where the heart is
aka “everyone loves Derek”
Can you still call it fix-it fic if the thing that needs to be fixed hasn’t happened yet?
Written because of this week’s news, this turned from “I am sad and need to write happy Derek fic” into a sort of polyamorous pack centred around Derek Hale fix-it all fic that blatantly ignores several key points in canon. I am so not sorry.
4k, warnings for all the scentmarking, and I mean it - aaaall the scentmarking, and a short Kate Argent warning for the part with Isaac and Allison
and yes, I meant it when I said, fix it all fic
Derek reevaluates his life after Mexico.
Kate has been dealt with – again, wolfsbane, rock salt, iron, garlic and everything else that Stiles and Lydia could find that had even the slightest promise of keeping away the supernatural surrounding her grave in the middle of the Mexican Desert.
Peter had slipped out of their grasp in the middle of it all, making a run for it. But he hasn’t bothered them since and Derek can tell he is nowhere near Beacon Hills – the link between them is very faint, faint and warped beyond cognition, but it’s there and it tells Derek that Peter is alive, and far away from them all.
The rest of the pack make their way back to Beacon Hills immediately, aching for home and familiar faces.
But Derek doesn’t.
He can tell when the others realize that. Stiles’ face becomes blank, eyes still wide and white in his dirt covered face, just as they where when he came out of the rubble and saw Derek standing there, barely covered by Parrish’s jacket wrapped around his waist. But where they shone with surprise, with joy, Derek hopes, then, they don’t show anything right now.
Scott who is looking far more weary than Derek has ever seen him doesn’t look surprised. He just smiles, sadly, but fondly, too, and nods at Derek, not saying anything.
Kira honest to God pouts. Then she slips out of Scott’s grasp and runs to Derek, wrapping her arms tightly around him. She is warm and alive, and her leather jacket still faintly smells of Derek, even though he gave it to her weeks ago. He is not ashamed to press his face into her neck, breathing in her smell, buried under blood and dirt and fire, and smelling how it slowly mixes with his. He rubs his hands slowly up and down her back, over her arms, and back up to her neck, leaving his scent behind everywhere he touches. She seems to get what he’s trying to do because he can feel her smaller hands trying to cover all of his torso, too, until all he can smell is him and her, not separate, but all tangled up.