. He’s toweling his hair dry as he opens his bedroom door, using his hip to open the door wider as he walks inside.

It takes him a minute to realize that he isn’t alone in his room. He notices that someone is sitting at his desk. When he does, he drops the towel and reaches for his bat, always kept within easy reach of the door, just in case. He raises it behind his head as he turns to see who’s there, mouth dropping open and eyes widening as he sees Derek holding a book. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Derek stares at him for a moment, ears turning red as he turns his head to the side. “Surprise?” he says weakly, clearing his throat as he closes the book. “Maybe you could, uh, put some clothes on?”

“Surprise,” Stiles repeats slowly, glancing down and flushing when he remembers that, yes, he actually is naked. His skin is splotchy from the blushing, and he drags his fingers through his damp hair as he walks over to his bed. There’s a pair of sweatpants on the floor, his wardrobe these days often involving sweatpants and t-shirts instead of real clothes, so he pulls those on before getting a t-shirt off his bed. Once he’s wearing clothes, he licks his lips and stares at Derek. “No more naked Stiles. You can look at me now. You’ve got a dick, too, so you don’t really need to act so prudish, you know?”

“I’m not prudish. My naked body isn’t your naked body, so it isn’t the same,” Derek mutters. He looks at him, and Stiles feels an odd twisting in his gut when he realizes this is the first time he’s seen him up and about since walking away from him dying in Mexico.

With that in mind, he crosses the space between them and punches Derek in the shoulder, hard. “You died. You made me walk away when you were dying! And then, to make it even worse, you came back to life but still left without even saying goodbye, asshole.”

“I know,” Derek says simply, like that somehow makes it better. He stares at Stiles, arms at his sides, just taking the punch and seemingly ready to listen to whatever Stiles has to say.

“We needed you. I needed you. There was this guy, and Scott didn’t listen, and I killed someone, and it was horrible, and Scott didn’t believe…I couldn’t explain…and Lydia almost died and Mason was some old white dude and I don’t even know, man. It was fucked up, alright? And we survived it, but then there was this Nazi dude thing and, fuck, it sounds like some bad plot to a Roger Corman movie, but it’s been our life.”

“Braeden filled me in,” Derek admits, his pretty (no, not pretty. Stiles is over that, and he’s mad, okay, so Derek coming back and looking so earnest and gorgeous is not going to pull him back into unrequited infatuation with someone so far out of his league it’s ridiculous) eyes staring at Stiles intently. “You didn’t need me, Stiles. You managed without me, and your pack is strong, from what I hear.”

“My pack is gone,” Stiles whispers, feeling some of the weight of his mood and melancholy pressing down on his chest. “They’re Scott’s pack, and I’m part of it because Scott would never, could never, not include me, but they’re not mine. Not really.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m so fucking tired, Derek.”

Derek tentatively takes a step forward, and then his arms carefully move around Stiles. Stiles sobs, outright sobs like some cry baby asshole, and Derek drags him closer, tightening his grip around him. “I wasn’t ready yet,” Derek murmurs into his ear. “I had to heal, and I couldn’t do that here. I’m better now. More myself. The man I’ve become, I guess.”

“I hated you for getting out,” Stiles admits, rubbing his face against Derek’s neck. “For just being able to walk away like none of us matter. Not even calling or anything.”

“You matter, Stiles. All of you do.” Derek’s beard scratches his ear and jaw. “I talked to your dad, before I came here. He told me I should come see you. He told me…he thinks maybe you have feelings. For me.”

“Oh God.” Stiles closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Derek, already thinking of ways to kill his dad for this humiliation. “I’ve been restless, and he’s noticed. I guess he thinks maybe I was missing you. I mean, I was, I have been, but you aren’t the only reason I’ve been so moody and everything.”

“That’s not a denial about having feelings for me, Stiles,” Derek says quietly. “Your heart is racing even faster right now. You need to calm down, alright?” He takes a breath, letting it out slowly. “Do you know why I came back? Why I left Vancouver and decided it was time to finally return to Beacon Hills?”

“You got tired of snow and wanted this wonderful rain?” Stiles feels Derek’s fingers in his hair, tugging his head back until he’s forced to look at him. Derek looks serious, not resting bitch face serious but earnestly sincere serious. “Why?”

“Because I missed you,” Derek whispers, gaze dropping to Stiles’ lips before raising again. “Not Scott, not the pack connection, not the town. You.”

“Oh.” Stiles breathes out the word softly, so softly it barely even is a word, but he’s staring into Derek’s eyes, mind reeling from what Derek might mean, not wanting to assume but hoping, wishing, praying, he understands. That it means what he thinks it does. “Me?”

“Yeah.” Derek brushes his knuckles along the curve of Stiles’ jaw, little hairs tickling his skin. “You were so young, and I was pretty fucked up. I never really thought about it, about us becoming something serious, but I couldn’t think about anything else while I was gone. I sent postcards, just needing to remind you I was still out there, I guess. I don’t know. I just…you’re still so damn young.”

“I’m eighteen, Derek. But my mind, it’s like older than you,” he points out, still not entirely sure if he dares to dream. “Stuff leftover from the possession, growing up way too fast, the last year has really sort of sucked, and it’s not because you weren’t here. It’s because I was growing up, leaving behind childish things, I guess. I don’t know. It’s been weird, like my skin doesn’t fit right, and seeing you again is good. So fucking good. But it’s not like everything in my life is suddenly fitting together perfectly or my skin feels normal again just because you’ve come back.”

“I don’t think life works that way anyway,” Derek says, tracing his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip. “There are no easy solutions, and a person can’t make life perfect. But normal is overrated, Stiles, and sometimes your skin won’t feel right, but that isn’t always a bad thing. It’s part of the process, of learning and growing, and it doesn’t hurt to have people around that you like.”

“It’s like you died in Mexico and came back to life as some kind of talkative life coach or something,” Stiles murmurs. “I like the talking more than the emotional constipation, for the record.”

“I evolved.” Derek smiles slightly, still touching his face like he’s not entirely sure if Stiles is actually there or that he’s being allowed to touch. “Traveling and soul searching helped a lot, too.”

“Evolved into a self-help calendar of quotes,” Stiles teases gently, hesitantly reaching up to touch Derek’s jaw. “This mountain man beard is something else, too. You look like a lumberjack. Or maybe a hippie, what with the longer hair and peaceful mood thing you’ve got going on now.”

“Make love, not war,” Derek tells him, lips curving into a bigger smile. “Damn, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Stiles whispers, staring into Derek’s eyes. “Are you just visiting?”

“Thinking about staying, maybe, if I’ve got a reason to?” Derek leans down, ghosting his lips over Stiles’. “Give me a reason, Stiles, and I’ll never leave you again.”

Instead of answering, Stiles tilts his head and presses their mouths together. Derek makes a noise, soft and almost pained, then he’s returning Stiles’ kiss. It’s a first kiss, but not their last. He knows that deep in his gut, can tell in the way Derek touches him, the way the kiss remains sweet and almost innocent, a beginning that’s in no hurry to rush towards more because they have time to explore and grow together. He wets his lips then they’re kissing again.

Lips moving together, arms holding each other tight, neither of them planning to let go.