Chapter Text
The rusted, unused brakes of the bicycle squeal in the wet heat, the scream of Cicadas drowned out for just a brief moment. Stiles squints at the row of old brick ruins that hunker far away from the road, hidden mostly by a veil of kudzu. The Florida afternoon is breathless and stiflingly humid, the blue glazed dome sky framed by thunderclouds drifting closer from over the Gulf. He mops at his brow before taking a big gulp from his water bottle. He should have put more sunscreen on, or at least brought a hat, his pale skin not used to this latitude’s summer sun.
There’s a small, overgrown track just off the road which he assumes lead to the ruins. Mulling it over, he’s distracted by the ping of a message on his cell.
Scott:
You do know we have beer. And an ocean view.
Stiles:
My thirst for adventure knows no bounds.
Scott:
Just be careful. That bicycle looks ancient.
Stiles rolls his eyes.
Yes dad
Scott:
Don’t take that tone with me young man
Luv you too Dork.
Pocketing his phone, he looks back from where he came, the air rippling over the road. He takes one last look around then pats the handlebars. “Giddyup, Pricilla.” and peddles onto the small track.
At one point he loses sight of the place, the tropical lushness a world away from the dry hills of northern California. He emerges in a clearing right by the building, and stops dead in his tracks, mouth falling open.
“Whoa.”
There’s a giant mural painted on the side. Starting from the left, three-pointed geometric shapes in shades of purple and red flow and weave; interlocking ribbons that untangle to change shape and colour, transforming into otherworldly beasts of which Stiles can only think of as wolves. They’re painted to the minutest detail, each animal with a different coloured coat, each facial expression unique. They’re not depicted as vicious, bloodthirsty animals though, but as proud, strong hunters, running as a pack.
He lets the bicycle drop right there and digs around in his backpack for his dad’s old digital SLR – grabbed on a whim just as they left for the airport. He takes a few pictures at different angles, having to stand far back to focus on it all. The wall is big, about fifteen feet across, and every inch is covered. The detail is amazing. Walking closer, he focuses on one of the magical wolves conjured up by the artist’s amazing mind, hand reaching out, fingers slowly inching closer…
“Don’t.”
“Waaah!” Stiles yelps. He jerks his hand away from the wall and spins around…
… only to be confronted by a wolf. A paint-splattered snarling wolf, to be exact, emblazoned on a faded, loose fitting tank that hangs off thickly muscled and tanned shoulders. A pair of the most intense grey-green eyes - half a head higher than his own - pin him to the spot from underneath the visor of a dirty baseball cap.
“It’s still wet.” the stranger points with a spray can-clutched in his large, thick fingers. Tufts of sweaty black hair curl from under his cap, the same colour as the thick scruff on his chiselled jaw; the same colour as the chest hair that peek from the deep pectorals above the frayed colour of his tank.
Stiles has a hand over his heart. “Huh?”
“The paint,” the stranger explains slowly. “Is still wet.”
“Paint? Oh! Paint! Sorry, yeah of course! I thought, you know… I mean I wasn’t…” Stiles clears his throat, taking a step back from the strangers’ caterpillar-eyebrows that just grow closer and closer together. “Sorry.” he apologizes again, feeling like a blubbering idiot.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uhm, yeah I was just, you know…” Stiles holds up his camera, face burning. “I’ve been cycling the whole day and then I saw the place and wanted to take some pictures it looked really cool from the road but up close it’s just wow and I really hope that’s okay I’m not trespassing, am I?”
The stranger blinks a couple of times at the barrage of words, then gives a stumped head shake. “No.”
“Cool.” Stiles nods on an exhale. “So you’re not gonna kill me and throw my body in the ocean?”
The man’s eyebrows connect at last and morph into a unibrow, his eyes slowly drawing over Stiles. “Not today.”
“Dude!” Stiles barks out, but his smile quickly falters. “That was a joke, right?”
The stranger takes a small step forward and lifts his chin just an increment, his nose twitching. Stiles instinctively shrink back. When his stare only intensifies, Stiles opts for distraction. “I ah, I take it this is your handiwork then?” he asks, pointing at the wall over his shoulder, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
Tall, dark and scowly just nods.
“You’re really good. I… I mean it’s… It’s awesome.”
“Thank you.” he answers curtly.
Stiles scratch at the sweaty hair in his nape. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”
The man looks at Stiles’ proffered hand, distrust so evident on his face it makes Stiles want to laugh. “Stiles?”
“Yeah, long story, I’m half Polish, which means unpronounceable first names. ‘Stiles’ is the easier, shortened version.”
The man eventually wipes the hand not holding the spray can on his equally smeared and worn cargo shorts. “Derek.” he says. Stiles watch with fascination as his hand all but disappears within the stranger’s mitt, his skin startlingly calloused and coarse. The man lifts his chin again, his nose clearly flaring this time. Stiles wonders if his own deodorant has finally failed him in the heat when the stranger’s – Derek’s – eyelids actually flutter. Stiles, certain he has misread, catches a faint whiff of sweat from the guy, pulling his mind in a different direction. It’s woodsy, strong yet sweet, and Stiles find himself wanting more of it. Which is why he pulls his hand free. The man blinks down at him like he has just been terribly offended.
“So… uhm…” Stiles coughs, pointing at the mural. “Are you an artist or something?” Stiles asks, taking a deep breath against the lightness in his chest and that alluring scent still cloying to his senses.
“No.”
He waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. “Okay then.” he swallows.
The stranger tilts his head. “Are you in high school?”
“Sophomore at Berkeley,” Stiles smiles, frowning slightly.
“Vacation, then.”
“Bingo.”
“Staying here on the island?” he asks, and Stiles would like to think the question sounds hopeful and not accusatory.
“Yeah, a couple of friends and I. Lydia’s parents have a holiday cottage on Cravelle Beach.”
“That’s out by the old stone lighthouse, right?”
“Yes, it is. Do you live close by?” please God let him be our neighbour.
“No, Cravelle’s for the tourists. I live on the mainland side.”
“Oh.” Stiles nods, though he’s not exactly sure where the ‘mainland side’ is. “Man, is it always this hot?” he says and wipes a shirt sleeve across his forehead.
“Wait till August.” he mirrors Stiles, lifting a muscled arm to take his cap off and wipe across his own forehead. Stiles catches the dark bushiness of Derek’s pit, and quickly avert his eyes. Both fall silent. Derek just stands there, his gaze focussed on Stiles.
“So, uhm… I’ll leave you in peace now. But it was nice to meet you.”
“Yeah.” the man frowns.
Stiles pushes his bicycle only a few yards when he stops, fingers clamped tightly around the handlebars. He exhales slowly and turns around, surprised to find Derek’s eyes still trained on him. “You know, I could mail you the pics if you want.”
Derek takes a few seconds to respond. “Okay.”
“Excellent!” Stiles quickly digs his phone out of his pocket. He just manages to unlock the screen when those thick fingers ever so gently fold over his own and take the phone from him. He looks up, startled when Derek’s huge frame fills his entire field of view when he was standing by the wall just a heartbeat ago. He inhales that wonderful, uniquely masculine scent he picked up before, headier now that he is standing so close.
He watches him type away, square fingertips too big for the small icons on the screen. His fingernails are neatly cut but dirty (mostly bits of paint) which somehow gives some strange credence to the roughness he felt when they shook hands. His corded forearms are, like the back of his hands, covered with a fine pelt of black hair. Blue collar hands, Stiles realize, the phrase as alien to him as the climate. He never even questions his own patently cushy if boring existence back home.
After a few seconds Derek wordlessly hands it back. Stiles quickly checks his contact list and hides the disappointment that it‘s only his email. “Awesome.” he still beams up at him. “I’ll mail them when I get home.”
Derek nods.
“So, one last one?” Stiles ask as he holds up his camera. “Of the artist and his masterpiece?”
For a moment he’s sure the man’s going to strangle him right there and then with his camera’s cord, but he just nods after a second. “Yeah, sure.” He goes to stand next to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Stiles lifts the camera and snaps a few pics. If he zooms in on the guys’ face it’s because he wants to capture the detail of the mural behind him. He’s about to tell him to smile, but thinks better of it.
“Got it. Thanks.”
Derek twitches, which Stiles takes as acknowledgment. He starts to shake the spray can lazily by his hip, never taking his eyes off Stiles.
“See you around.” Stiles swallows, and finally peddles away. He turns to wave just before he gets swallowed up by the overgrowth and almost loses his balance in the process. Derek’s still watching him, though he doesn’t return the wave.
When Stiles pushes Pricilla up the stairs of the beach house he can hardly remember the ride over.
oOo
“Maybe he’s some cannibal that hides his leftovers in the swamp.”
“He’s not a cannibal, Scott. And there aren’t any swamps here, just mangroves.”
“Mangroves, then.”
It’s coming up to dusk, the two lounging on the cushion-strewn daybed on the porch, the ocean breeze pure bliss after the days’ sticky heat. Even now the beach is filled with strolling couples and loud children, with a few bonfires starting to glow in the distance.
“I mean he even looks like a caveman.” Scott continues, taking a swig from his beer and scanning through the photos Stiles had downloaded to his laptop.
“That’s just because of the whole scruffy half-beard thing he’s got going.”
“Yeah, but he looks really… pissed off.”
“I think that’s just his default look.” Stiles holds his own icy cold can against the back of his neck. “Besides, anyone who paints like that cannot be a psychopath.”
“Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear.”
Stiles stares at his best friend. “How do you even know that?”
“I read.” Scott answers innocently.
Stiles takes a swig of his own beer and looks over at the old stone lighthouse, blinking its challenge to the coming storm that is building on the horizon. Seagulls squawk and ride the air currents, alighting on whatever perch is available to settle in for the night.
Scott nods, and flick through more pictures. “Dude’s really good, I’ll give him that.”
“Ugh.” Stiles irritably scratch through his hair. “I can’t get him out of my head.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.”
Scott slowly looks up from the screen.
“There’s something different here, okay?” Stiles sighs, then ads under his breath, “Apart from the fact that he’s smokin’ hot.”
“Is this gonna be Danny all over again?” Scott asks warily.
“What? No! No, don’t be stupid, this guy’s a stranger. It’s nothing,” Stiles scratches his arm. “And Danny was… Danny was a bump in the road.”
“Hellavu bump.”
Stiles throws a cushion at him.
“Hey guys.” Allison calls, walking up the stairs and towelling her hair dry, Lydia in tow with Jackson trailing behind, all glowing complexions and skimpy beach clothes.
“Hey babe!” Scott greets his girlfriend, eyes bright like a puppy. He pulls her down and gets a lap full of damp bikini, their lips and tongues seeking each other out at once. Stiles tries not to roll his eyes too much
“I see you didn’t get lost, Stilinski.”
“I see you didn’t get eaten by a shark, Whitmore.”
Lydia grabs Stiles’ hand. “Come help me with dinner.”
oOo
After dinner Stiles is back on the porch, staring out into the night. The lightning storm over the ocean is at once magnificent and terrifying, the sickle moon playing hide and seek amid the gathering clouds.
During dinner Lydia had to ask him twice to pass the salad until Jackson threw a bread roll at him to get a reaction. He looked at Stiles, puckering his lips and got the same bread roll to the head.
Scott appears in the doorway. “Hey.”
“Hey man. Thought you went upstairs?”
“Not tired yet.”
He plops down next him, mirroring his pulled up legs. They sit like that for a while as the lightning plays out over the ocean. Stiles looks at his phone again, leaning back against the cushions.
Scott gently bumps Stiles knee. “You okay, bro?”
“Fine.”
About an hour later, with the house now completely dark and silent – just like his cell phone – Stiles also heads to bed. The storm finally breaks as he switches off his bedside lamp.
Lying on top of the tangled bed sheets he stares up at the lazy twirl of the ceiling fan. With every flash of lightning the shutters reflect against the whitewashed ceiling boards in barcode patterns. The rain drowns out the ocean, but now and then the crash of a wave does manage to rumble through the hissing of the downpour.
He sighs and rolls on to his side to grab his laptop. The electronic glare lights up his darkened room. Arms folded, feet apart, Derek scowls at him from the screen, the entrancing colours of the mural coming alive behind him.
The little green icon that announces his on-line status barely blinks to life (thanks to the intermittent Wi-Fi) when a new message pops up at the bottom of his screen. His heart lurch when he sees it’s from Derek.
Thanks for the pics.
Stiles gives in to the crazy smile that takes over his face and quickly types a reply.
My pleasure! You’re super talented ;)
Ten minutes later:
Still there?
Half an hour goes by, and with a heaviness in his stomach he hates himself for, Stiles types a final message.
Well, good night then. Hope you sleep well.
He falls asleep with his laptop on his chest and dreams of wolves coming alive on a mural.
oOo
Stiles finally caves.
He grabs the bicycle and peddles out to the other side of the island. The old brick ruins still stand where he left them, the kudzu still on track to stake natures’ claim of dominance.
It’s been only two days, but the mural is even more impressive than he remembers, the wolves as proud and fearsome as ever. Alas, there’s no Derek, like he knew would be the case. Still, one can live in hope.
He idles around for about an hour, keeping to the shade. Scott sends a text that he should stop and get hotdogs for their barbeque that evening on his way back.
It’s a complete detour. But then he did lie to them about where he was going.
oOo
“Catch!” Jackson throws his flip-flop at Stiles where he’s lying in the hammock, staring at his phone.
“Knock it off.” Stiles rumbles, chucking the shoe back at him and missing by a mile. It ends up flying over the railing onto the beach.
“We’re all down there, enjoying the sun and the beach, on our summer vacation, in case you were wondering.”
“Since when do you care?”
“I don’t. Lydia made me.” Jackson admits without a hint of shame.
Stiles gives a disgusted grunt.
“Are you vineing or composing sonnets?”
“Contemplating your demise.”
Jackson ignores him, collapsing down on the daybed next to the hammock. “Get off your ass and come join us. This is ridiculous. You've been moping around for the past week now, which is making Lydia nervous, which means I'm not getting any.”
“Your sympathy warms my heart.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Stilinski.”
“I prefer the term ‘wallow in exquisite agony’.”
“Doing a great job of that.” Jackson says as he picks at a cuticle.
“You wouldn't understand, okay?” The moment the words are out of his mouth Stiles cringes at the whiny edge his voice took on.
“Stilinski, please don’t become that girl. I already have to deal with one.”
Stiles turns away from him. “Leave me alone.”
Jackson shakes his head, poking him in the ribs. “Hey.”
“Jackson? Please fuck off.”
Jackson grabs the edge of the hammock and unceremoniously dumps Stiles on the floor.
Stiles’ swearing follows him as he beats a hasty retreat down the steps to the safety of the beach.
oOo
Later that evening Stiles is sitting on the front porch steps, staring out over the ocean. The evening sounds of birds and crickets are just starting to settle in after another day in paradise. The palm trees rustle in the breeze, the swish-scrape of surf ever on sand ever present, and if it were any other time it would have been the perfect setting.
But he couldn’t care less about all these things. He lays his phone down on the steps between his feet. It stares back up at him, silent and blank.
“We’re leaving in five minutes!” Jackson calls from inside the house. They’re going out to a proper restaurant at the local village tonight. Very adult. But Stiles doesn't want to go out. He wants to sit here on the steps and stare out over the ocean like some whiny, love sick teenage…
“Oh God I am becoming that girl.” he sighs miserably, hanging his head between his knees.
**
The twinkling lights and strings of multi-coloured lanterns reflect in the water of the picturesque small bay where they’ve just finished dinner. The restaurant is part of a little village perched around the rocky edge of the water, rows of cars parked in front of colonial styled buildings, painted in pastel colours with white lace trim. Tourists crowd the palm tree-lined boardwalk and umbrella-covered decks looking out onto the bay. The evening is balmy and perfect, the boardwalk filled with couples holding hands, shrieking children playing hopscotch between pools of light cast from lamp poles. The gang strolls down the boardwalk, looking for somewhere to have a final drink.
“How ‘bout this place?” Allison points, Scott’s arm around her shoulders. Everyone looks, except Jackson and Lydia, who are too busy trying to find each other’s tonsils with their tongues.
Lively music spill out from the building Allison points at, with a professional hand painted sign above the entrance that simply reads Laura’s. A shock of magenta-coloured bougainvillea creep up the side, creating a lush canopy of bright flowers across the reveller-filled deck that faces the bay.
“Looks good.” Stiles observes and drags a hand through his wild hair. The ocean air has played havoc with it, and he now just lets the unruly crop have its own way. He’s so glad they forked out for the taxi and didn’t nominate a designated driver. He really just wants to get completely wasted; order a few shots of tequila with his friends, get piss-drunk and forget all about those cursed grey-green eyes.
They somehow manage to get a small table in the corner of the deck, and Stiles offers to get the drinks. He weaves his way through waiters and patrons alike, music and laughter assaulting his senses from every angle. He notices that it’s mostly women at the crowded bar, a whole gaggle of scantily clad beach babes giggling and chatting at once, some standing on their toes to peer over the counter.
“Hey cutie, what’ll it be?” the gorgeous blond bombshell behind the counter interrupts his thoughts. Stiles grins shyly and place their order. She turns to the row of liquor bottles behind her and tsk’s when the one she’s looking for is empty. “Der, please tell me we’ve got more tequila?”
From behind the bar at the furthest end where he was crouched down, (and where the gaggle of women are by now almost vibrating) Derek Hale stands up to his full height and glory, broad back to them. “We should have in the back. I’ll go…” he stops dead and lifts his chin, his chest expanding as he breathes in deeply. “Stiles.” he exhales, then turns around to stare right at the gobsmacked boy, completely ignoring the salivating groupies.
“Derek?”
Gone are the ratty tank and shorts. A plain white v-neck is filled to bursting, his hair a mess of raven locks. While the pair of jeans look like they’ve been sewn on to him, it’s the belt buckle that draw Stiles’ eyes down like a magnet to the unapologetic swell and stretch of the dark denim just below it. The frizzon of lust that sparks in Stiles’ belly colours his cheeks and he quickly looks away from the scowl that he has by now committed to memory.
Bombshell cocks her hip, blood red fingernail signalling between them. “You two know each other?”
Derek blinks once. “No.”
“Wait.” Her mouth falls open. “Is this him?”
“Erica.” Derek all but growls.
Bombshell – or rather, Erica – mimics zipping her mouth shut, then winks at Stiles.
“Uh…” is all Stiles can manage, too overcome for anything more intelligible.
“What are you doing here?” Derek grabs his attention.
“Ordering drinks?” he squeaks.
“Yeah Derek, he’s just ordering drinks.” She shields her mouth with one hand. “And he’s delectable, by the way.” she mock-whispers.
The look Erica receives is enough to peel paint. She smiles coyly before she rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay.” She quickly turns to Stiles. “If he tries to bite, just smack him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.” And without another word sashays to the back, presumably to go get the tequila. Stiles watches her go, his head in a spin. Derek takes her place and plants his hands on the counter in front of Stiles, a towering column of angry muscle. Stiles wonders if Erica was really joking about the newspaper. How can anyone look stupidly hot and ready to maul at the same time?
“Well, this is a surprise,” Stiles peeps.
Derek only lifts his chin, eyelids fluttering close as he inhales deeply. When he opens them again those grey eyes seem to reflect the red Chinese lanterns on the deck. The effect is, to say the least, unsettling. Stiles is about to point it all out when a curly-haired young guy comes to stand next to Derek. He looks terrified and in awe at the same time. “Derek?”
“Man the bar.” Derek orders without even a sideward glance.
“Yes alp- yes sir.”
Stiles rock on the balls of his feet. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance in this staring contest. “Sooo… Come here often?”
“I own the place.” Derek replies, like it is common knowledge.
“Cool! That was a joke, by the way.”
When Derek just scowls, Stiles looks away to where curly-haired cutie throws weary glances his way, pouring drink after drink for the now visibly put-off groupies. Stiles waves but the guy quickly averts his eyes. Derek’s scowl intensifies, and Stiles kinda wish he had that newspaper.
“Well, it’s a great place you got here.”
“Thanks.”
Stiles drums his fingers on the smooth surface on the bar counter. “And how’ve you been? I’ve been emailing you, you know. Just to say hi.”
“Yes, I know that.”
Stiles blinks, straightens and pulls his shoulders back. “Uhm, okay. Wow.” he laughs nervously. “Guess I should get the message, huh?”
Confusion, then comprehension play tug-of-war with Derek’s eyebrows. “What? No, wait…”
Five sets of shot glasses and the rest of their drinks appear on a tray before Stiles, cutting Derek off. “There you go, handsome.” Erica smiles and lean forward, impressive cleavage on display.
Stiles digs around in his pocket but she stops him. “On the house.” she smiles.
Stiles tries his best to sound pleased. “Thanks.”
Derek turns to her, ready to attack, then grunts when he gets a foot to the shin. Erica’s smile though stays perfectly in place.
“And I’m Erica, by the way.” She holds out her hand.
“Stiles.”
“The puppy down there is Isaac, and of course you’ve met sourwolf here.”
“Sour… What?”
“Erica.” This time Stiles is sure he is going to maul her.
“You need help with that?” she asks, ignoring Derek like he doesn’t exist.
“No, thanks, I got it.” Stiles takes the tray. “Thanks for the drinks, Erica.”
“My pleasure, sweetheart.”
He looks up at Derek and shrugs half-heartedly. “See ya.”
He’s not sure if he hears Erica’s angry Idiot! over the noise of the restaurant, or if it’s just his imagination.
“Asshole.” he mumbles under his breath.
oOo
“He looked dodgy to me anyway, bro. Good riddance.” Scott claps him on the shoulder. He’s happily flushed, as are the rest of them, Lydia and Allison giggling like two teenagers and constantly steeling glances towards the bar.
“I guess,” Stiles worries his lip. “And what’s with the dog jokes?”
“Taxi will be here in five. Let’s go, losers.” Jackson says when he pockets his phone. Stiles spares him the barest of glances. He does his best not to look over to the bar when they walk out. He has to concentrate on not bumping into people in any case, which is how he misses Erica poking Derek in the chest. They’re standing in a corner at the back of the restaurant, the big guy’s eyes downcast, arms folded, eyebrows one continues angry black line as she rants on.
Back home Stiles downs two Advil with his third glass of water, Scott snoring away merrily next to him on the couch, the rest of the gang long gone to bed. He massages his temples. His headache isn’t all alcohol.
He opens his laptop and navigates his way to the photos he took of Derek and his artwork. The beautiful mural in all its different angled-glory is the first to go. One by one, he deletes all the pics, hitting the delete button a tad harder when he comes to the ones with Derek in it. He also clears his inbox and sent folder in his mailbox, then moves on to empty the recycle bin as well.
Are you sure you want to delete this file permanently?
“Oh yes I am,” Stiles mumbles and completely rids his life of Derek Hale.
oOo
The next morning after breakfast everyone heads for the beach. The day is glorious, the beach dotted with colourful umbrellas, the salty ocean breeze invigorating. Stiles decides to join the gang, but only before plastering himself with factor fifty and slapping on one of Lydia’s ridiculous, wide brimmed straw hats. Normally he would have balked at the idea, opting for the shade of the porch with an ice cold drink and his laptop. But his mind is too preoccupied to focus on anything else. He needs the distraction.
A volleyball game is started, Lydia and Jackson against Stiles and Allison. Scott elects to shout and cheer along from under the cluster of umbrellas.
With about as much ball sense as a moose, Stiles is once again reminded why he used to warm the bench during lacrosse games. Yet he throws himself into the game with abandon. Thanks mostly to Allison they keep the score tied, but have to stop every five minutes for Stiles to pick up his straw hat, and then wait for Lydia to stop laughing.
Stiles can’t remember the last time he had so much fun.
That evening they make s’mores over a bonfire on the beach, and Stiles realize he hadn’t thought about Derek once.