The sniffling was coming from under the old jungle gym. It was way across the playground, and the wood smelled weird when it was hot, so most kids ignored it and played on the brand new metal and plastic one instead.

Derek approached the castle-shaped structure, and circled it until he found the long tube where a boy sat, his knees tucked up against his chest, wiping his tear-stained face with a grimy hand. It was a tight fit, but the nook was just big enough for Derek to climb in and sit beside the boy.

"Why are you crying?" He asked, crossing his legsunder him, his knee brushing the kid's hulk green sneakers. They were spotless, not even scuffed, the velcro perfectly neat and straight. It was the first day of school, so Derek's shoes were in similar condition.

The boy hunched tighter over his knees and mumbled into his knees, "no one wants to play with me."

"Why?"

The boy's head came up and he glared at Derek over his crossed arms. His lip started trembling after a couple seconds of wide-eyed outrage, and he admitted, "I'm weird. And I talk too loud. And Jackson said that Transformers are cooler than Batman."

"No, they aren't."

"That's what I said!" The boy sat up straighter and heaved a frustrated sigh, his breath hitching a little on the exhale, the last reminder of his recent tears. "There's no way the Transformers are cooler than Batman."

Derek nodded. "What's your name?"

"Stiles."

"That's kinda weird." When Stiles' face fell, Derek panicked, and thought Stiles might start crying again and it would be all his fault. "But it's cool!" He rushed to say.

Stiles smiled again, then scrambled out of the other end of the tube. "Come on, let's play Batman and Robin smash the Transformers to tiny bits."

"Okay." Derek followed, a bit more carefully, to avoid splinters.

The jungle gym still smelled weird, and they had to run from a hornet's nest, but they laughed as they rushed away and the next day, Stiles was waiting at the tube so they could do it again.

There were kids and adults everywhere, most of them sporting the distinctive thick, dark hair of the Hale clan. John could feel Stiles' shoulder under his palm vibrating with excitement at the sight of the other kids his age firing water guns on the sprawling lawn. The second he removed his hand, his kid was off like a shot, barrelling into the fray and jumping on Derek's back with a war cry.

John smiled as he watched them roughhouse, then found himself at a loss. He hovered at the edge of the food table watching his peers mingle, his hands shoved in his pockets. They were sweating. Which was stupid, really, since he'd faced down a drunken kid waving his daddy's gun in his face and not even twitched but the thought of mingling and making small talk with these people who didn't know him was terrifying.

Claudia used to laugh at his shyness. "You'll never get elected to Sheriff if you can't glad hand with the best of them." She'd been like that. Always goading him, always irritating him out of his comfort zone, or outright pushing him. He clenched his fists in his pockets and tried not to remember all the gatherings they'd gone to where she tugged him from group to group, charming everyone with her vivacity, her hand on his shoulder the whole time.

"John!"

He startled at the booming voice and forced a tight smile as Derek's larger than life dad slapped his arm in greeting.

"Glad you could make it. Derek's been pestering me all day about when you'd be bringing Stiles." Hale laughed in his ear and his face crinkled with well-worn laugh lines that simultaneously made him look older and more youthful and carefree than John had felt in the last three years. "God, I can't believe Derek is 12 already. He's growing like a weed. He'll be as tall as his mother soon."

Stiles would too, eventually. John figured he had a few years, but eventually, his son would outgrow the pencil markings on the crown moulding of the unused fireplace and maybe then people would stop telling him every other damn day how much his son looked like her.

"Enough sappiness," Hale decided, and a cold bottle appeared next to John's elbow. "Here, wet your whistle. Did you get something to eat? There's enough to feed a pack of wolves."

John gratefully accepted the beer, even though it was some fancy microbrew from two counties over instead of a working man's Bud.

"This is fine, thanks."

Hale slapped his shoulder once more and drifted over to the BBQ to harass his brother-in-law, leaving John where he'd started. Alone and uncomfortable at the edge of the celebration, missing his wife like a limb severed recently and still pouring out his life's blood.

Stiles was hot and cramped inside the hollow tree and a mosquito bite itched on his ankle, but there was no way he was going to move. This was the best hiding place he'd ever thought of, ever. There was no way Derek would find his for at least an hour. Stiles' glow-in-the-dark Shrek watch said that it had only been 3 minutes, so he had a long time to wait. He might as well get comfy. He wished he'd brought a book or something, since there was a tiny bit of light that he could have read Harry Potter by-

"Found you."

"What!" Stiles poked his head through the small crack in the tree and stared at Derek, open-mouthed. "How did you find me so fast?"

"I always find you fast."

"Yeah, but..." Stiles wiggled out of the tree, grunting with the effort. "This was a really good hiding place."

Derek nodded, solemnly, and helped Stiles to his feet. "It definitely was. If I'd hid here, it would have taken you ages to find me."

Stiles scowled and put his hands on his hips. "So, how did you do it, huh? Did you peek?"

"No! I just," Derek looked at the ground and tamped down a small thistle plant with his sneaker. "I sniffed you out."

Stiles gasped and puffed out his small chest. "You saying I smell?"

"Maybe."

"No more hide and seek," Stiles decided, and pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. "It's clobbering time!"

Derek turned and took off through the trees, and Stiles followed after, laughing at the thought that he could ever catch Derek if he didn't want to be caught.

John popped the top off his third pretentiously oaky beer and flicked the cap in the direction of the garbage bag duct-taped to the end of a picnic table. He took a long swig and damn if it didn't taste amazing. Just another reason to resent the bottle, with its pretty cursive label and stout green glass.

John had to fight not to resent his hosts, along with the alcohol they'd provided, free of charge.

They were good people, the Hales. Kind, charitable, third generation Beacon Hills residents. Owned a quarter of the preserve, showed up to city council meetings to defend the other three quarters from developers. They had picture perfect lives, at least on the outside. They probably invested, could afford to send all their kids to the colleges of their choice.

John worked every holiday for the overtime pay and was still years away from paying off the mortgage on their tiny house. It was an eyesore, he knew, but any days off he had, he couldn't face spending on yard work and odd jobs.

Stiles came home with stories of their widescreen TV and Netflix. John had fallen asleep during the opening scene of the Star Trek remake and woken up to the DVD menu screen playing and Stiles fixing peanut butter and crackers for dinner for the third night in a row.

"How do you like your burgers, John?" Peter Hale called from patio. "I seem to be able to provide them either well-done or charred beyond recognition."

"I'm good, really," John called back, then muttered under his breath, "Would you leave me alone, already."

Peter's head whipped around, though he couldn't possibly have heard John's complaint. He raised an eyebrow and smirked in John's direction, the smile that was most of the reason he'd had never warmed up to the guy.

John took another long swig to smother the urge to punch Peter in his smug face.

Stiles and Derek lay on their backs, half in and half out of the tent in the Hales' backyard, looking at the stars. Derek's mom had tried to make it seem fun and exciting to sleep over at their house on a weeknight, but Stiles knew it was because his Dad was too busy with Mom's funeral. And Dad couldn't look at Stiles without crying, so Stiles figured it was for the best.

"Uncle Peter showed me how to see the big dipper. Do you see it?" He pointed over the top of their tent, toward the house. Stiles didn't see it, but he nodded anyway. He didn't doubt Derek knew where it was; Uncle Peter knew everything.

"Babcia says that my mom's up there now. She said that she's in a better place now." His breath hitched on an inhale and his face got hot as the tears came. "I think I'm a bad son. I don't want her to be in a better place. I want her to be with me."

Derek turned onto his side and pulled Stiles into his arms, rubbing his back and kissing the top of his head as he cried, just like his mom did when he was upset. They shared a pillow all night, and in the morning, when Stiles' babcia came to get him to go to the funeral, his eyes were swollen and wide, but dry.

John cursed as he sliced his finger on the edge of the bottle cap he was prying off. Near him, an elderly aunt tsked and John felt the back of his neck heat up.

Having given up on the the burgers, Peter was wandering from couple to couple, schmoozing with all of them and flashing his sharp, smug smile at them all. John should have felt relaxed with all the beer he'd had, but he could still feel his jaw clench when Peter approached him.

"Your Stiles is a spitfire, John," he slimed. "He talks circles around me. How do you keep up with him?"

John bristled at the dig at Stiles, but answered vaguely, "It's been easier since he was put on Adderall."

Peter tapped a finger next to his hippie goatee. "You know, I read an interesting article the other day about how ADHD is over-diagnosed and over-treated in this country."

John gripped his beer harder "You think you know my kid better than I do?"

"Not at all. Just an interesting perspective." Peter's eyes narrowed a bit as John took a deep swallow of Rich Asshole Beer number...four? It might have been five. "Do you think you ought to slow down a bit, John?"

"No, I don't."

"How about a burger, then, soak up some of that beer."

"I said, I'm fine."

Peter flashed that smirk again and John saw red.

"Ow! Watch it!"

"I'm sorry!"

Stiles yanked his arm out of Derek's grip, which hadn't really been any tighter than usual. He put his opposite hand over the arm that ached and scrunched up his face at the pain.

"What happened?" Derek asked, and tugged on the sleeve of Stiles' T-shirt. Stiles was too slow to stop him, and he saw the blue and brown bruises in the shape of a handprint on Stiles' arm.

"Whoa," said Derek. Stiles waited for him to ask again about what happened, but it didn't come. Derek just continued to stare at him, sad and confused and comforting. Stiles caved under those hazel eyes.

"I woke my Dad up. He was relaxing last night, but I needed money for lunch and I woke him up." Stiles shrugged, careful not to jostle his arm too much, or think of his dad's face when he'd come out of his deep sleep flailing and grasping. "It's fine. He was really sorry."

Derek didn't say anything for a long time, just looked at Stiles with his fluffy caterpillar eyebrows drawn. Eventually, Stiles felt weird and hot with those eyes lock on his face, so he reached out and smoothed Derek's eyebrows up and out. Derek scowled deeper and grabbed his hands, pinning them to his chest then steering him toward the cafeteria doors, carefully avoiding the injured arm.

"Come on. I've got some extra allowance for your lunch."

"Thanks, dude."

They ate lunch together, sharing apples and milk cartons and double the shoestring french fries. Stiles chalked the absence of pain in his arm to the time he spent laughing at making Derek do walrus faces.

That night, Derek runs around the far edge of the perimeter three times before he finally walks into the living room to talk to Talia.

"What's eating you, kid?" She asks, since the scent of his trepidation is conspicuous. Derek huffs and rubs his forehead into her knee a few times. Talia doesn't stop him, even though her father says he's too old for that kind of comfort.

"Stiles."

"Yes? What about him?"

"He smells," Derek growls, searching for the right word and getting only frustration. Talia drops her hand to his hair and drags the tips of her claws over his nape, gratified when he slumps and takes a deep breath. "He smells sad."

Talia's throat tightens as she thinks of Claudia, so lively, so joyous, unable to comfort her son in her absence. "He misses his mother, darling. Wouldn't you be sad?"

"No, Mom, he was getting better. But, now it's worse, and he's-"

"He's what?"

"Scared."

Talia frowned, and paused the gentle scritch of her fingers. She shook off the prickle of unease with logic. "I'm sure it's a scary time for him right now. He'll be going to middle school soon, and it might be hard for him to fit in."

"But is he okay? Should I tell Mr. Stilinski?"

"No." It comes out harsher than she meant it too, but she couldn't regret it. "You know you couldn't explain how he smells to Stiles' dad. He'll be fine, Derek. Just give him some time."

John didn't remember much after that. He remembers shoving Peter, and being even more enraged that he barely seemed to flinch, didn't topple into the picnic table like John had pictured. He heard the words coming out of his mouth, loud, ugly, profane words, but it was more like he was hearing someone else say them. He remembered Derek's father getting up from the muskoka chair he was holding court in, frowning at the disturbance at his perfect son's perfect birthday party.

He remembered Stiles' hands on stomach, pressing and patting, trying to calm him but only succeeding in making him nauseous. (He hadn't remembered throwing up in a bush until he smelled the vomit spatter on his shoes the next day.)

He didn't remember the drive home, or how he got into the house and onto the couch. He didn't remember the 15 minute call to Melissa's cellphone that his call history said he'd made, even though she would have been at work. He didn't remember how his eyes got so red and swollen from crying, but he could fill in the blanks. He had lots of practice with that.

His life was one big blank page without Claudia.

"Who's gonna be the mayor?"

"The what?"

"The mayor, you know," Stiles threw his hands to the sky, giving Derek a long-suffering look. "The guy who says all the words and marries us."

Peter can't hold back his snort of laughter and abandoned his post by the porch swing. He hadn't been hiding, per se. Just watching, and hoping the scene before him turned out to be as hilarious and adorable as he thought it would.

"I think you mean minister, Stiles. What do you need one for?"

"Derek and I are getting married!" Stiles proclaims, proudly, unfazed by his error.

"Is that so?" Peter tried to keep his face pleasantly neutral, but going from Derek's deep blush, he wasn't succeeding. "And when did you decide this?"

"Today. Derek's Aunt Lisa is getting married next week, you know-"

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"-And Laura was telling us about how when you get married, there's flowers and music and rehearsing and you gotta get up and tell everyone how much you love your person you're gonna marry. I love Derek, so I wanna practice getting married just in case I have to tell everybody."

Peter smothered his laughter again, for Derek's sake. If the kid got any redder in the face, he might pass out. Ah, what a difference two years can make in a boy's capacity for embarrassment. Or maybe Stiles was just that unflappable. It was a possibility.

"Well, that's a great idea, Stiles. But you still need a minister?" Peter craned his head around the backyard, theatrically. Seeing that they were alone, he offered, "Well, I guess I could volunteer."

Stiles agreed immediately, and Peter googled a classic "dearly beloved" on his phone. If he snapped a few photos of Stiles walking down an aisle made out of sweaters laid end to end and of Derek slipping a blade of grass onto Stiles' finger, it wasn't his fault that the shutter noise was set to silent.

"John."

"I don't think you have any business here, Talia."

"You're going to drop out of the running for Sheriff.."

John laughed, a dried up husk of the warm chuckle Talia remembered. "Why the hell should I listen to you? I'd be the best damn Sheriff this town has ever seen."

"That's true enough. When you're sober."

In the ensuing silence, Talia lets her gaze linger over the empty glasses, full bottles and piles of dirty laundry cluttering the living room. At the centre of it all, Stiles' backpack sat, open, his math homework sitting on top, unfinished.

"Drop out, John. Spend some time with Stiles and get your life back together. Talia raised a hand with the intention to place it on John's shaking-stiff shoulder, but stalled halfway. She adjusted her purse on her arm and stood straighter instead. "Or I'll tell the county why it is you need to."

She turned away to leave, but at the front door, she paused. "Claudia wouldn't see any of the man she loved in you right now. Find him again, in her memory."

She'd just stepped off the last step of the porch when she heard the crash of an empty scotch bottle hitting the door.

The thick tree branch was big and strong enough to hold them both, so they sat, facing each other, legs dangling, hands clinging, and peered down over the edge. When that got a bit too scary, they both wrapped their arms around the branch and lay on their stomachs, cheeks scraping the bark. Stiles grinned at the tickle of Derek's spiky hair against the top of his head.

When the drop no longer looked quite so overwhelmingly far, Stiles uncurled his hand from the white-knuckled grip on the branch and let his arm swing down. In moments, Derek did the same and they laced their fingers together, swinging their arms back and forth in the air.

"You're the best, Derek." Best friend, best protector, best partner in crime. "We'll be together forever right?"

Derek lifted his head and rested his chin on the bark. He smiled widely, showing off his big front teeth like he never did at school. "Always."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, go away."

"But, why are you crying?"

"I'm not!"

The boy clumsily dodged the handful of sand Stiles threw his way, but he still had to shake his leg like a dog to clean the dust off of the leg of his jeans. Stiles ignored him and hunched down further into his knees, turning his face away to hide his red raw cheeks. He was nearly a man, his dad had said. 10 years old was too old to cry like a baby, even if he missed Derek so much that his stomach hurt and he couldn't eat his strawberry jam sandwich because his throat hurt.

"Why are you sitting here alone?"

Man, this kid did not give up. Stiles wiped the sleeve of his Batman T-shirt across his face once just in case, and turned to face the new kid. "'Cause I don't have any friends."

"None?"

"I used to have one," he admitted, his throat getting achy and tight again. "But he isn't my best friend anymore."

On the weekend, Stiles had gone grocery shopping with his dad and they'd seen Derek and his mom in the ice cream aisle. Stiles had waved and Derek had smiled back, but Talia had taken him by the shoulder and steered him away before they could say anything. That night, Stiles asked his dad if he could go over to Derek's after school to play with his new DS, and his dad had sent him to his room without his dinner. Stiles hadn't minded, even though he was hungry. When he'd said Derek's name, his dad had slammed down the plate he'd been washing so hard he'd broken it, and used the voice that scared Stiles.

"That sucks." The boy sat heavily down next to him, kicking his scuffed, holey shoes out and hitting them together, making big puffs of dusty sand cloud in the air. "I don't have a best friend either. Do you wanna be each other's?"

Stiles took a good long look at the kid. His shirt was too big, so the sleeves flopped around his skinny arms, and his hair was fluffy and fell over his forehead into his eyes. He had a nice smile, crooked teeth and all.

"Do you like comic books?" Stiles asked.

The kid shrugged. "I dunno. Never read one. I'm Scott."

Stiles' eyes went wide. "You've never read a comic book?"

Scott wouldn't replace Derek. Stiles didn't think anyone ever could. He felt like he had a hole in his heart next to the one his mother left, and just as big as hers, even though he knew that he couldn't actually get a hole in it without spurting blood like the animes his dad didn't know he watched.

But Scott would do for a new friend. Stiles scooted closer to his new best friend and spent the rest of recess telling him about the entire Justice League.

The warm sun trickled through the trees. The air was hot and thick as soup, but the boys ran anyway, too crazed with the thought of the summer ending to slow down and catch their breath. One of them could hear the scurrying of small animals running away through the underbrush, but the other, even if he'd had supernatural hearing, would have been too busy shouting for the other to hurry to pay attention to a couple of rabbits diving for cover.

Their destination was just minutes away. Their sneakers wouldn't last until fall if they kept this pace up for the rest of the summer, but they didn't care. The crest loomed in front of them, and they both knew what was on the other side; Yards of long, soft grass, tended only a few times a year by the Hales. The hill was steep, and the trip down was a long one, if you were being careful.

The boys didn't want to be careful. They grabbed hands as they neared the top of the peak, breathing hard from excitement, more than exhaustion. They could have run for miles on the buzzing energy of their fading vacation.

Once at the highest point, they wasted no time in lying on their stomachs, just far enough that their fingertips touched when they stretched as far as they could.

"You ready?" Derek asked.

Stiles didn't answer, merely grinned his gap-toothed grin and shouted, "go!"

And they were off. Rolling faster and faster, watching the blue sky disappear and reappear. Knowing that the the world would still be spinning when they stood up and stumbled back up the hill to do it again.

They were best friends, and they had all the time in the world.