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"I’m here. I went away but now I’m back and
nothing else matters."
--written by Sarah Kane
Of course it happens after Stiles starts actually dating someone on a semi-serious level.
He's kissing him out front of the chipped red door of his apartment, hands tame in his pockets, when he sees the little white corner of it peeking out from the crack of light on the floor.
It's a really terrible postcard. Truly. The paper is such a bright yellow that he has to shield his eyes when he first flips it over and has his vision assaulted by a multi-colored sombrero. For a minute or two, Stiles actually thinks it was made by a child, the way each letter looks like a different font, some capitalized and some not, all coming together to read:
"Greetings from Venezuela!"
Derek didn't sign it. Didn't write anything on it at all, except for a return address on the right and a little black squiggle where he presumably checked to see if his pen still had ink.
It's the first anyone has heard from him since he left. Scott and Kira had a working theory that he became a humble farmer, living off of beets and carrots and tending to a ridiculous amount of horses while Cora fought bulls or tigers or something.
No one asks the obvious question when Stiles tells them. Maybe out of decency, out of some shred of respect for his feelings, or maybe because they really don't know. He can't be sure.
No one asks why Derek sent it to him.
The look back had been significant. The string between them was snapping, and had been for a while, so when Derek turned his head to give them all one last look, gaze landing on Stiles and staying there, he'd made it count. He looked back and squared his jaw, bit down on his tongue just hard enough so that he couldn't say anything, even when the red string frayed and broke apart, falling unceremoniously in between them.
It hurt just enough to make him falter, a sharp pressure building in his chest and then subsiding, like the crash of a wave.
If Derek felt it, he didn't show it.
Scott would ask him about it later and he would blame it on a stomach ache.
The string was broken, and Stiles left it in that parking lot like a thing that needed to be forgotten. Watched it glow red, then white again before disappearing as Derek drove away from them. From him, he adds.
Derek left. He said he would. They both said they would. Derek left first, though, and that was okay because he didn't owe anyone anything, especially not Stiles.
"You see it, too?" Derek asked him once. They were both bleeding like they always were back then. The plain, white string extending from Stiles' pinky all the way to Derek's had turned red, and he couldn't stop staring.
"Thought it was just me."
They're leaning over Stiles' sink, white porcelain splashed with blood as they clean their wounds.
"Since when?" Derek makes a point not to look him in the eye.
"Since the pool."
"Me, too."
"Have you pulled at it?"
"Yeah. Hurts."
Stiles nods his head in agreement.
Google didn't really answer their questions. Neither did anything on the internet, really. They found what they needed in one of Deaton's old books, stumbled on it by accident while looking for his journal on ancient Druidic rituals.
"Soul-bonded." Derek doesn't look surprised, just exhausted. The string, usually loose and fluid, allowing them to move around freely, had grown tighter since they talked about it. Stiles plucked at it like the string of a harp.
"Says here it's brought on by circumstance, which is why we only started seeing it after that night," Stiles reads on, numb. "It's not common, and it says nothing about why it's started turning red."
"Could be fading. If it's brought on by an intense situation, then maybe, as time passes, it goes away," Derek sidles up next to him, and the string droops into a U. It feels better.
"Could be. Apparently it's possible to sever it, though." Derek freezes beside him. It happens so quickly that Stiles thinks he imagines it. "It's actually pretty simple," he presses on, "it intensifies with every dangerous, near-death experience the two connected people face, which might explain why it's turning red. Given, you know, every single thing about this town and how we're basically killed every week."
Derek moves closer, shoulder pressing up against Stiles'. There's a soft, insistent buzzing in his body, like he's full of static.
"So the solution is to, what, avoid those situations? Because that won't be easy or even possible."
"Not now. Not with everything going on, and especially not since we can't really seem to go much further than our respective homes without this string causing, like, unbearable pain. But, soon. When senior year is over and I get the hell out of Beacon Hills, it should break off and disappear."
Derek looks at him out of the corner of his eye, mouth pulled into a tight line.
"So a few more months, then one of us leaves, goes somewhere safe, and it breaks." Derek never asks questions, frames everything like it's already happening, or is going to happen.
"That's the idea," Stiles runs a hand over the back of his neck, wincing a little when Derek nods stiffly and leaves the room. The string goes taut, and an ache settles in the pit of Stiles' stomach the way it always does when they're apart, now. He can't stop thinking of the way the shiny copper string of Scott's guitar snapped while he was tuning it last week. The loud, off tune yelp of the wire giving into the pressure.
They were never close, really. Even during those months when the string was pulled so tight between them that Stiles had to sleep on the couch in Derek's loft just to get some peace, they didn't stay up late and watch movies or crack jokes. Nothing changed. There was still the bickering, the arguing, the pulling each other out of burning buildings and pools of water. Only touching when not touching meant dying.
Stiles figured it was just how the world had made them; a little colder than they should have been. A little too damaged to be any good for each other.
Not that he hadn't thought about it. Not that he didn't want that, because he did. Somewhere way down inside, he did want that. Wanted the string to pull them so close that they had no choice but to touch each other until the world didn't hurt so much.
But it wasn't fair to wish that on someone. A connection that they didn't ask for. Stiles just happened to be there that night. It happened to be him in that school, him in the water, holding Derek up while the monster of the week was stalking the edges of the pool.
He buys the ugliest Beacon Hills postcard he can find at the general store, walks all the way back home in the rain with it tucked safely under his jacket.
I see you learned how to write while you were away. Impressive.
How long is your beard now? Probably pretty long. I'm picturing you herding sheep in a mountain wearing a parka made of your fur.
Am I close?
I don't miss you. Don't come back. :)
-Stiles
It's two weeks after he sends it that he feels the pressure on his pinky, the overwhelming ache that he’d almost forgotten about.
The string isn't white or red, this time. It's a soft, baby blue, and as thin and iridescent as spider silk.
He sighs, then calls his boyfriend to break it off. It's not what he means to do when he dials the number, but it's what comes out.
"I'm sorry, but some stuff is happening in my life right now and it isn't fair to drag you into it."
It's the worst thing to say. The worst way to end things with someone who would've been really good for you, but it's the closest to the truth he can get without actually telling the truth.
Derek comes back not even three days later, and he's not the grizzly recluse that Stiles was assuming he'd become.
He just shows up in Stiles' apartment, sitting on the ratty old leather couch that he took from the loft when he left.
"Not even gonna ask how you got in," Stiles says, and the part of his brain that wants to record everything for future posterity is kicking him because, really? That's the first thing he says?
"I don't understand."
His beard is short. It's not even really a beard, just kind of looks like the hand of God painted the bottom half of his face a dark, shiny black. He's bigger than he was when he left; healthier, Stiles mentally corrects. Still so beautiful he doesn't even look real.
"I don't either," Stiles walks past him, the string following him into the kitchen as he goes to pour two cups of lukewarm coffee, handing Derek's to him.
"This thing stretched across a continent, Stiles."
"Were you in danger?"
"No," Derek's mouth thins like it does when he's angry-thinking. Stiles wants to smooth it out, opting instead to stand a few feet in front of him, cradling his coffee mug in his hands to keep him from touching. "I was, I was fine and then I got your letter and it came back almost immediately."
"You look good," Stiles says, distractedly. He chokes on his coffee after he processes what just came out of his mouth.
Derek just stares at him, face so impossible to read except for the traces of hopelessness in the lift of his eyebrows.
"I don't know what to do here," he settles on, placing his coffee on the table and standing up to pace.
"You shouldn't have come back. It would've snapped, eventually." Stiles puts his coffee down, too, because his hands are shaking and the string is tugging lightly at him.
"I tried to cut it and it burned. It's impossible to sever, and it, it hurts so much more this time."
Stiles wipes a hand over his face, the sensation of being within touching distance of Derek after so long intoxicating. The string is loose between them, glowing every time the sunlight catches on it.
"I was supposed to leave first," Stiles says, completely unable to join Derek in the conversation he's trying to have. Not when there's so much that he didn't get to say.
"I told you I'd leave. I told you I would fix it," Derek moves closer to him, brows furrowed in confusion.
"Did you feel it? When it broke the last time?"
"Yes."
Stiles steps closer, their bodies only a few feet apart now. "And you still left?"
"I thought it was what you wanted," Stiles is about to start screaming, but Derek continues. "That's not what I mean. I wanted to leave. Needed to leave. Cora was, she was and is all I have left and it hurt too much to stay. I left for her. But it was easier to do because I thought you wanted it, too."
Stiles runs a hand through his hair, absentmindedly reminding himself to get it cut soon. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have anything to say to that.
It’s mostly jealousy talking. Jealousy that Derek got to leave and get better, and Stiles had to scrape up what was left of himself in a town that wanted him to die, and recover the hard way. The gauze and therapy and sleeping pills way.
It’s not Derek’s fault. He didn’t leave to hurt him. He deserved to get away.
"Why didn't you tell me? Or anyone? When you first saw it?" Derek’s plucking at the fine, glowing string, trying to fill the silence.
Stiles thinks about that for a minute. He remembers the walk out of the high school, his soaking wet track suit leaving a trail of water behind them. Then he saw it. The faint white in between them.
He didn't say anything because he thought he was imagining it, at first. He convinced himself that it wasn't real for a few weeks, just found different excuses. Mostly chalked it up to Adderall and sleep deprivation.
Then he touched it. He wasn't sure why it took him so long, but it felt like the yarn his mom used when she knit. What was worse were the dreams that didn't leave him, even after he woke up. Dreams of Derek, kissing him, saving him, holding him.
"Don't know. I was scared, I guess, and there always seemed to be something worse going on. Plus," Stiles clears his throat, looking anywhere but at Derek. "Didn't feel like anyone else's business but ours. It was— it was ours. Our thing to live with."
Derek nods. A short, stiff movement.
“Is Cora with you?”
“Yes. We’re staying at the loft for a while.”
“Does she know?”
“No.”
It feels more intimate, knowing that it’s a secret, that, for whatever reason, neither of them have ever told another soul.
“What are we supposed to do now?” He asks, not because he thinks Derek will have an answer, but because he wants to keep talking; wants to keep Derek right where he is, and if that means making vague plans, then so be it.
“We can do some research. Find out why it came back.”
It’s the logical course of action, obviously, but somehow not what he wanted to hear. Derek’s pulling at the string again, not looking at him. It changes from a blue to a pink whenever one of them touches it, and seems to glow brighter, now that they’re close.
“I’m gonna try something,” Stiles warns, hands going up like he’s trying not to startle a wounded animal. It’s a vague idea, when he says it. Barely a plan, just an urge that he’s pretending is a scientific experiment.
He moves closer, internally cringing when Derek tenses up. “If it snaps when we separate, we should find out what it does if we, like, actually touch each other,” he explains. And then he’s half a foot away from Derek, who looks like he’s about to bolt out of the room.
Without hesitating, he presses their chests together, grabbing Derek’s left hand in his and lining their fingers up.
“Wha—?” Derek tries to break the contact, only stopping when the string starts vibrating, glowing a deep, deep red. Stiles’ body feels like it’s on fire, and, from the face Derek’s making, he’s feeling it, too.
“What the fuck,” Stiles mutters, bringing their entwined hands up to his face to look. The string has wrapped around their pinkies, binding them together in a swirl of red. When he tries to pull away, the string burns.
Derek’s starting to panic. His breathing is heavy, and his nostrils are flared, eyes glowing red. “Stiles,” he warns trying to rip his hand away.
“Just hold on, I think it’s doing something.”
The string pulls tighter, the skin of their fingers turning white with the lack of blood circulating. Derek’s claws have popped out, and his other arm goes to wrap around Stiles’ waist, pulling him in closer. The pressure from the string seems to be spreading through Stiles’ entire body, making it shake and shudder as the string starts to break.
Derek’s head bows forward in pain, and Stiles presses his forehead against his while they ride out whatever the hell is happening to them. There are dark red lines spreading all over their palms, like their veins are pushing thick, red blood to the surface of their skin.
They stand like that, melted together like candle-wax, while the string seemingly wraps around both of their bodies, pulling until neither of them can breathe. Visions of a life neither of them had pass between them like they’re on a projector. He sees Derek in his old house, completely repaired so that there’s not a single reminder of the fire. Stiles is at the top of the staircase, white sheets wrapped around him. It’s a scene out of his dreams. He remembers it, can hear what happens next. Derek’s sharp laugh. The first time he’s ever heard it, and it’s so spectacular that Stiles runs down the stairs and jumps into him, pressing their laughing mouths together.
Derek’s forehead is pressing too hard against Stiles’ but he doesn’t care. They’re staring into each other’s eyes while the entire foundation of the world shake beneath them, and Derek’s green irises are the only thing keeping him from falling through the floorboards.
The storm passes what feels like hours later, and the circulation returns to their hands. Stiles comes to in the middle of a panic attack that he didn’t know he was having. He’s pressed against Derek’s chest, cradled in his lap on the floor where they’ve clearly fallen, and Derek’s rocking him gently, hard point of his cheekbone pressing into his skull.
“You’re safe. It’s over, you’re safe,” he’s cooing. Stiles is straddling him, right hand clawing into his back so hard that he’d be bruising Derek if he didn’t heal so fast.
When the worst of it is over, and the cinderblock on his chest disintegrates, he sits back in Derek’s lap to look at him.
Stiles’ cheeks are wet. That’s no surprise. What is surprising is that Derek’s are, too. His expression is wide open, so vulnerable and lost that Stiles doesn’t even think before he grabs his face and kisses him.
Derek doesn’t do anything, at first. His arms tighten around Stiles’ body, poised like they’re ready to push him off, but then Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat, like a whine, and Derek comes alive, surging up and into Stiles’ mouth, pushing past his lips to taste his tongue, his cheeks, his teeth.
It’s sloppy, the kiss. Exactly the kind you’d expect from two people who have almost died in front of each other way too many times. It’s a desperate, should-have-happened-four-years-ago kiss. There’s a feeling of panic that grows with every second of contact, and it makes them hold each other too hard, the pressure so good, so necessary, that it doesn’t even hurt. Stiles throws his head back to get some air, eyes barely focusing on the arched ceilings above them, and Derek dives down to mouth at his neck, groaning when Stiles rocks down into him.
“What are we doing,” he whispers into Stiles’ clavicle, biting down on the meat of his shoulder.
“Don’t care, want it,” Stiles cries out when Derek’s hands fist in his hair and pull him back down for a bruising kiss. It’s only when Stiles reaches up to touch Derek’s cheek that he notices his hand, the absence of the string.
It looks like a henna tattoo. There are intricate shapes and swirls spreading from his pinky finger all the way across his hand, etched into his skin like someone carved into it with a knife.
Derek pulls back, face panicked like he’s done something wrong. Stiles shakes his head emphatically, gesturing towards his hand, and that’s when Derek pulls his away from Stiles’ hair to see the exact same pattern on his own.
Identical tattoos. Deep red marks that cover the front and back of their hand. There’s no blue string, anymore, just a little red dot at the tip of his pinky where it used to extend from.
“Jesus,” Derek mutters, turning his hand over and over like it’s a map he’s trying to puzzle out. He grabs Stiles’ hand and presses their palms together, rotating their wrists as far as they go to get a better look.
“I think its letters,” Stiles says, looking closely at the way certain symbols connect to the ones on Derek’s hand.
“Ancient Sumerian,” Derek says, quirking an eyebrow when Stiles looks at him in shock.
“I had a lot of time to read while I was away. Took up studying ancient languages, and this,” Derek points to what looks like an arrow, spreading across his thumb and Stiles’, “means ‘walk’.”
They have no choice but to tell everyone. Deaton, Scott, Kira, Malia, Lydia and even Liam, are waiting for them at the clinic. Cora comes in behind them, fixing Stiles with a curious glance. It’ the least hostile she’s ever been with him.
“I can’t even believe this,” Scott mutters, walking up to Stiles and Derek to study the marks. “Are you sure you guys just didn’t drunkenly get the same tattoo?” Derek scoffs at that, the sound so familiar and comforting that Stiles leans into him, a little.
“So you two weren’t that far off base,” Deaton says, walking up to them like no time at all has passed since the last time they were here. “This is a soul-bond, however, this one is ancient, hence the Sumerian hieroglyphs.”
“What does it mean,” Lydia walks up beside Deaton, reading through the book he’s been staring at. Cora comes up on his other side, mirroring Lydia.
“Well, soul bonds are different for very pair or group. Some are brought on by near-death experiences, and they fade within a year. Others return, others never go away. It depends heavily on the connection between the people.”
Scott is looking between Derek and Stiles like he’s seeing them for the first time.
“We’ve known for a few years,” Stiles confesses, absent-mindedly tracing Derek’s thumb. Derek grabs his hand and laces their fingers together.
“That timeline checks out,” Deaton says, unperturbed. “So even though the string broke when Derek left, the bond itself remained intact, boiling just beneath the blood. And when you made contact again, you woke it up.”
“Will the marks go away or fade?” Scott is staring at where Stiles and Derek’s hands are laced together, looking a bit dazed.
“Says in the book that what happens next all depends on what you two decide to do,” It’s Lydia that’s telling them about it now. “So, Derek, if you decide to stay in Beacon Hills; if you, well, if you and Stiles are considering being together, the marks will remain in tact.” Her eyes are scanning the text, green pools analyzing every inch of the pages.
“If you go back, though, the marks will spread until, eventually, they cover your entire body.” Deaton turns the book around and shows Derek and Stiles the page, where the outline of a body is covered from head to toe in the markings on their hands. “This would fade, in time, as most incomplete soul bonds do, but it would take a considerable amount of time.”
“I’m not going back,” Derek says, seeming surprised by his own words.
Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand, thumb rubbing at the space in between Derek’s pointer finger and thumb.
“The bond is harmless. Yes, painful at times, especially if one or both people don’t want it, but it won’t kill you.” Derek seems to relax a little at that.
“What do the markings say, anyway?” Kira asks, craning her neck to get a look at Stiles and Derek’s hands where they’re hidden between them.
Deaton walks over, holding both hands out. They place theirs in his palms, and Stiles gasps a little when he sees the markings glowing.
“We walk and love among the grave of earth together.” Derek mumbles, causing Deaton to look at him in alarm.
“He studied ancient texts while he was away,” Stiles shrugs, body tingling at hearing the meaning of the words.
Scott grabs him before he can leave with Derek. He pulls on his sleeve once they’re outside of the clinic, puppy dog eyes pleading. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Scott, it just…didn’t feel right telling anyone. I didn’t mean to keep it a secret.”
“I’m your best friend,” he almost whines, shoulders hunching up in hurt.
“Yeah, you are, and I’m sorry for keeping this from you, dude, but I didn’t exactly know how to explain it. I’m sorry,” he offers, placing his unmarked hand on Scott’s shoulder and squeezing.
“So do you love him? Derek?” Scott looks a little less upset now, one of his eyebrows waggling slightly.
“Honestly? I think so. I think I kind of always have,” Stiles laughs breathlessly after he says it. He didn’t even realize.
“Wow. I mean, there were a few times where I wondered, but I never thought it would be this, like, intense. I thought maybe you just wanted to sleep with him.”
“Oh, I definitely did. Do. Definitely.” Scott laughs outright at that, pulling Stiles in for a long hug.
“As long as he makes you happy, man.”
“Yeah.” Stiles smiles, burying his face in Scott’s shoulder briefly before they pull apart.
Everyone says their goodbyes. Deaton leaves Derek with a photocopy of the pages of his book, telling him to call if he ever needs help.
“So,” Stiles says, walking up to him when they’re finally alone. The parking lot outside of the clinic is empty now, the summer heat turning sweet in the air as the sun goes down and turns the sky a burnt orange. “You’re staying? Like for good?”
Derek nods, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but can’t really manage it.
“You don’t have to. If—I mean, you’ve been over there for a year, now, and probably built a good life for you and Cora. If it’s just for me, please don’t. You heard Deaton. We’ll survive, and eventually it’ll fade and we’ll be okay. Just, don’t stay if it’s just for me. I’ll be okay.”
“It’s for me, too.” Derek says, eyes lifting from the ground to meet Stiles. The movement is so intimate that Stiles’ voice catches in his throat. “I’m…you’re good. I think. For me. I’m better now. More in control.”
“In control of what?” Stiles moves forward, licking his lips when Derek clenches his jaw.
“Of myself. With you.”
“Me?”
Derek nods his head twice, eyes burning into his.
“You, wait, you wanted me? Before like, yesterday?”
“Always wanted you,” Derek breathes out, frustrated. He pushes his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“What the hell? Why didn’t you say anything?” Stiles gets right up in his space then, so close that Derek’s hot breath warms his mouth.
“You were still in high school, Stiles. I was an adult werewolf being hunted by every supernatural creature imaginable. I couldn’t.”
Stiles understands, he really does, but that doesn’t stop him from getting irritated thinking about all the time that they’ve wasted.
“That’s why we never talked. We were both trying to keep our hands off of each other.”
Another stiff nod from Derek.
“And now?”
“Now, we’re older. I’m…I don’t want to leave again. Leave you.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles laughs, “you love me.”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek rolls his eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile on his face, now. Stiles just beams at him. He knows he’s got his sloppy, goofy smile at full wattage at this point, but he’s too thrilled to actually care. Derek looks at him, face very serious all of a sudden. “I care about you. I don’t want to pretend like I don’t anymore.”
“I care about you, too. I go wherever you go, now.” It’s exactly what he means to say. It’s the perfect thing to say. It’s what’s been unspoken between them for years, now.
The mark on their hands start glowing, buzzing faintly as Stiles places both hands on Derek’s cheeks. He closes his eyes, presses into it.
“We walk and love among the grave of earth together,” Stiles whispers, pressing their foreheads together again. Derek brings his hand up to cover Stilles’ where it’s caressing his face.
They kiss. A soft, quiet kiss. Unremarkable to anyone watching from the outside, but it’s everything to them. It’s a promise. A we-healed-crooked-but-we’ll-keep-healing-together kind of promise.
The only kind that matters.