Chapter Text
He stared down at his phone, not entirely sure what to do. Scott's number was highlighted, one of half a dozen in the address book. Indecisive, he scrolled up to the number for the vet's clinic, his thumb hovering over the button before he scrolled back down to Scott's. Bad and Worse. Some things never changed.
After a month of exhausting interviews, of recounting details and allowing Valdyr to read his memories (and Jesus, he still couldn't begin to describe how invasive, how difficult the whole process had been) he had a house, or a semblance of one at least. Only as tangible as his claim of having a pack. Meaning, he technically owned a house, and he was technically part of a pack, but his 'home' was a run down, abandoned structure that had once belonged to an alpha's second, and he was part of a pack in the sense that an alpha had accepted him and he had submitted to her.
But it was permanent. More permanent than the loft or Beacon Hills, more permanent than New York. As long as he kept his head down and met the standard requirements, he was staying. Which meant the house he'd just purchased needed to be fixed, because it was his and he was supposed to live in it. He was now a property owner, which implied stability. Maybe.
And he needed to let someone know, because he'd left behind a few loose ends, all of them technically his responsibility. Like Peter, not that he believed his uncle would linger in Beacon Hills. But still, he couldn't shake his sense of obligation, even if it felt like he had burned all of his bridges.
He'd told Scott they were brothers, once. It was never more apparent than now, since he wanted to brain the idealistic moron, preferably with a lacrosse stick. Only a brother could feel that kind of disappointment, right? Only family could feel so utterly betrayed, like- (His brain did not picture anyone in particular. Not long dead sisters or resurrected sisters or uncles that wouldn't stay dead.)
For all that he respected Scott's Rise to alpha, he couldn't respect the clemency the twins enjoyed. Bitterness, nothing new, made it difficult to call the alpha that had taken over his mother's territory. Deaton, likewise, was difficult, because he'd done- Either too much or not enough, depending on the day. His inability or refusal (Derek still didn't know which it had actually been, the statements vague and indecipherable even in hindsight) to help Cora sat wrong in his chest, still pissed him off, the most infuriating moment in months of moments involving the emissary.
Stiles' name was just below Scott's, simultaneously the most and least desirable point of contact.
Stiles was- A constant and a complete unknown. Their last conversation had been all of five sentences, if that, and there hadn't been any goodbyes. The kid had watched him leave though, had waved until they were out of sight, oblivious to the fact that Cora had stared resolutely ahead while he'd watched the boy and the jeep get smaller and smaller. Derek wasn't entirely sure how to let Stiles know how to get in touch with him, or if it would be wise in the first place. A text with his name would be simple, but- (he really hated that word, loathed it because 'but' was in the top three for words that precluded disaster) But, Stiles had done something, unnameable and better left unexamined, by helping him and then telling him he needed to get out, for himself and his sister and not because he wanted him gone. (Even though he probably had.)
Remembering Stiles' suggestions, which would have been funny in any other life (but not this one, because becoming a hermit was a viable and even enlightened suggestion) he looked up at his house. Or what would be a house again. Eventually. He scrolled the his camera app and snapped a quick picture before he could think better of it and sent it, his thumb bearing down on the screen.
Who is this?
He smirked down at the phone, then frowned. Maybe vague hadn't been the greatest idea. Vague with no names was threatening, and despite running commentary on his personality, he wasn't wasn't actually aiming for the Overly Theatrical Asshole of the Year award.
Derek.
What is it?
He felt his head tilt, flicked his gaze to the house and back to his phone. Was it really that bad? He checked the house again. Yeah, yeah it was.
My new house.
I thought no more squatting.
He scowled at his screen. Either Stiles was being a smartass or genuinely believed he was squatting in a rundown house in the middle of the-God damn it.
The brittle sound of frustration didn't detract from the graphically detailed curses that filled the surrounding woods.
I'm not. I just closed on it today.
He sent it, not quite sure why he felt the need to defend the run down thing he'd agreed to buy at Valdyr's insistence. Insistence which was still bewildering and-chaffing, maybe. He'd have to grow used to listening to someone that wasn't his sister. But his new alpha had been adamant, probably because she felt he needed to be kept close. ('On a short leash' his inner voice piped up unhelpfully. That his inner voice sounded like Stiles was pure coincidence.) And he kind of wanted a place to just-Escape. Disappear. Starting over wasn't really an option, but if he had the time, maybe he could buy into the delusion. If anything, that had proven to be one of the few things he was exceptionally good at.
He wasn't bitter, just self aware.
Congratulations.
Despite his best intentions, he thought that might be genuine. Or he was already buying into the fantasy.