Derek opened his eyes. His back hurt from the slouched position he'd slept in. The sun rose above the horizon, the weak light piercing through the windshield. He rubbed his eyes once, taking in the acres of cornfields. Dew prismed the light to create rainbow patterns in the cold cabin.

Pushing the blanket off that had fallen during the night to the passenger seat, Derek yawned. He checked the time on his phone: six am. Too early. He immediately thought of Stiles, back home probably, sleeping in their big, warm bed. It would be four o'clock in California. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. There was trace amounts of Stiles' scent in the Camaro, a lingering feeling more than anything. It wasn't enough. Derek pulled one of the shirts he'd brought with him from the back seat and breathed in. There was little left of Stiles but it was enough. He could almost go home. Soon, he thought.

He missed Stiles so much: the constant chatter, the sincerity, the honesty, of all things. And his brains. God, Stiles was so smart, effortlessly so. He wanted to tell him, but how could he? If he said don't go, Derek would have stayed and died. Everyone in the pack would have died.

Derek let out a bitter laugh. It had been his choice, his fucking choice to leave Stiles that night, and here he was, sitting in his car daydreaming—not much of one, but he had done it to himself. It had been so long, so long, that the entirety of his life back in Beacon Hills with Stiles seemed like a dream, and now that he was facing the sunlight, he ached for the simple pleasure of waking up with his beloved in his arms, the familiar warmth.

Derek hitched in a breath, and let it out slowly. He put the shirt in the back with the rest.

It was almost time to return home. He only had a little more business to take care of before… Well, he hoped he hadn't fucked it up. No phone, he told himself, no phone calls, not even to hear Stiles breathe. That had been the hardest part of this year of exile. He wished one hundred could have been only one hundred days. The note he'd written to Stiles before he'd left had been the only thing he hoped keeping Stiles sane.

Stiles,

I have to leave town. Don't know how long I'll be gone on ww business. Can't have phone or contact. Wiring you money to pay the bills/etc while gone. I'll return. I wish that I could stay.

Love,

Derek

He started the car, a song playing low on the radio that he vaguely remembered Stiles liked. He didn't turn up the volume. Instead, he put the car in gear and drove down the lone highway. Soon, soon he'd be going home. One last to track down. One left to go and 5 days left before the end.

Stiles opened the fridge, scanning the inside for something to eat. He hadn't been to the store this week and, well, there wasn't much to eat. He pulled out the last of the milk and emptied the last of his cocoa puffs into a bowl. Who cared if he had cereal for dinner? No one, that's who.

He thought, belatedly, he could have called his dad and convinced him to take him to dinner, but Stiles had already done that twice this week. Scott had long since told him to stop calling. When he saw Allison, she just gave him pitying looks, like she knew how much he hurt, but didn't want to say anything.

Stiles couldn't believe it. After all he and Derek had been through, and he just up and leaves for some unknown, unexplained werewolf business and he'd been gone for almost a year. A whole fucking year with no word, nothing. Just the empty feeling of wired money to his account to remind him it wasn't a dream. Stiles had wanted to ask to open a joint checking, but there had been no opportunity.

He thumbed through his phone. No texts from anyone, no emails, nothing. He still took a few online classes, if only to give his mind something to do. He'd stopped taking full-time class work when even the Adderall hadn't helped him concentrate. He knew Derek would be pissed if he went off looking for him, and how the hell was he supposed to find a werewolf in America? Let alone one that didn't want to be found, doing whatever it was he was doing.

He couldn't handle the silence of the apartment anymore.

To Lydia:

Hey, Lyd.

At least she would still talk to him, but lately he felt her pulling away too. He couldn't handle losing another friend to his needy desperation. Isaac couldn't be bothered anymore, not with his education going so well and the heaps of friends he had.

Erica and Boyd, well, they were too busy working and ignoring the fact that their alpha had left for a whole year without so much as a word. Stiles knew the three were keeping something from him, but you'd think they would want to ease the pain. But no.

To Stiles:

Still moping? Listen, I can't hear the theories again. If you need company I'll come over and watch The Notebook.

Well, it was at least something. He texted her an affirmative. He needed someone else, someone to breathe the same air as him and he couldn't bear to see the sad looks he got. At least Lydia was a body, even if she didn't want to hear what he had to say.

He cleaned up the apartment as best he could. Was it all a dream I had? If Scott hadn't… better not to think of it. The doorbell rang, and Stiles answered the door. Lydia brandished the DVD and pushed her way inside. She smiled and gave him a hug after she'd put it in the player.

When she left, Stiles made his way to the California King, and flopped on the over-large mattress. It was too big for just him. He curled around several pillows, imagining Derek in his arms. And cried. Once he started, the tears flowed free, the aching hole in his chest gaping again, until the throbbing lessened and he fell asleep whispering his husband's name.

Derek's sides heaved under the strain of his breathing. Moonlight spilled through the trees of the forest, lining the soft leaves with a silver so beautiful. Cuts bled freely from his arms and chest, and the three bites ached, but slowly began to knit together. He was getting stronger. He knew that. He had to. Ninety-nine and after this, an alpha's scratch would heal as fast as a beta's.

The werewolf lying at his feet looked up at him. The alpha werewolf.

"Derek Hale," he wheezed, his wounds deep and profound. "Couldn't kill enough alphas in California? Had to come all the way out here to gut another?"

"Shut up." Derek took a few steps and leaned over the older man. "You don't know."

"Oh, I know very well. You left your pack on some mad quest set by the alphas, and here you are. I know."

"Who is your successor?"

The man laughed. "Why would I tell you?"

"I'm leaving a note." Derek crossed his arms. "You know what happens."

"Yes." He closed his eyes, as though he thought he could die with dignity. They flicked open, burning red. "Do it!"

Derek closed his eyes, let his claws extend, and slashed the man's throat open. Power flooded through him, immense power. He could feel it, he'd reached what the alpha pack demanded. One hundred alphas dead in a year. One hundred. He'd done it. He pulled out a thick piece of paper and drew a wolf's head symbol. He took a thick pin and jammed it through the note and into bone. When this man's second received it… he'd know and have to accept the responsibility of alpha himself.

How Derek managed to survive something like this…. Why the alpha pack demanded such a quest of him…. Even Peter thought it was a strange request, and Derek hadn't even told his uncle. How that man found anything out was beyond him.

Derek stood up straighter and howled to the moon, the sound reverberating and rolling into the countryside. Then he ran to his car. Las Vegas for a meeting, then, then he could finally go home. Derek would live. Stiles would live. It was worth it.

Do you still remember my touch, Stiles?

Stiles watched through the window, he's eyes focused somewhere vaguely not here. His dad snored, his head on the kitchen table. Stiles smiled a small half-smile. He remembered when he got his father drunk, on purpose, to find out confidential information back in high school. He watch his father, now older but still healthy, still young enough for sheriff's work. Stiles sighed. He took the empty glasses from the table and rinsed them out before gently placing them in the dishwasher. Still nothing from Derek. Why had he thought there'd be something?

He placed a hand on his dad's shoulder.

"Hey, dad."

"Mm?"

Stiles leaned down. "Dad, we should probably get you to bed. You fell asleep on the table. You getting enough rest?"

"Mm yeah. 'Lenty of rest."

"Come on. I'll help you up the stairs." Stiles placed his dad's arm over his shoulder and guiding the half-asleep man to his bedroom on the second floor. He got his boots off and gave up after that.

"Stiles?" his dad said, his voice sleep-thick. "You 'kay?"

Stiles took his dad's hand. "Yeah. I didn't dream the whole Derek thing, did I? I feel like I have some days, you know."

His dad woke up a bit more. "Yeah, son. I know what you mean. Sometimes… sometimes, I feel this is a dream, a terrible nightmare and that your mother is still alive. I know how it feels." He squeezed Stiles' hand.

"You're my son, and I love you. Derek'll be back. If he said he'll be back, he'll be back. Man of his word. Few words, but a man of them." He plucked at his shirt. "Goin back to bed."

"Okay, Dad. Thanks. Love you."

"Love you too, son."

Stiles closed the door quietly behind him. He was sorely tempted to return to his old bedroom, but he couldn't bear it. It didn't smell at all like Derek. He couldn't sleep if he couldn't at least have a hint of Derek surrounding him. Stiles wandered through the house, turning the lights off, and then locking the doors and windows before finally leaving through the front door. He locked it behind him.

His Jeep sat in the driveway. Taking a deep breath, he got in and drove the short distance across town to the apartment he shared… with himself.

Back inside the familiar surroundings, Stiles took a breath, hoping to catch the familiar cologne Derek liked to wear—well put in his laundry while it washed. Otherwise it was too strong for him and his werewolf senses. But there was nothing, just the vague hint, here and there, that another person may have taken up residence at one point.

He slowly took off his jacket. Something was a little different about the apartment. He set the jacket on the counter, and flipped the kitchen light on. There, next to Derek's note that had been there for over a year, was another piece of paper. It had not been there this morning when Stiles had gone over to his dad's for the day.

No words, just the alpha pack symbol.

Derek must have been doing something for the alpha pack, must have had something happen to him. He rushed to grab his keys, but then set them down again. He turned back to the fridge. His heart beat fast in his chest. Finally, something.

Plucking the note from the wolf magnet—cute alpha pack, cute—he turned it over. He knew enough about werewolves. He blew gently on the back of the paper, thinking reveal. If Deaton had taught him anything, and very little he might add, it was the power of belief.

Slowly, words spiraled upon the back. Stiles quickly read them before the disappeared for good. This note was meant for him.

You have been patient. Be so more.

Yeah, right. He had been patient, patient for more than a year. This infuriated him. He crumpled the letter, then thinking better of it, burned it on a plate. Hot fury burned in his veins. Derek couldn't tell him. Damn him. He knew Stiles would have said "no" end of argument.

But that meant something, he'd passed some test or other. Derek would be coming home. Derek. He felt the anger and tension melt away. Stiles made a beeline for the bedroom, flicked on the light, but the bed was still empty. Suddenly tired, Stiles shucked his clothes, and left them where they lay. He crawled into bed, and assumed his normal habits. He pulled out a shirt of Derek's and laid it on his pillow-Derek. He calmed, and snuggled closer, imagining Derek's breath and warmth.

Derek sped along the highway. The meeting with the alpha pack had gone well. They had recognized him as one of their own. Derek Hale, part of the alpha pack—well, as much as he wanted to be. He had his own pack in Beacon Hills, and this, this was to get power to defend himself. To be part of the alpha pack meant they would no longer threaten his mate, his Stiles. They wouldn't threaten Isaac, Boyd, Erica, no one in his territories. In fact, they would help him, help him defend if he needed it.

In return, he had to help them in their need. But he planned to stay out of the politics as much as he could. He didn't like Las Vegas, and the alpha pack was content enough to have him go back home. He had done what they'd asked.

Derek watched the highway lights pass like a blur. He kept going up Nevada—he wanted to be in California. There was no way he was going to stop unless necessary if it meant he could finally return to Stiles. To Beacon Hills.

Every mile he felt himself relax, felt the tension drain away as he got closer. His heart felt light, he finally was going home, to where his life started, to where he could finally live again. How he had missed every moment. He drove, stopping only for gas—where he took care of his needs, including food before racing back on the highway.

He crossed into California, meaning he had a few hours left until he reached Beacon Hills. His clock read just after midnight. He'd be home, home, in less than four hours. He could not keep the smile from his face.

He kept his pace fast, well above the 65 miles per hour speed limit. After being gone for over a year, he did not want to be kept from home any longer than he had to. Besides, werewolf senses included sharp ears and eyesight. He would see any CHP before they even thought to clock him for speeding.

Trees. Thick forests spread out before him. He cracked the windows open to smell their sweat aroma. Pine trees, real forests, unlike what he'd experience in the Midwest and in the high deserts. Real trees, home. He sighed, finally relaxed.

He pulled off the highway and drove down a smaller road to home. He recognized this part of the forest. Thirty-two miles out. He itched to go fast, but instead paced himself. It a quarter to three. Stiles would be sleeping. He wanted to surprise him, to finally lay down and sleep, really sleep for the first time.

Welcome to Beacon Hills.

Derek let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and grinned. Home. After Kate, after moving back, he never thought he'd breathe easier knowing he was home. In moments he was parked in what had been his usual spot. He looked at the key in his hand. Would it still work?

He quietly got out of the Camaro. He could smell Stiles from here, could hear the sound of his heartbeat, steady, slow. He was sleeping. Derek smiled. He leaped up the stairs to their second story apartment, and let himself in.

Oh god how he'd missed Stiles. The smell of him. He took of his leather jacket and hung it on the stand, then undressed as he made his way to the bedroom. He wanted Stiles so bad, but that, that could wait. Just smelling him was more than enough to put him at ease in such a long time.

Derek waited a moment until his eyes adjusted to the low light. He leaned against the doorway, simply taking in the view of Stiles sleeping, watching for a moment. God how he'd missed the simplistic life they'd had.

He lowered himself on the huge bed, taking care not to wake Stiles. Derek slowly took the pillows from Stiles and let himself in to the spaces left over, never letting Stiles wake up. He wanted let him sleep, and he wanted to be selfish.

When he was settled enough, he whispered, "I never meant to be gone so long. I've saved my words for you." Derek gently kissed Stiles on the forehead and closed his eyes. In moments he was asleep.

Stiles was a heavy sleeper. And today was Saturday, which meant he could sleep in. He groaned in protest over the sun invading his room. He wanted to get up to shut the light out. Why hadn't he closed the blinds last night? He tried to move, but there was something heavy holding him down. And he was hot, awfully hot for this time of year. He opened his eyes more, and looked. There was an arm around his waist.

Stiles blinked in confusion. He hadn't let anyone in last night, had he? Lydia wasn't that strong. Had he invited a guy over?

Then he recognized the scent. Derek.

Stiles tried to push away, but Derek only pulled him tighter and rubbed his nose into Stiles' neck. That sent a shiver down his spine.

He wanted to look at his sourwolf, but in this position, it was really not easy. He didn't want to wake him just yet. He must have come home late in the night and was probably exhausted.

"Derek?" he ventured after a few minutes. He couldn't contain himself. Derek. Finally home. It was like the hole in his chest was no longer there. Like it had been patched in the few hours he must have been there. He wanted to be angry, but he could only feel relieved. "Derek?"

"Mm. 'S bright."

"Derek, is that really you?" Stiles couldn't contain himself. He flipped over so he could face Derek. Tears puddled in the corner of his eyes. God it felt so good, so right to have Derek there.

Derek nodded and pulled him closer.

Stile freed his left hand and traced the line of Derek's jaw, to test if he was real. Stubble scrapped the pad of his finger. Derek's beautiful eyes opened lazily.

"'S me. 'M here."

"Oh god. Oh god. I've missed you every day." Stiles rubbed his forehead and cheek on Derek—he knew if he missed Derek's scent, that Derek must have pined for his.

"I missed you. Gone too long. Didn't mean to hurt you."

"Derek."

Derek's eyes focused more as he woke. Stiles gazed into them, lost for words, lost in the feeling of being with Derek again after so long.

"Stiles, I'm here."

"Why did you go? Why did you leave me? You said you would live for us." Stiles continued to run his finger along Derek's unshaven face.

"But I'd die for you too. I had to go. I couldn't bear to see you hurt again and again. Stiles. I love you."

Derek reached out and brushed the liquid building in Stiles' eyes. Stiles noticed that Derek's were wet too. God it hurt so good. Stiles laughed.

"You're back, you're back. You're here. Oh my god, I don't know if I could have lived much longer. Why didn't you say it had to do with the alpha pack?"

"I couldn't."

Stiles smiled, and wiggled closer to Derek, pressing his lips to Derek's. Derek kissed back before pulling away and taking his fill. He opened his mouth. Stiles knew Derek well enough so he shook his head. "You don't have to explain."

"I want to, Stiles. I want to."

Stiles relaxed, kissing Derek again, butterfly light. The prickle of stubbled warmed him, the feeling of Derek in his arms made him feel more alive than he had in months. Derek wanting to talk. About something this serious?

"Can you forgive me, Stiles?"

"Already forgiven."

Derek closed his eyes, tears running down his cheeks to the pillow his head rested on. He shook but made no sound. Stiles could feel the tension in Derek's muscle fade at his words.

Derek opened his eyes. "I don't deserve you."

"You don't, Derek," Stiles agreed. "And I don't deserve you, but here we are, together."

"I did it for you. I killed one hundred alphas for you. I took down pack leader after pack leader, fighting my way to you." Derek lifted a finger to Stiles' lips. "I fought every last one to become part of the alpha pack. I did it for us. For Beacon Hills. No more bait, no more Stiles hurting himself, no more Derek going crazy trying to protect everyone. No more Stiles trying to protect everyone. We are as safe as we can be. The alpha pack is my pack too. Why are you crying?"

Stiles let Derek wipe the tears away. "You love me that much?"

"I love you more than anything. You are my whole world. You always will be." Derek smiled, and Stiles felt himself turn to a puddle. God how he missed those rare smiles.

"Did the other's know? Isaac? Erica? Boyd? Scott?"

Derek nodded, his words apparently gone. At least he'd given Stiles a good explanation, whether or not he liked it was another story.

"I couldn't tell you. You'd try to talk me out of it. If you'd say no, I would not have gone, no matter if I didn't they would have killed me. I would have stayed, because you asked."

Stiles closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I would have. I didn't know. Derek?"

"Mm?"

"Please don't leave me again. Please?" Stiles looked at Derek. "Stay forever, my sourwolf."

Derek nodded, then closed the short distance, kissing Stiles like he meant it, like he meant every word he'd spoken. Stiles felt the desperation and longing, the torture of having gone too long without this—a mirror of his own. Stiles opened his mouth wider, taking Derek in, letting Derek re-explore. And in turn learning Derek again. Stubble burned his lips and cheeks, tearing away with pain, the layers he'd built while Derek was gone.

It was time to wake from the nightmare. And it felt so good.