Work Text:
Thread by thread I come apart
If brokenness is a work of art
Surely this must be my masterpiece
Stiles squinted down at the half-empty bottle of jack in his hand, before setting it on a nearby gravestone with an unsteady hand. It was probably disrespectful, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He stumbled past a few more rows before stopping in front of one that he had become reluctantly familiar with, uncomfortably comfortable talking to.
Claudia Stilinski. The date of her birth and her death, both of which were engraved into Stiles' mind. A simple Rest In Peace, because she had told her husband she didn't want to be remembered with a sappy one-liner.
When Stiles' eyes flicked to the mound of dirt to the right, gravity reached up and pulled his knees down.
Sheriff John Stilinski. Beloved father.
Stiles let out a hysterical laugh, which cut off as abruptly as it began.
The laugh bubbled up again, as a hitched sob. His eyes stung, but the tears wouldn't come. It was aggravating. He hadn't cried, not once, since it happened. He hadn't slept properly, either, or managed to hold down a meal. Or talk to anyone.
It had been two months, though, and he had school, which just seemed ridiculous and trivial after what he had been through. He had always made sure that his grades were exceptional, and tried his best to keep his attitude in check with most of the teachers. He didn't realise he did it for his father until his father was six feet under and Stiles had no one to impress, no one to appease.
It probably wasn't the best idea in the world, getting drunk the night before school. But he didn't remember when he picked up the bottle, didn't remember what number this bottle was; they all blurred together in a mess of nightmares, sunrises, blurred faces, and slurred words.
He lost his phone. It was probably intentional, misplacing it. It wouldn't stop ringing, and the ringing aggravated his hangovers.
But this was only the third time he'd visited his father's grave, next to his mothers. Both parents rotting in the ground, leaving behind their barely-eighteen year old son to pick up the pieces.
Stiles stood up, wiping at his eyes, even though he hadn't shed a tear. He rubbed a hand across his face and staggered towards the bottle again. His hand missed a few times, before curling around the neck. He was just about to raise it to his lips when-
“Stiles.”
Stiles spun around, surprisingly graceful, but the life he had led conditioned him to sober up a tiny bit at the barest hint of danger. He hated it.
Scott was standing there, a crease in his eyebrows and a clench to his jaw that Stiles had learned meant he was holding back some intense emotion.
“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles drawled, letting his arm drop.
“Stiles, what are you doing?” Scott asked, taking another step towards him. Stiles flinched back and held up the bottle, righting it when it leaned to the right and started spilling out liquid.
“Playing ice hockey,” Stiles replied dryly. His mind was sobering up pretty fast, with the hint of a buzz in the back of his neck that told him it wasn't natural. He took another sip.
Scott looked like he was tearing up and nope , Stiles couldn't deal with it. “Stiles, man, I haven't seen you for over a month.” Scott's voice broke.
“Yeah?” Stiles snapped. “Maybe I didn't want to see you! Actually, it's pretty fucking obvious I didn't want to see you. So why the hell are you here?”
Scott lurched back as if he had been punched, but he didn't look angry. “We miss you, dude. I miss you.”
Stiles laughed then, bitter and mean. “Yeah? Well, I was having fun delighting in my own company. Enlightening. All the inner-reflection you could want.” He was lying, and Scott knew it. He hated being by himself, with his thoughts, but he deserved to think them. He deserved the guilt and self-loathing. He deserved worse than that.
Stiles turned away and stomped off, and he didn't need freaky werewolf hearing to know that Scott was following him. Just a decade of friendship and familiarity. “Stiles, look... we've all lost somebody. We know what it's like, and... and we want to be there for you.”
Stiles stopped. “You? You lost your ex-girlfriend. I lost my father! You have no idea how I feel!” He spun around and faced his best friend. “Don't compare my losses to yours. Because I've. Lost. Everything. ” And then he was throwing the bottle of jack at the Alpha in front of him, who'd just heal away the cuts and finally, finally get angry at Stiles, instead of pitying him and looking at him like he was.
The bottle flew through the air, and he knew it would hit its mark, when a hand that wasn't Scott's shot out and grabbed it.
Stiles kept his face blank as Derek tipped the bottle upside-down and emptied it. Scott opened his eyes, which he had squeezed shut in anticipation of the impact that he could've easily avoided.
Derek's face was equally as blank when he looked across at Stiles. He handed to bottle to Scott, who took it was a grateful nod. “You should go,” Derek said quietly to him.
Scott gave Stiles another pleading look, before looking down at his feet and turning away. Stiles and Derek both watched him get into his mother's car and drive away, before Derek turned back to Stiles.
Stiles sighed. “What.” He was too tired to bother phrasing it as a question.
“I'm taking you home,” Derek stated. It wasn't harsh, but it still rubbed Stiles the wrong way.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Playing the hero, Derek? A little late for that.”
Derek made no indication that he was affected by what Stiles had said. “Your keys?”
Stiles met his stare with a challenging glare and stubborn silence.
“Stiles, you've got school tomorrow, and you're going to be hung-over in the morning. Do you really want to make it worse?”
Stiles shook his head at Derek, but his anger was fading away. He was too exhausted to maintain it. “Why do you care?” he asked, resigned. It was a genuine question. “It wasn't that long ago that you would've just left me alone and brooded in a corner.”
Derek's eyes hardened with an emotion Stiles couldn't recognise. “Because I've been exactly where you are.”
Oh. Stiles swallowed. “But...” He cleared his throat. “But you had Laura. And now you have Peter, Cora, and Malia. I have no one.” His voice seemed empty, detached from his emotions, which were a torrent of guilt and anger.
Derek looked down for a second, before meeting Stiles' eyes again. “Just get in the car, Stiles. Passenger seat.”
Stiles considered protesting, but it was the first time he'd seen Derek since he woke up at the school, his evil twin body crumbled to dust and the nogitsune buzzing around in a wooden box. For some reason, Derek's lack of communication comforted Stiles. Derek didn't care what had happened. He had no ties to Stiles or the sheriff, or Allison and Aiden. He might hate Stiles on principle, but at least he wouldn't expect too much from him, like Scott or Lydia.
So Stiles tossed his keys to Derek. Once they were in the jeep, Stiles' jaw clenching only slightly at the idea of someone else driving his car, Derek turned to him with a confused frown.
“You're drunk.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations on your top-notch, werewolfy observation skills.”
Derek glared, and Stiles found himself enjoying it. Derek glaring at him was familiar. “You seem to be able to throw fine.”
Stiles looked away and stared out of the window, staying silent. Derek started the jeep after a brief pause, obviously not expecting an answer.
“It's the nogitsune,” Stiles replied, a few minutes later, in a dead, detached voice. “Ever since it left me, I have to drink a liquor store just to feel a little unsteady on my feet.”
Derek nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. “Werewolves can't get drunk unless it's laced with wolfsbane.”
“I know. I've tried it, didn't make that much of a difference.”
Derek stopped outside Stiles' house, and switched the engine off, hesitating. “Do you... Do you need to be left alone?” He sounded confused, like he didn't realised what he was asking until he had asked it.
Stiles gave him a forced, empty grin, and by the way Derek's eyebrows drew together, it wasn't convincing. He should work on it before school started. “Don't get me wrong, I love the new you, brushing up on dusty social skills and charm. But babysitting the local fuck-up isn't going to do either of us any favours.” He reached across Derek's lap and grabbed his keys, ignoring the way his skin buzzed from the proximity, then pushed open his door and raised an eyebrow at Derek. “Thanks.” He couldn't remember the last time he had said that to anyone, but the past two months passed by in an alcohol-hazed blur, so it wasn't as though his memory was trustworthy.
Stiles walked up to the house, feeling the last inch of fogginess in his brain being chased away by the buzz. He hated that the windows were dark, the rooms lifeless. He hated that the place needed dusting, the dishes needed washing, his bed needed making. He hated that the house looked lived in when no one was living in it.
Once he got upstairs, grateful it was only seven, he spent the night researching naguals and skin walkers. Once the words blurred together, it was midnight, his stomach was rumbling, and his hands were shaking.
The bed wasn't inviting. Too much had happened in it, while he was unconscious in the bedsheets. Stiles stood from the desk chair, locked the door, and collapsed on the bed without taking his clothes off.
The pull of sleep was now an ugly thing, with needy grasping hands that clamped across his mouth and eyes and opened Stiles up to Japanese foxes over a thousand years old. But he let it, stifling the flare of terror that always rose up in him in the last moments before sleep, the defeated look on Scott's face seared into his memory, the smell of earth and leather never leaving his senses.
Derek hated the situation.
He hated Stiles' situation, because it brought up memories and feelings he thought he'd gotten over those few months he spent looking for Erica and Boyd, reforming himself to be a better Alpha.
He hated the dead look in Stiles' eyes, like he'd already given up on whatever he had held on to, like he wasn't even sure why he was still trying, he was just going through the motions. Derek knew that look because he'd seen it in the mirror long enough to commit it to memory.
He knew, when he asked if Stiles wanted to be alone, what Stiles wanted. He wanted the only comfort he got to come from the ones he had lost, and he had lost them all. The only Stilinski left, like Derek had believed for five months too long that he was the only Hale left. Then Lydia resurrected his dead uncle, and his sister almost tore him apart. But that wasn't going to happen to Stiles.
The loft echoed, and Derek hated it, because even the silence echoed, making the atmosphere eery and uncomfortable. His family's house had always been a bit cramped, considering how large the pack was, how large his family was, and there was never enough room in the house for echoes.
He allowed himself a moment of pride for thinking about his family without holding on to the thoughts for hours, like he usually did, brooding and wrestling with the guilt he thought he deserved and the nostalgia his sisters believed he deserved. Cora was more intense than Laura had been, though, and he was getting better at beating the guilt down because of her. It will always be there, but he could push it away now, when it reared it's ugly head at inopportune moments.
The next day, he was tense and worried and he couldn't figure it out until he realised that the pack were at school. After losing Allison and the sheriff, Derek wondered how they'd all cope, being at school. He knew from experience that going back to school was like a whiplash in normalcy and mundane life. Not to mention the fact that at least one of the teenagers that had intruded on Derek's life had to suffer through a hang-over, the moron.
But any and every thought of Stiles led to his dream, and as much as he didn't want to think about it, he couldn't stop thinking about it. He was pretty sure the amount of time he spent thinking about it was unhealthy.
Because Derek had never had a dream about Stiles, and it disarmed him, left him with no clue what it meant. He'd had dreams before, where his subconscious was trying to tell him something, all wolves did. They were more intense, more obvious than a human's precognitive dreams.
So Derek didn't know what it meant, because you don't just dream about Stiles and expect it to be nothing. You don't just dream about your homicidal ex-girlfriend shooting you, and Stiles telling you that you sometimes have extra fingers in dreams, and then confirming that it was just a dream by having extra fingers. Derek really wondered if his subconscious was taking sadistic pleasure out of fucking with him.
He couldn't be surprised, though. Of course, if he was going to dream about Stiles, Stiles would be saving him from something. That was their relationship: saving each other's asses like it was second nature. Which is why he felt so helpless now, because Derek couldn't save Stiles from getting possessed, and he couldn't save Stiles from losing his father, and he had no idea what to do when the kid was hell-bent on drinking himself into a coma. Derek had never dealt with his losses like that, and a part of him wondered if it was actually healthier, because Stiles was lashing out, but Derek was bottling it in.
Derek sighed and rolled off the couch. Without Cora, or a pack, he had nothing to occupy his days, and being bored was not ideal. Before the fire, he would go to school and play around with his pack. In New York, he spent his days sleeping and his nights clubbing, having sex with any and every stranger he could find, and being dragged to art exhibitions by Laura. Once she'd died, his obsession to find the Alpha and kill it took over. Then building a pack and maintaining it. The Darach and the nogitsune prioritised, and for the first time in so long, Derek had time to himself. And he hated it.
Derek was just about to give Cora a call, check up on her, when a car pulled up. He instantly felt like he should recognise the purr of the engine, but the recognition flitted in the corner of his mind.
The scent of the driver was just this side of familiar, and by the time the loft door rolled open, Derek knew who was standing there.
“Jackson,” Derek greeted, leaning against a column and giving the teen a short nod. “I didn't hear that you were coming back.”
Jackson still looked like a douche, but he seemed more relaxed than Derek's memory implied. “I only told Lydia,” he replied. He glared at Derek, more of a challenge than out of hostility, and Derek returned it with a calm gaze. He had no idea what Jackson's control was like, and he wasn't aiming to find out.
Jackson flopped on the couch casually, and raised his eyebrows at Derek. “A lot has happened since I left,” he stated heavily.
Derek sat down in an armchair cautiously. “Why are you back?”
Jackson shrugged. “Once I told my parents about the cause of my monthly freak-outs, they figured it would be safer to be near a pack. Once they started talking to me again.” He stretched his neck and sighed. “And then I find out that McCall is the bloody Alpha, and the idiot who bit me gave it up for a girl.”
Derek glared at him. “My sister.”
Jackson waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I need to know if McCall's competent. Or I'm going back to London. There were a few packs I wouldn't mind joining.”
“Yes,” Derek answered immediately, no hesitation.“Talk to Scott. There's no guarantee he'll let you in his pack, though.”
Jackson was silent for a moment. “I heard about Allison.”
Derek honestly had no idea why Jackson was talking to him about this stuff, so he didn't answer. At least he wasn't being as much of a douche.
“And Stiles. Is he... okay?” Jackson asked hesitantly.
Derek frowned at him. “Why do you care? You've never taken an interest in Stiles before.” Aside from the snide remarks and insults.
Jackson shrugged, his nostrils flaring briefly and his head tilting, as if he had caught an interesting scent. “No reason,” he replied nonchalantly. He stood up. “I'll talk to Scott.”
Derek watched him leave, and wondered how Jackson's arrival would affect things, with the peace being as strained as it was.
Stiles did not expect to see Jackson fucking Whittemore leaning against his jeep when he got out of school. Scott tensed next to him.
“What the fuck is he doing back?” Stiles hissed.
Scott shook his head. “I don't know,” he replied suspiciously. They hadn't talked much, but Stiles fell into their usual school routine with only a little hesitation. Things were still tense between them, still distant and sad.
Jackson nodded to Scott when they reached him. “Scott McCall, lacrosse captain by day, Alpha by night. Didn't see that one coming.”
Scott straightened and fixed Jackson with one of his brooding stares. “Jackson. What are you doing back?”
Jackson shrugged. “I need a pack. My parents found out and figured sending me back to reconnect to this one would help.”
“Help? Help what?” Stiles cut in.
Jackson shot him a look, that didn't have as much heat as it would've before he left. “My anger management is under control. My healing isn't.”
“What makes you think I can help?” Scott asked.
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Pack? Strength in numbers? Stability? Any of this ringing a bell in your empty head, McCall?”
Still a douche. “What makes you think he wants to help?” Stiles challenged.
Jackson crossed his arms. “It's what Scott does, isn't it? Help people. You and Derek saved my life-”
“Hey!” Stiles protested. “I helped!”
Jackson narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “You hit me with your piece-of-crap jeep.”
Stiles squinted. “Oh. Right.”
Jackson looked back at Scott. “And I've learnt a lot about packs in my time in London. If another Alpha finds your pack unstable or weak, they'll challenge you for territory. So stabilise your pack. Let me join you.”
Stiles tried to find the flaws in that argument. “You hate us.”
Jackson shook his head. “Not really.”
Scott nodded at Jackson. “I'll think about it. Have you talked to Derek yet?”
“Yeah. He mentioned you having a pack. I'm guessing he wasn't talking about just yourself and Stiles.”
Scott was quiet for a moment. “If you really want to join the pack, you need to know what you're joining.” Stiles shot him a look, which was ignored. “Lydia and Stiles you know. Kira is a kitsune, a Japanese fox spirit-”
“-with wicked sword skills,” Stiles interrupted.
“-and Malia is a werecoyote.”
Jackson frowned. “What's Stiles?”
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Uh. Human? And standing right here.”
Jackson looked at him. “You haven't gotten the bite? How are you pack?”
Stiles glared at him. “We make our own rules about pack,” he responded coldly. “Get off my jeep.” He was pretty sure he was late for work.
“Derek's worried about you,” Jackson said, straightening and standing aside.
Stiles whipped his head around. “What? Why?”
Jackson shrugged. “I don't know. I could just smell it.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at Jackson, then wrenched open the door and climbed in the jeep. Jackson walked towards his porsche. Scott made a gesture and Stiles wound down the window.
“What should I do?” Scott asked him in a worried whisper
Stiles shook his head. “This is Jackson. Homicidal lizard and certified douche-bag. I wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw him. Which isn't very far, if you've noticed my lack of werewolf strength.”
Scott looked back at the porsche. “I don't know, man. He has a point about the whole pack-stability thing.”
Stiles tilted his head. “Look, just think on it for a week. Ask Derek what he thinks, he's the one with experience in being an Alpha. I have to go.”
Scott nodded and stepped back.
Stiles was late for work. His boss gave him a scolding look, and then thrust an apron in his arms.
After half an hour of serving people pie and coffee, and one-too-many hamburgers to contribute to America's obesity problem, Malia sauntered in.
Coyotes tiptoe, and so did she. She braced her hands on the counter and leaned over it. “Stiles,” she greeted. “I haven't seen you for a while.”
Stiles shrugged. “What do you want?”
Malia frowned and leaned in closer, sniffing curiously. Stiles jerked back. “Hey! Boundaries, Jesus.”
“You smell different.”
“Cool. What did you want again?”
Malia bared her teeth at him, fangless. “Cake. The usual. And you smell new. Like someone new.”
Stiles nodded. “Good for you.”
Malia growled at him, quietly. “Stop being a dick. They smell like a wolf.”
Stiles sighed and handed her a plate with carrot cake on it. She sat at the counter, like she always did. He was grateful for her company, some days. “Jackson. Lydia's ex.”
Malia's eyes glinted. “His scent's interesting,” she mumbled around her mouthful.
Stiles turned to serve someone else before replying. “He's a douche, you're a bully. Match made in heaven, go for it.”
She flipped him off. “I'll rip your throat out next full moon if you keep treating me like this.”
Stiles held up his hands in defence. “You're not the first were-creature to use that threat. I'm too pessimistic to believe you'll be the last, either.”
An elderly man a few stools down from Malia gave them a strange look, and Malia smiled sweetly at him, until he turned back to his newspaper with tense shoulders.
“So, have you heard from Peter?”
Malia made a face. “He's not winning any father-of-the-year awards.”
“What about your real dad?”
Malia shrugged. “He doesn't know I know yet.”
Stiles gave her a look. “You should really tell him.”
Malia scowled at him. “And say what? 'Hey, dad, so this psychotic zombie werewolf is my real dad, and by the way, I was that coyote you tried to kill, and I ripped apart your wife and daughter'?”
Stiles tilted his head. “Not the best idea, then.”
Malia slumped over her cake. “Our lives suck.”
Stiles hummed in agreement. He liked Malia. They hadn't had sex since that first time, and she didn't expect a relationship out of it, which was great, since Stiles wouldn't be able to handle one. But they talked, somehow instinctively knowing which subjects to avoid and how to make each other laugh.
Malia paid and left, and Stiles was left forcing smiles for elderly ladies who told him he was “too pretty to be so broody”. It was honestly hell, but the pay was good, and his boss gave him free meals. He'd be an idiot to turn down free food.
The door opened just before closing, and Stiles let out an exaggerated sigh as Jackson walked in. “I would've thought you'd be stinking up some swanky five-star restaurant.”
Jackson gave him his best bitch-face, which Stiles always secretly admired. His nostrils flared when he sat at the counter. “What the hell is that?”
“Hm?” Stiles looked over. “Oh, that'd be Malia. What the hell do you want?”
Jackson shifted in his seat. “How's Lydia been?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “I have a job, you know.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “It's not exactly rush hour,” he pointed out, looking over at the middle-aged loner eating the daily dinner special and reading a book.
Stiles brushed a hand through his hair. “She's fine. Now leave.”
Jackson shook his head and crossed his arms stubbornly.
After a few moments, Stiles gave up. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped.
“Stiles! Don't talk to customers like that!” Marge called out from the kitchen.
Jackson smirked. “So, what's with Derek?”
“What about Derek?” Stiles gritted out.
“Is he pack?”
Stiles considered the question. They never really talked about it, because Scott had assumed that Derek wouldn't submit to him, being older than him, a born wolf, and a former Alpha. Stiles disagreed. “I don't know. Ask him.”
“He doesn't know either.”
“Well then, we seem to have a conflict. Talk to Scott about it. It's closing time.”
Jackson didn't move. “What's with you and Derek?”
Stiles scowled. “Nothing.”
Jackson stood up, shaking his head. “He's worried about you, moron. And you get all tense when he's mentioned.”
“Do not.”
Jackson sighed and walked out, hesitating at the door. “Look, when I was... When I was the kanima, I did a lot of things I wasn't in control-”
“No,” Stiles cut off. “We, Stiles Stilinski and Jackson Whittemore, are not having a heart-to-heart about our unfortunate experiences in the supernatural. Goodbye, asshat.”
When Jackson showed up for the second time that day, Derek didn't bother to hide his irritation.
“What do you want now?”
Jackson raised his eyebrows. “I'm not getting any welcoming and friendly vibes from anyone in this town.” He leaned against the wall. “I talked to Scott and Stiles.”
Derek nodded, and resisted the urge to ask how Stiles seemed to Jackson. “Are you pack?”
Jackson shook his head. “Still deciding. The question is, are you ?”
“I already told you I'm not.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Stilinski said he didn't know. That doesn't mean no.”
Derek sighed. “Why do you care?”
Jackson shrugged. “I don't know. I left Beacon Hills a mess, and I come back to a mess.”
Derek snorted. “So you've decided you can fix everything, huh?”
Jackson's eyes flashed blue. “I've decided to knock everyone's heads together. The moment I arrived here, Scott's been indecisive, Lydia's closed off, you stink of misery, and Stiles is just one big fuck-up with a side of suicidal tendencies. And there's this scent that I can't get out of my mind. So everyone has to get over their shit, because bad things happen when you're too busy dwelling on your own pissy problems.”
Derek was silent for a moment. Or several. “Jackson... What really happened in London?”
Jackson barked out a short, bitter laugh. “You really have changed, Hale.” He shook his head. “I don't even know what I'm doing here.”
“I used to be your Alpha,” Derek pointed out. “I was the one that bit you, so there's still a slight connection.”
Jackson straightened. “Right. Well, everyone has to get their shit together. I'm not joining a weak pack.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “You sound so sure you'll be accepted.”
Jackson shrugged. “You know Scott as well as I do. He would never abandon someone to the fate of an omega.” His voice tightened at the last word, because of course he had been an omega in London, at least for a little while. “Look, Derek, you can tell something isn't right here, can't you? Something about this town is dying, and it's not the economy. There's-”
“-an undercurrent,” Derek interrupted. “I've felt it.”
Jackson looked relieved. “So you get me when I say that Scott needs a proper pack, right?”
“He has a proper pack.”
“He has a bunch of broken teenagers with barely any training and no knowledge.”
“And you do?”
Jackson nodded. “A little. British wolves are very well-informed.” His voice was quiet.
Derek stared at him for a moment longer, to unnerve him. “You've changed, too.”
Jackson glared at him, and then Jackson was gone, and Derek needed to talk to Stiles.
Turns out it was harder to find someone when they'd spent two months hiding from werewolves. But Malia had a comfortable companionship with Stiles, so Derek sniffed her out, ending up outside a club, already getting a headache from the pulsing music. He growled a little under his breath, and from inside the club, he could hear Malia's answering growl.
She found him sitting on a bench outside, and crossed her arms with a scowl. “What?” she demanded.
“Where's Stiles?”
She blinked. “Uh... You can't just sniff him out?”
Derek shook his head and stood. “I need to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
Malia brushed a hand through her hair, which was slick with sweat from dancing. “He's at work, Derek,” she replied, making it sound like Derek should've known.
Derek summoned all of his patience. His cousin was a little shit, but considering her parentage, it was to be expected. “Where does he work, then?” he asked slowly.
Malia snorted. “Where doesn't he work?” At Derek's blank look, her eyes widened. “Seriously? Stiles has taken, like, five jobs in the past month.”
A small ball of tense worry expanded in his chest, but he'd address it later. “Malia. Where. Is. He,” he bit out, wondering if a talk with Stiles was worth putting up with Peter's daughter.
Malia tossed her hair and looked back at the club. “He's at Marge's Diner. It's closed by now, but Marge is pretty cool about me wandering in there after hours.”
Derek nodded to her and she stomped off, after shooting him a dirty look. It was surprising, actually, how familiar it was. She may not have grown up with the Hales, but she reminded Derek so much of Cora and Laura that it almost hurt, and their interactions had started to stray into sibling familiarity. It freaked Derek out, but he reckoned it was instinctual on Malia's part. Almost all of Malia's personality was made up of her instincts, after spending the greater part of her life as a coyote.
When Derek walked up to the diner, the 'closed' sign was hung, but the door was unlocked, so he walked through. He smelled Jackson and Malia's scents, though they were faint.
The diner was dark, but there was a harsh light from what must've been the kitchen, and the sound of Stiles heartbeat.
Which was wrong. It was unusually slow and unsteady, and there was no scent of emotion. It was unsettlingly like how Stiles had smelled when the nogitsune took over, and Derek heard his own heartbeat pick up slightly.
Derek walked in on Stiles holding a knife, dripping with soap suds, staring at the tip with empty fascination. His lips were parted, and his eyes were wide with dilated pupils as he lowered the knife down towards his arm.
“Stiles,” he called out, forcing calm into his voice that he didn't feel.
Stiles looked over at him, his hand stopping the knife before it reached the skin, and the distant look in his eyes cleared.
“Derek?” he asked in confusion, frowning at him.
Derek swallowed the lump in his throat. “Stiles. Put the knife down.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows as if to say what the hell are you talking about? before he looked down.
Derek witnessed the moment Stiles started freaking out. His face went blank for a minute, before it twisted into a look of horror. The knife dropped to the ground, barely missing Stiles' foot, and he stumbled back from the sink.
“Oh my god,” he said faintly. His heartbeat was climbing faster than Derek's. “Oh my god,” he repeated, his eyes locked on the knife.
Derek strode towards him and grabbed his shoulders gently, looking him in the eye. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Stiles took his eyes off the knife and looked at Derek. He was about as tall as Derek now, so it was disconcerting to not have Stiles looking up at him all the time. “I...” His voice wavered, and he stepped away from Derek. “I need a drink.”
Derek shook his head, and picked up the knife, tossing it back in the sink. “No you don't. You need to tell me exactly what was going through your mind, while I finish these.” He rolled up his sleeves and started washing the dishes, hyper-aware of Stiles' presence.
He noted when Stiles' scent turned sour. “Fuck you, man. I'll have a drink if I want a drink,” he snapped. He didn't move from where he was standing.
Derek knew he wouldn't open up immediately about what he had almost done, but he also knew that it helped that there was someone around who was willing to listen. And that Stiles was just as unnerved about it as Derek was.
So it really surprised him when Stiles spoke up a few moments later. “I don't know,” he said quietly.
“Don't know what?” Derek asked, looking over his shoulder.
Stiles sighed and walked over to lean against the side of the sink. “I don't know what I was thinking. My mind was blank, I barely remember picking the knife up.”
Derek took a few moments to process this. “Has it happened before?” He wasn't sure if he wanted the answer to that question if the answer was 'yes'. Because if Derek hadn't walked in when he did, would Stiles have stopped?
Stiles shook his head and showed Derek his unmarked arms. “No.” He bit his lip, and Derek could see how everything had aged him past the sixteen year-old who stumbled onto private property with an oblivious werewolf and a missing inhaler. And the scent of his loneliness was becoming a permanent fixture in his own scent, the one Derek used to identify him.
“The, uh, the loss of time, yeah. That's been happening a lot. The knife thing? Not so much.”
Derek dried his hands and turned to face Stiles. “You need help, Stiles,” he said gently.
Stiles' laugh was bitter, and it made Derek's stomach turn. “Yeah. I can't control my own body, let alone my life. It's like nothing has changed.”
“How many jobs do you have?” Derek asked quietly.
Stiles frowned at him. “Four.”
Derek swore under his breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Stiles. If you need money-”
“I'm not a fucking charity case, Derek,” Stiles replied coldly. “I'm handling it.”
“You can't handle four jobs and school. And then college.”
Stiles sagged against the sink. “I'm not going to college,” he said quietly.
Derek frowned at him. “But I thought you were studying-”
“Yeah, well, in case it's escaped your notice, things have changed, Derek.”
Derek tried to shake off the horrible feeling he got from those words. Stiles wasn't supposed to throw this all away. He was smart, and resourceful, and he had the right to a normal goddamn life, a life Derek had never let himself have after the fire. Derek was past blaming himself for things that were obviously not his fault, but he could blame Peter for biting Scott and bringing Stiles into it. Though Derek wasn't completely sure that Stiles wouldn't have found out eventually anyway, because that's who he was. Naturally curious, astoundingly intelligent, and almost supernaturally resilient.
Of course, Derek was starting to wonder if all of that was past-tense, because the Stiles in front of him was a dull, muffled, hollowed out version. The real Stiles was in there, buried under the weight of his father's death.
And the ache that Derek felt when he realised this, like something was just out of reach, was when Derek realised that he had feelings for Stiles Stilinski, and the only word that ran through his mind was shit .
Because the last person he had feelings for ritually sacrificed innocent people, and after the third fuck-up of his love life, Derek had stopped trusting his judgement. And here was Stiles, the kid who held him up in eight feet of water for two hours, who snarked and yelled at him, who was six years younger than him, and Derek was starting to have feelings.
Stiles was watching him, a little of his curiosity and worry peeking out from his facade. “Derek? You just went really pale. Are you feeling alright?” His frown deepened. “Why are you here?”
Derek shook off his thoughts, promising himself that he would thoroughly examine them later, and focused on the immediate situation.
“Jackson,” was what came out of his mouth.
Stiles' face cleared. “I was wondering when that would come up." He straightened and frowned in thought, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Why is he back, what does he want with the pack, and what the hell happened in London? ”
Derek nodded, because Stiles had asked every question he was going to ask. “I'm guessing you don't know either.”
Stiles shook his head. “No. And this whole 'I just want to stabilise the pack' thing is uncharacteristic.”
Derek hummed in agreement and let Stiles talk, because he had missed this; Stiles' rambling on, finding an idea and latching on to it, his hands moving and flailing around while he paced.
“What does he get out of it? Because he got the bite to one-up Scott and make his own life better. He ignored the fairly obvious evidence of being the kanima because he didn't want anything to ruin his delusions of delayed werewolf-hood. Every decision he makes is for himself, so what the fuck happened in London?”
Derek nodded. “He seems pretty fixated on the idea of pack-life.”
Stiles was quiet for a moment, and he stopped pacing, instead choosing to bite his thumbnail. “What if something happened to his pack in London?”
Derek considered it. It was likely that Jackson had a pack, since European werewolves were less territorial than Americans, and more welcoming. “That makes sense.”
Stiles yawned. “Well, mystery solved. Jackson has some PTSD and issues to sort out, and he decided he would deal with it by joining a pack full of overwhelmed teenagers and a broody ex-Alpha. His life decisions from now can only get better.”
Derek frowned. “I'm not pack.”
“Hm?” Stiles looked up at him and narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Derek raised his eyebrows at him. “I'm not pack.”
Stiles scoffed. “Yeah, well, that's a discussion you should have with Scott.” He paused for a few seconds. “If you want my opinion, I think you should be pack, but that doesn't mean you can be pack. You know?”
“You sound like Deaton.”
Stiles made a face. “Oh god, I hope not.”
Stupid Derek Hale and his unusually expressive eyebrows and leather jacket and gentle eyes. That man was going to be the death of him. Death by sexual frustration. Seemed fitting for a guy who lost his virginity in the basement of a mental institute.
After watching Derek do the dishes, which was the weirdest thing ever,because it was so fucking domestic it shouldn't have been as hot as Stiles found it, Stiles found himself ease into the familiarity of conversation with the wolf. They hadn't talked much before, but the atmosphere of mutual companionship had been there, and it was almost too easy for a conversation to start up.
The fact that the conversation was about Jackson did nothing to stop Stiles noticing the little things. How Derek's fingertips were slightly wrinkled from washing the dishes, how his eyes clouded with rare and probably unwilling insecurity when Stiles carelessly threw in the whole “pack” thing. It should've scared Stiles, how easily he read Derek. His eyebrows could start up a whole new language alone. Where everyone else saw a closed-off and brooding emo-biker-dude, Stiles read into every movement. At first it was detached, intellectual curiosity. Derek was an enigma, and Stiles wanted to figure him out. Hell, Derek was the only (sane and un-zombified) born werewolf Stiles had met, and he was bound to act differently to the other wolves.
Then it morphed into second-nature, watching Derek's reactions to particular situations, his subconscious responses, his body language, and fuck .
Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck, not liking where his train of thought was taking him. “Look, Derek, thanks for... you know. But I have to lock up here, so...”
Derek raised his eyebrows at him, unimpressed.
Stiles made shooing motions with his arms. “Come on, man. You want to sleep in the diner like a hobo?”
Derek sighed and reached into his pocket, drawing out a slightly-crushed flower, long and white and... not really his type.
Derek pressed the flower into Stiles' hand gently, and Stiles tried to ignore the heat in the touch, the curious look in those green eyes that made Derek look like he was trying to figure Stiles out, like Stiles was a question that needed answering. It was both flattering and unnerving.
“Uh, thanks, dude? A flower? Yeah, uh, great.” Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly.
Derek rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, looking nervous. “It's... My mother knew some things about plants. It's a moonflower. For sleep and protection.”
Stiles squinted suspiciously at Derek. “Why?”
Derek shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “You look like you haven't slept in days.”
Stiles snorted. “Thanks, dude. Appreciate the judgement,” he replied wryly. Then he shook his head and met Derek's eyes. “No, seriously. Thanks.”
Derek nodded, Derek left, and Stiles tried to push away a mini breakdown. Derek was being nice and thoughtful, and Stiles was freaking out.
Of course, his mind veered into the abysmal corners he used to avoid. It's pity, he just feels bad for what's happened. He's a nice guy, and he'd do it for anyone. Don't think you're special, don't think you could deserve that kind of attention from Derek.
Stiles had lost the ability to shut those thoughts out when he lost his father, so he closed up in himself around them, still clutching the flower, and the next morning, he woke up feeling rested for the first time in more than two months.
Stiles jerked awake to the resonating sound of a gunshot, and it took ten seconds of flailing off the bed to realise he'd dreamed it. But by then, the panic had gripped him in its unyielding grasp.
The pain in his chest, the hollow feeling where his heart was struggling to beat through his skin, gradually increased, agonisingly increased. His breathing was coming out in short, hitched pants. Black spots danced in his vision, his lungs screaming out for air, and it wasn't going to be satisfied. Stiles passed out.
When he came to, he realised he wasn't in his room. He was too exhausted to have another panic attack, but he felt the cold fear seep into his mind, because he had fallen asleep slumped over his computer. He could feel the imprints the keys made on his face.
And yet, he was in his parents' bed, curled around his father's pillow, tears he didn't remember shedding staining the floral print of the pillow case.
And then they started again, and he couldn't stop them flowing down his cheeks, couldn't stop the sobs that felt like they had been wrenched from his body, couldn't stop the thoughts running through his mind because that bullet was meant for him.
Scott strode into the loft, the first words out of his mouth being, “You lost your whole family.”
Derek scowled at the young Alpha. “And?”
Scott winced and gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry, that was blunt. It's just...” He ran his hand through his short hair, spiking it up. “I need your help.”
Derek raised his eyebrows as an indication to keep talking, and Scott sat on the couch, sinking into it as if he hadn't sat down in hours.
He took a deep breath, and focused on his hands. “I don't know what to do, Derek. I can't be an Alpha, not after everything that's happened.” Scott looked up and met Derek's eyes. “How did you manage it?”
Derek crossed his arms. “You're talking about Stiles,” he stated. The past two months, every time Scott mentioned Stiles, he had the same look of desperation and despair.
Scott nodded, and looked back down. “When... When Boyd lost Erica, how did you deal with it?”
Derek sighed and sat in the chair across from Scott. “In case you didn't remember, I wasn't a very good Alpha. I was never meant to be an Alpha, and I wasn't ready.”
Scott shook his head. “That's not reassuring.”
Derek shifted in his seat, pushing down the flicker of worry that rose. “What's happened?” he asked, his throat tight.
“Nothing new,” Scott replied, giving Derek a steady gaze that reminded Derek exactly was Scott was. A leader, a True Alpha, but a high-schooler as well. “You know what it's like, losing your whole family. Well, not your whole family, but you know better than any of us. So... what do I do?”
Derek looked away, his eyes finding the duffel bag stashed in the corner of the room before darting away again. “I can't tell you what to do, Scott. You're the Alpha. He's your friend.”
“That's the thing, though, isn't it?” Scott said, his voice trembling slightly. “If he wasn't my friend, if he had just ditched the moment I flashed a bit of fang, then... then he wouldn't...” His hands were shaking. “I just want my best friend back. And I need your help.”
Derek sat back in the chair. “Stiles has made his own decisions, Scott. And as much as you're blaming yourself, he blames himself a hundred times more.”
Scott looked up to glare at him. “But it's not his fault! His dad dying-” Scott cut off and his gaze wandered over Derek's shoulder. Derek knew where he was looking, because Derek found himself staring at that same place a few times a day. Where it had happened.
“I'm not saying it's his fault. Of course it isn't his fault. But... What about Allison? Do you feel guilty about that?”
Scott's breath hitched, and his eyes widened. He focused on the floor and didn't answer. Derek felt a bit bad bringing it up, but Scott needed to hear it, to empathise with Stiles.
“Just- help him, okay? I know that you pretend to have nothing to do with us, or you used to, but I also know you care about him.” Scott gave him a steady, knowing look.
Derek tensed and gave Scott a blank look, keeping his heartbeat controlled.
“I mean, Jackson noticed.”
Derek noticed an opportunity to change the subject and took it. “What have you done about him?”
Scott's expression cleared from the grief of talking about his best friend and his ex-girlfriend. “Who, Jackson?” Scott shrugged. “He's pack. I couldn't leave him as an omega.” Scott narrowed his eyes at Derek. “Speaking of, I was wondering about you.”
“What about me?” Derek asked cautiously, already knowing the answer.
Scott opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, reminding Derek comically of a goldfish. “I was... I mean, I know you don't, uh, have a pack. And I was thinking... If you want to, only if you want to, because I know I'm younger than you and you used to be an Alpha and stuff... But, uh, did you want to be pack?”
Derek smiled at Scott, who was wincing at his ramble, sounding a little like Stiles. Though the difference was that Stiles was usually assertive in his rants, but Scott looked like he was gearing himself up for a rejection.
Derek glanced back at the duffel bag before answering. He had been expecting the question, he knew it would come up. “I'm leaving, Scott.”
Scott's eyes widened, and his jaw clenched. “What? You can't leave! I need your help! What about Stiles?”
Derek looked away and took a deep breath. “I'm not leaving straight away. I'll stay until things calm down.”
Scott looked upset, which surprised and warmed Derek. There was a time when Scott would've left Derek for dead, when Scott wouldn't have cared whether Derek left, or would've welcomed the absence. “Why can't you stay?”
Derek shook his head. “Too much has happened here.” He nodded towards the place where Boyd was shoved onto his claws, to the place where Kali was torn apart by glass shards, where the sheriff took his last breath. So much tragedy, and Derek felt like he was drowning in it.
The burnt out shell of a family home in the woods, half of an older sister buried in the back yard, and the basement of a tree holding his first love and his first mistake... yeah, Beacon Hills was full of ghosts, and Derek hated the reminders.
Scott frowned. “But... you'll be pack until then? Because I need you, man.”
Derek nodded. “Of course.”
Scott stood up and headed towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “What about Stiles?”
“What about Stiles?”
Scott raised his eyebrows. “Don't play dumb, Derek.”
Stiles missed school that day, so Scott, of course, sent Malia.
Malia stomped upstairs (so much for the tip-toeing), and pulled him away from Stiles' laptop.
“Why aren't you at school?” she demanded, blocking him from his desk with crossed arms and a blue glare.
Stiles gave her a winning grin, a grin he'd been working on for a few weeks, trying to make it stick. “I've got a stomach bug. Been going around, you know.”
Malia growled at him. “If I have to suffer through maths, you have to as well. Don't be a dick.”
Stiles frowned at her. “Why can't you just leave me alone?”
Malia flashed him a fang-filled smile. “Because I don't exist to make your life easy, Stilinski. But,” she added, leaping onto Stiles' bed and borrowing into the covers, “if you're ditching, I'm ditching.”
“That was a drastic change in objective,” Stiles muttered, sitting back at his desk.
Malia grunted. “Sue me. McCall can't order me around.”
“Yes he can. He's the Alpha.”
“Yeah, but I don't do authority.”
Stiles tilted his head. “Fair enough.”
Malia made a noise in the back of her throat. “What are you doing? It's irritating.”
Stiles sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I'm researching. If you don't like it, go to school.”
She growled at him again. “You should sleep with me.”
Stiles jerked away from the laptop in surprise, banging his knee on the desk. “What?”
She laughed. “I meant sleep, Stiles. Not have sex, you hormone-crazed ass.”
Stiles shook his head. “You shut your mouth,” he muttered. He forgot Malia was a cuddler.
Malia sat up, rubbing her face. She yawned and came up behind him, peering over his shoulder. “Why are you looking up... aswangs?”
Stiles shrugged and pushed her face away. “I'm bored.”
Malia gave him a thoughtful frown, before shrugging and returning to his bed. She was snoring softly after a few minutes, and Stiles felt the coldness in his mind seep back in without the distraction.
He hadn't zoned out and cut himself since the diner the other night, but he wasn't sure he hadn't just zoned out. It was freaking him out, and the fact that he didn't notice until Derek told him to drop the knife was pretty fucking terrifying. He knew, the same way you know if you're hungry, that he wasn't possessed again. And there were about fifteen billion web pages on the effects of possession. It sounded suspiciously like a bunch of psychological disorders explained by primitive mythology and religion, and he wouldn't believe a word if it wasn't happening to him.
He had clicked into one too many sites, only to exit them just as quickly when it loaded in French or German. Because the words rearranged themselves in his brain so that he could understand them.
The stories called it kitsunetsuki. The state of being possessed by a fox. Which included, disturbingly, running down the streets naked and screaming (Stiles prayed to god that he'd missed out on that one), suddenly understanding foreign languages, loss of time, and insomnia. It also said that the foxes possessed young women by entering through her nails and breasts, though, so maybe it wasn't 100% accurate.
But the stories had neglected to mention that he'd be stuck with these symptoms once the fox left, a reminder of his loss and guilt every time Melissa spouted off some Spanish swear words that he winced at, every time he looked in the mirror and noticed the bags under his eyes, every time his brain fuzzed out.
Malia grunted in her sleep and Stiles reigned in his emotions before their scent woke her up. Turns out he didn't have to, because not even his phone ringing was enough to wake her. She must've been clubbing late at night again.
Stiles scowled, regretting the decision to seek out his missing phone. He was still scowling when he answered it.
“Lydia,” he greeted with annoyance.
“Stiles,” Lydia bit out. “I'm outside your house, you idiot. Let me in.”
Stiles stood up and walked to his window, peering door at the strawberry-blonde banshee glaring at him from the front door. He forgot she didn't have a key, and she couldn't just climb through his window like most of his friends.
“Why don't you just knock?” Stiles grumbled, making his way downstairs. He hung up and opened the door. Lydia sauntered in with an expression that could shrivel balls.
“I did knock,” she growled.
Stiles gave her an innocent look. “Oh.”
Lydia sighed and let her anger drop. “Stiles, what are you doing?”
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “What am I doing? You're the one ditching school.”
Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “So are you.”
“Oh,” Stiles repeated. “Right.”
Lydia tossed her hair behind her shoulder and sat on the couch. “Why aren't you at school?”
Stiles shrugged and stayed standing. “Didn't feel like it, Lyds.”
Lydia opened her mouth and closed it again, searching for something to say. “Look, Stiles, I know what you're doing.”
“What am I doing?”
Lydia gave him a soft look. “You spend all this time researching every single mythological creature in every single ancient civilisation. You look like you haven't slept in weeks, and you barely eat.”
Stiles glared at her. “I'm fine.”
“I don't need to be a werewolf to know you're lying. You spent two months cold-shouldering your friends, and we respected your space, but working yourself into a coma isn't going to help. You think that spending hours on the internet looking up the supernatural is going to ensure you'll be prepared next time. It won't. You know that.”
Stiles crossed his arms. “I don't have to listen to this bullshit, Lydia.”
Lydia stood up and faced him. Her face was stony and livid, and Stiles had to take a step backwards, because it was terrifying. “Yeah? Well I lost my best friend. Maybe that loss is nothing compared to losing your father, but don't, for one second, believe that it's meaningless. Because Allison deserves to be mourned just as much as your father.” There were tears in Lydia's eyes, even as she glared at him and tensed her body as if preparing for a fight.
Which drained Stiles of all of his anger. He sighed and dragged a hand across his face, holding back the hitch in his breath. “I... I'm sorry, Lyds. I know. I miss her, too.”
Lydia relaxed and took a step closer to him, giving him a shaky smile. “You're not alone, okay? When Jackson died, you were there for me. I want to be there for you, Stiles. It kills me that you're...” She shook her head and looked down. “We're pack. And pack can be family, too.” She turned to go, and gave him a tight hug before leaving.
Stiles closed the door after her and tried to focus on keeping his breathing under control, tried to hold back the feeling that he was crumbling apart, tried to hold himself together. He was getting tired of doing it, and he knew, one day soon, that he wouldn't be able to.
It was two days later that Jackson met Malia, and it went about as well as you'd expect.
“So, you're the coyote that lost her virginity in the basement of a mental hospital,” Jackson said, cocking an eyebrow. “With Stilinski,” he added with a smirk.
Malia flashed her eyes blue. “You're the lizard who taped himself on the full moon.”
Jackson's jaw clenched for a second before he let out a surprised laugh, but Malia didn't soften her glare.
Stiles shook his head with a sigh. “Well, she didn't tear you apart,” he told Jackson. “That's progress.”
Malia flashed her fangs. “Only because you're pack,” she spat, making pack sound like a curse. “And I don't have the same kind of loyalty to a pack as a wolf would, so don't think for a sec-”
“Aaaannd we're done here,” Stiles cut in, steering Malia away towards English class. “That went better than I expected.”
“No it didn't,” Malia grumbled. “He smells weird.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “We've talked about this, Malia. You can't judge a person by their smell alone.”
Since that talk with Lydia, Stiles had been trying. It felt like a panic attack, trying to suck in breaths, just for them to stick in his throat. It felt like he wasn't making any progress at all, but when Lydia lit up when he forced a smile in her direction, and Jackson stood a little taller when Stiles snarked at him, he realised that he wanted to keep doing it. It didn't matter that the mask was dropped as soon school finished and he was by himself again, because if he could handle school, and keep those looks on his friends' faces, then maybe he was doing something right for once.
He even quit two of his jobs, keeping his jobs at the grocery store and the diner. It meant that he had to walk to his jobs and take the bus to school to cut back on fuel costs, but it felt like progress.
Of course, the next time he saw Derek was on one of his bad days.
“I'm getting better than this, I promise,” he panted out, sitting on the floor of his kitchen with his back against the counter, staring at his hands, which were twitching.
“Hey,” Derek said softly, touching his hand reassuringly. “You don't need to explain yourself, Stiles. You don't... You shouldn't feel guilty for this.”
Stiles was still staring at his fingers, needing desperately to scratch the itch, needing to see if this was real.
Derek, surprisingly, seemed to understand, and he took his hand off Stiles'. Stiles counted his fingers slowly, three times, before locking eyes with Derek.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked him, his voice breaking slightly as he tried to hold back the sobs that usually came after his panic attacks. Derek had burst through the front door while Stiles stared into the refrigerator, hyperventilating at finding his father's hidden stash of fatty foods. Stiles had wasted most of his life forcing his father to eat healthy, because it turns out a bullet killed him, his son killed him.
Derek sat back, his back leaning against the leg of the table and his legs pressed lightly next to Stiles'. “I was going to see if you were okay. Good timing, I guess,” he added, giving Stiles a sad look.
The last thing Stiles needed was to see that look on Derek's face, not when he had been doing so well, not when he had just started to get better, when his friends had just started to give him looks other than pity. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the counter, huffing out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.” The tears were burning, but he held them back until he felt it safe to open his eyes.
Derek's face was raw and pained, his mouth a thin line and his eyes tightened in the corners.
Stiles frowned at him. “Hey, dude, are... are you okay?”
Derek blinked at him, and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he croaked “Did you, uh, want to watch a movie or something?”
And that set Stiles off in a laughing fit, throwing his head back and letting loose, and when he looked back at Derek's raised eyebrow and amused/annoyed (the two weren't mutually exclusive) expression, he couldn't stop. It might've been a bit hysterical, but when he had calmed down and noticed the small, gentle smile on Derek's face, he decided he'd let himself have it.
Derek stood up and gripped Stiles' arm, pulling him up. He was relaxed, more relaxed than Stiles had ever seen him. “If you didn't want to watch a movie, you could've found a less insulting way to reject me,” he said.
Stiles grinned at him, pushing back the feeling that he was going to feel guilty about his later, at night, when he told himself he wasn't allowed to have fun and be happy when his father was six feet under. He knew the thoughts would come; they were an inevitability at this point. But he stayed in the moment, and nudged Derek with his shoulder.
“I just never pictured Derek Hale doing something as mundane and painfully normal as watching a movie. It's a shock, I was in shock.” Stiles grinned wider when Derek huffed. “But, yeah, I'll watch a movie with you. If I get to pick.”
Derek frowned. “I feel like I just subjected myself to a night of superhero movies with men in tights and cliché plots.”
Stiles held a hand to his chest. “Derek Hale, your predictions, while correct, bear unnecessary negative connotations.”
It had been so long since Stiles had let himself go, let himself do something as self-serving as watching a movie with a friend, that he really couldn't be blamed if he fell asleep before the end of The Winter Soldier, his face smushed into Derek's shoulder and his leg tangled with Derek's. It was the first time in a long time that he had felt so normal.
Derek woke to Stiles screaming.
His instincts took over instantly, and his claws and fangs were out before he opened his eyes.
Stiles was sitting up, kicking his legs and scattering popcorn everywhere, staring at nothing and yelling. The vacant look in his eyes freaked Derek out, sent shivers down his body, and he surged forward to pin Stiles' arms to his body, shifting back to human.
Stiles was still flailing, so Derek pulled him to his chest, grunting at his strength. He knew what was happening. Stiles was having a night terror, like Derek's human cousin used to have. He knew the best thing to do was to hold him, make sure he didn't hurt himself until he fell back asleep.
And after a few minutes of complete panic and terror on both ends, Stiles started to calm down. He stopped shouting, and stopped struggling, and Derek only allowed himself to calm down when all the tension drained from Stiles' body and he fell back asleep.
It was one in the morning, Derek knew that much, but he couldn't get back to sleep. His heart was still pounding furiously, and he gripped Stiles' body tighter, breathing in his scent and closing his eyes, because if he didn't, he was two seconds away from his own freakout.
Everything had begun to bring up memories. His sister had panic attacks after the fire, and trouble sleeping. Derek had just isolated himself from everyone, like Stiles had done for two months. He had never really stopped, not until recently.
And it occurred to Derek that he may have lost his family years ago, but he was only just beginning to recover. The thought hit him and left him breathless.
The fact that Stiles was bringing all of this to light, his loss pulling Derek's losses to the surface, would've made him run if it was anyone else.
But he just closed his eyes and matched his breathing with Stiles.
When Derek woke up again it was morning, and Stiles was frowning guiltily down at him. “Sorry. I drooled on your shirt.”
Derek blinked at him before yawning. “Are you okay?”
Stiles sat up and pulled away. “I'm just re-evaluating my opinion of you now that I've seen you snore. You're a cuddler.” He bit his lip. “Hold on, no, that makes sense. Wolfy pack stuff.” His voice was tight with forced cheer, nothing like the unabashed, unadulterated Stiles last night.
Derek stifled another yawn. “No, I mean last night.”
“What about last night?” Stiles asked distractedly, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. Derek looked away from the pale skin that peeked from under Stiles' shirt, the way his muscles rippled and the groan that he let out. It hadn't taken him long to recognise how good-looking Stiles was, but the whole lust thing was a fairly new source of shame for Derek. Stiles really didn't need someone lusting after him, not now.
“You, ah... You had a night terror, Stiles.”
Stiles stiffened and kept his back to Derek. “Oh.” His voice was guarded and cautious, closed off in a way that made Derek's chest tighten. “I, um, thought that had stopped. After I...” He ducked his head and tapped his fingers against his thigh. “After I stopped drinking. And when you gave me the flower.”
Derek groaned. “Stiles, you're meant to keep that with you.”
Stiles glared at him. “Well, I didn't know that!” he protested. Derek held back a grin, because this was the side of Stiles he missed the most. The side that got angry instead of dejected, that argued and snarked. “You're the asshole who gave me a flower like we were on a first date in a fifties movie and then left without any explanation. I thought it was just a metaphorical thing.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “Metaphorical? How-”
Stiles threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don't know! Just- Jesus, Derek, don't tell me the flower is fucking magic.” Derek stayed silent, and Stiles whipped his head around to look at him. “Oh my god, you gave me a magical flower.”
Derek sighed. “Yes, Stiles, a magical flower. At this point, you shouldn't be surprised.”
Stiles' expression darkened a little, before he grinned and winked at Derek. “Who knew you were such a charmer? Breakfast?”
Derek tried to squash down the feeling that was growing inside him, the feeling related to waking up with Stiles in his arms, to having breakfast with Stiles. It was painfully domestic, and something he hadn't let himself want from someone since... Jesus, since Paige. Kate had been too secretive to ever let Derek entertain the idea of a proper relationship, though he had been caught up in the lust and secrecy, the rush it gave him. Jennifer would've been easy to settle down with, if she wasn't a homicidal druid, but Derek hadn't let himself believe that he deserved it.
He still didn't, but his reasoning was pointless when faced with Stiles, who was giving him such a cautious, hesitant look, like Derek was about to just up and leave. It was the opposite of what he wanted to do, so Derek found himself nodding.
Stiles winced at the painfully measly amount of breakfast food, before reaching in for a half-empty box of Frosted Flakes.
A hand shot out to grab the box from him and he may have squealed (a manly squeal), and swatted Derek's arm. “Jesus Christ, Derek! You're such a creeper.”
Derek frowned at him. “Stiles, how much money are you making?”
Stiles scowled and turned away from him. “None of your goddamned business,” he grumbled.
Derek narrowed his eyes at him in concern. “What... What about your father's life insurance?”
Stiles tensed and stopped his hand where it was reaching for a bowl. “It's not my money to spend,” Stiles replied after a short, awkward silence. He pushed the bowl into Derek's hands without looking at him.
Stiles wasn't going to touch it. He spent a little on the funeral and that was it. He planned on donating the rest, because it was ridiculous, getting money for his father's death. It felt like he was taking something else from him, besides his life. He didn't deserve it, and he sure as hell didn't want it.
Derek just nodded, looking intensely uncomfortable, and Stiles realised that he'd never heard any mention of Derek Hale having a job. Which meant that he must live off his family's life insurance. Stiles held back a wince, because way to bring up memories.
It was bizarre, watching Derek eat cereal, and Stiles was getting sick of being surprised by these little things that happened, like Derek watching a movie, Derek being a cuddler, Derek eating cereal. Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever seen the man eat anything, so he could be forgiven for staring.
Derek noticed his staring and raised an eyebrow, a mouth full of Frosted Flakes. Stiles found himself grinning and cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, uh... Jackson. His old pack. Know anything?”
Derek frowned down at his bowl and shook his head. “No. He keeps hanging around and annoying me, but whenever I try and bring it up he freaks out. I don't even know what his anchor is.”
“Ah. That's dangerous,” Stiles noted, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. “Maybe it's still Lydia,” he added hopefully.
Derek shrugged. “I don't really care, as long as he has one. He's been back for a few weeks, and the next full moon is two nights from now.”
Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I've already told Scott to keep an eye on him.” He was silent for a moment, having an internal debate on whether it was wise to ask the question he'd been dying to ask since he saw the laid-back, growl-less Derek when Scott got a tattoo. “Is your anchor still anger?”
Derek tensed and looked up at him slowly, his eyes betraying fear, vulnerability and... confusion?
He swallowed and took a while to answer the question, choosing his words carefully. “No. It's... a recent development.”
Stiles smiled at him, even though the look on Derek's face was freaking him out a bit, because it looked like he was freaking out. “Hey man, that's great. I was kind of fearing for your sanity and everything, because having anger as an anchor can not be healthy.”
“No,” Derek mumbled, staring down at his bowl again. “It's not.”
Stiles was searching his mind for a way to break the awkward silence that had started to settle over them when Derek looked up and at the front door. A second later, there was a knock.
Stiles opened the door to an over-confident smirk in aviator glasses and a scarf.
He sighed. “Jackson. What do you want?”
Jackson pushed past him gently. “I was hoping we could talk.” He paused when he saw Derek, who had come up behind Stiles with his arms folded and a raised eyebrow. Jackson narrowed his own. “Alone.”
Stiles groaned. “Look, Jacky, I'm not too keen on being left alone with the dude who spent all of my childhood shoving me around. Especially not now that said dude has supernatural strength.”
Derek let out a low growl before cutting it off with a surprised look, like he hadn't expected it. Jackson gave him an amused look, before turning back to Stiles. “It's important. You're Scott's second, and Scott is busy with his fox, so I came to you.”
Stiles frowned and leaned against the closed door. “I'm his what?”
Jackson gave Derek an exasperated look. “Please tell me you taught them about pack dynamics.”
Derek glared at him for a few tense moments before shaking his head.
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Scott's the Alpha, you're his second in command, and you'll probably end up his Emissary or whatever as well. The rest of us are betas.”
"How do I not know this?”
Jackson huffed took his glasses off. “Look, all you do is keep the peace within the pack, advise Scott, mediate negotiations. You're an ambassador, and if something happens to Scott, you're in charge. If you were a wolf, Scott's Alphahood would pass down to you when he dies.” Jackson looked at Derek. “Why haven't you told them all this stuff?”
Derek shrugged. “I was waiting until things settled down.”
Stiles dragged a hand down his face, stifling a yawn. “Good decision,” he muttered honestly. He was a little overwhelmed by the fact that he had almost as big of a responsibility to the pack as Scott.
Jackson walked into the living room and flopped on the couch casually. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Derek picked his jacket up from the armchair and nodded to Stiles before walking out.
Stiles sighed and crashed in the armchair that still smelled like leather and earth, and the woods. He scowled at Jackson. “What?”
Jackson smirked at him. “Hale seems comfortable staying the night.”
“Jackson, I swear to god, if you don't start talking I will trap you in mountain ash and leave you to starve.”
Jackson held his hands out and adopted an expression of innocence, which quickly turned serious. “Scott's a pretty good Alpha, all things considered. But he can't handle the pack, not right now.”
Stiles glared at him. “I think he's doing a fine job,” he responded coldly.
Jackson shook his head. “I've been in a pack before, Stiles. Scott's keeping us all safe, sure, but he's lacking in the emotional support of the Alpha.”
Stiles shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“I told you before that an Alpha's second keeps the peace within the pack. So bring the peace, Stiles. Scott can't handle it all on his own, and the whole pack seems disjointed without you.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes. “They're not without me. I'm pack.”
Jackson tilted his head. “That sounded like a question.”
Stiles groaned. “Why are you talking to me about this? I can't do anything! I shouldn't have to mother-hen them.”
Jackson flashed his eyes blue, and Stiles sat up in the chair, remembering the fact that it was nearing the full moon and they still had no idea what his anchor is. “Stop it,” Jackson growled out.
“Stop what?” Stiles shot back defensively.
“Stop acting like you don't give a shit, Stiles. I know what you're doing.”
Stiles raised an eyebrow. “It's funny how everyone keeps saying that. What am I doing then, Jackson?”
Jackson leaned forward. “You're distancing yourself from your friends because you don't want to bring them down with you. I know what you're doing because I did it with my parents.”
Stiles stood up and glowered at the wolf. “Don't go shoving that in my face, Jackson. You have no idea what I went through!”
Jackson stood up as well, his voice low and angry. “I don't? I killed people, Stiles! Against my will. I remember all of it.”
Stiles turned away and brushed a hand through his hair. He was running on adrenaline, his hands shaking slightly with the shouting. “Were any of them your own father? The only person you had left?” he said, turning back. His voice was breaking, but he held Jackson with a glare.
Jackson shook his head, cooling down a bit. “Stiles, that wasn't-”
“-my fault? Is that what you were going to say?” Stiles snapped, stepping forward. “I've never heard that one before! Thanks, yeah, now I feel so much better!”
“You didn't kill him, Stiles. You didn't pull the trigger, did you? Do you blame Argent?”
“That's not the point! He had to shoot me! He should've shot me!”
Jackson pushed Stiles back gently with a hand on his chest. “Stiles, you don't believe that,” he replied, his voice low, trying to calm Stiles down. “The only person who blames you for anything you did while that fox possessed you is you. The pack needs you. You need to get it together, for them if not for yourself. Trust me, sharing it with the pack helps.”
Stiles' anger deflated almost instantly, to be replaced with weariness and a contrastingly sharp curiosity. He sat back in the armchair and studied Jackson, waiting for the emotion in his voice to clear so he could speak without it breaking. “What happened in London, Jackson?” he asked quietly.
Jackson tensed for a moment, before forcing himself to relax. “There was a... a sickness. Most of the werewolves in London were infected, half of them died. All of my pack.” His tone was defeated and raw, and he was staring down at his hands. His eyes flashed blue again, before he looked back up at Stiles. “The infection died off, and by then there were only fifty-three werewolves left in London.”
Stiles was silent for a few moments, out of respect for what Jackson had just told him. It was big, losing your whole pack. Stiles could only imagine what it was like for werewolves, since the bond between them was more tangible than it would be for humans. Stiles may have lost his father, and it hurt like hell, enough to make him believe that things would never get better, that he didn't deserve for it to get better, but losing pack was like losing a limb, Cora had told him. And Derek, Peter, and Cora had lost everyone.
And now Jackson had lost everyone as well.
“What's your anchor?” Stiles asked him. He didn't know what to say to a guy who had lost so much, not when he couldn't handle his own losses. He couldn't offer comfort when he couldn't accept comfort.
Jackson's smirk was back, a little forced, and it took a while for it to look convincing. “Can't a guy keep a secret?”
Stiles shook his head. “At least tell me you have an anchor.”
Jackson grinned this time, a genuine smile. “Finally, Stilinski. I was beginning to wonder when you'd step up to your role.”
“As second in command?” Stiles scrunched up his nose. “I'm not stepping up to anything. I'm just curious.”
Jackson sighed. “Yes, I have an anchor. No, I will not tell you what it is. No, I will not lose control on the full moon.”
Stiles nodded. “Okay. Good to know. Can you leave now?”
Jackson stood up walked towards the door, Stiles following him out so he could lock the door behind him. Jackson hesitated and spun around. “Before I go... Are you and Derek dating?”
There was a moment of silence in which Stiles forgot how to close his mouth, and spent longer than necessary trying to close it and come up with something witty to say.
Jackson rolled his eyes and put his glasses back on. “Relax. I'm not interested in your sex life, Stilinski. Just- be careful, okay? He's planning on leaving.”
“What?”
But Jackson had already opened the door, and was strolling out of his house.
Stiles Stilinski had good days, where he could joke around and pretend everything was okay for a while, if only to get his friends off his back. And he had bad days, where he wanted to stay in bed and torture himself with guilty thoughts.
And it may have started out good, but it was definitely a bad day.
Derek really should've seen it coming. He could list “causing Stiles to have a mental breakdown” on the depressingly long list of his failures now.
Stiles strode into the loft, smelling of anger and hurt, and it took Derek a few seconds of imagining all the ways he could break Jackson's arm -because clearly the asshole had done something to Stiles- when he realised that Stiles was glaring at him.
“Stiles?” Derek said hesitantly, dropping the book he had been reading on the coffee table and standing up.
Stiles shook his head angrily, looking away from Derek. And then he tensed, his whole body going rigid, and a wave of emotion hit Derek, so intense he winced. He followed Stiles' stare the breath left him, because Stiles was looking at the exact spot his father died.
Derek was at his side in an instant, stepping in front of his view. His hands lifted Stiles' chin up. “Hey, hey, Stiles. Look at me, okay? Just me,” Derek urged. Stiles' eyes focused on Derek, but they looked empty, they looked wrong.
Derek swore under his breath and tried to turn Stiles so he would walk out the door. But Stiles wouldn't move, still looking at Derek but not fully seeing him, like he was looking through him and in him, but not at him.
And then a nimble-fingered hand shot out and grabbed Derek's wrist.
“Shoot me!” Stiles' voice roared out, taunting, pleading, demanding all at the same time.
“Put it down! Put the gun down!” his father yelled, his own gun trained on Chris Argent.
Chris was five seconds away from pulling the trigger, because even with all the regret in his eyes, he had made his mind up. The nogitsune knew this, the nogitsune loved this.
The sheriff's voice was edging towards desperate, he was close to pulling the trigger as well, though the nogitsune knew he would be a few seconds too late. Not that it mattered. The bullet wouldn't kill it, or Stiles.
“Strife, Allison whispered. “Stop, stop this, this is what he wants. This is exactly what he wants.”
The nogitsune looked across at her. She was smart, the huntress. It was admirable, though not a threat. Fun to play with, if he had the time. “Not exactly,” it said with a smirk. “I was kinda hoping Scott would be here.” And then it lurched towards her. It would've been great for Scott to see it, see his best friend tear his love up with his bare hands, right in front of him. It would've made him erratic, crazy, disorientated. Tricky. Or foolhardy, but either way, the endgame would be the nogitsune coming out on top.
It wasn't worried about Argent's bullets. Stiles was smart, witty, perceptive. It liked Stiles, might even let him live.
What the nogitsune had never understood about humans, was their love. Love was such a sickening concept. It tasted sickly sweet when the nogitsune fed off it, so he stuck to pain and chaos. Love was expendable, and made you do foolish things. Like jump in front of a bullet to save your son.
When the sheriff hit the ground, his heart was already giving out. The nogitsune felt a tug in his chest, where Stiles was observing the scene with a jumble of emotions that were delicious to feed off. It brought a smirk to Stiles' face, as it looked down at Stiles' father.
The wolf, the former Alpha, had stood, and was already at the sheriff's side, taking the pain away. The hunter and the huntress stood in paralysed horror, not moving, not even breathing.
The nogitsune kept smirking down at its host body's father, until the last breath left the man and his head rolled to the side. Stiles was screaming inside, and the nogitsune fed off him.
Derek pulled away from Stiles' grip abruptly, and the boy collapsed, unconscious and shivering. Derek crouched next to him and hesitantly reached a hand out to touch his shoulder.
Nothing happened, no memory, no flashback.
Derek swallowed the lump in his throat, and the need to hurl. The memory had been vivid, and he felt as though the nogitsune's filthy fingers had been poking around Derek's brain. He had no idea how Stiles dealt with it, with the aftermath. The nogitsune's thoughts and feelings were ugly and disturbing, and the fact that Stiles had been awake the whole time inspired a rush of protectiveness.
Derek gathered Stiles in his arms and picked him up, holding him close to his chest. He couldn't stay in the loft, neither of them could. Derek didn't know how he hadn't felt it before, the darkness around the apartment, the loss and death and despair.
Once they got outside, Stiles stopped shivering, and unclenched the fist in Derek's shirt. Derek laid him in the passenger seat of the jeep and sat in the driver's seat, but he didn't trust himself to drive until the shaking in his hands and the tightening in his chest had subsided.
Stiles jerked awake with a headache and a crushing weight on his chest. It took him a second to realise the weight was abstract, and another two seconds to remember why he was lying in the passenger seat of his jeep.
He had pushed those memories down every second of every day, because he felt bad enough just knowing that it was his fault his father died, he didn't need to remember it. And now they were brought to the surface, and he couldn't ignore them any more.
Stiles cleared his throat and looked out the window when he spoke. “You're leaving.”
There was a brief silence. “How did you know?” Derek asked, his voice surprisingly rough.
Stiles looked over at the werewolf, who had his claws curled gently around Stiles' steering wheel, his eyebrows pulled together in what looked like pain, and his green eyes looking... broken.
“Jackson.”
“Is that why you-”
“Yeah,” Stiles replied, cutting him off. “You saw that, didn't you?” The words almost stuck in his mouth, because he didn't want the answer to be yes, but it was.
Derek nodded, and the weight on Stiles' chest increased by a tonne. “I saw it.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“What?”
Stiles made an impatient noise in the back of his throat and glared at Derek. “Why are you still here? Why aren't you running away, why aren't you disgusted by me?”
Derek looked completely confused for a second, which was a nice change from looking like someone kicked his puppy, before his eyes softened and he shook his head. “Stiles, what I saw...it doesn't change my belief that this wasn't your fault. It... It reinforces it.”
Stiles rubbed a hand down his face and looked away. “Yeah, you can drop the act. You were there! And you know what I was thinking.”
Derek reached across and grabbed Stiles' shoulder, turning Stiles to face him. “Are you really so far lost that you think they were your thoughts? Stiles, they were the nogitsune's. All of them.”
Stiles shook his head and closed his eyes. “I felt everything. How satisfied it was when... when Dad went down, and I could hear every thought, every plan. I could feel it as well as I can feel my own emotions, Derek.”
Derek wasn't letting go of his shoulder, and Stiles was wondering when the panic would set in, like it usually did when someone touched him comfortingly, with such an earnest, open look in their face. It should've been awkward, because this was Derek, and Stiles and Derek's communication were usually limited to sarcastic remarks and rolled eyes, but it felt easy and natural and fucking terrifying.
“What that thing did to you, none of it was your fault. It wasn't you, it was a monster wearing your body and using your voice. And the thing was over a thousand years old. It was strong, Stiles. You were stronger than anyone expected you to have to be, and you beat it.”
“I wasn't strong enough!” Stiles shouted. “I wasn't strong enough to keep it from getting into my head, I wasn't strong enough to stop it from getting my Dad killed!”
Derek took his hand away and gave Stiles a relieved look. “Exactly. The nogitsune got your father killed, not you.”
“Because I wasn't strong enough,” Stiles stressed, feeling tired and beaten down and just wishing he could let the conversation go, just kick Derek out of the jeep and drive home and drink himself unconscious. But there was a part of him, one that he had kept quiet for too long, one that reminded him that he had to talk about this, that it wasn't what his father would've wanted, and that there was someone actually willing to listen, and not out of obligation. Someone who would understand, and someone who, for some unknown reason, cared.
Derek shook his head and looked back at his apartment building. “You're getting better, Stiles. We've all noticed. You smile more, you joke around, and you've stopped ignoring your friends. Most of the time, it's just a show, and everyone can tell when your heart beats when you lie about something, when you go quiet. But after...” Derek swallowed and looked out the window, clenching his fists, “after my family died, it took me months to even look Laura in the eye. It took Cora coming back for me to realise that by letting my mistakes rule my life, I'm letting her win. I needed to live my life, and be a big brother again.”
The "her" didn't need explaining. Stiles knew about Kate, and once he'd found out, he almost wanted her to come back to life, just so he could kill her himself.
“You saw how your friends needed you, and you tried to... to get better, for them. That's strong.” Derek looked back at him, his green eyes full of sadness, but his voice full of admiration that shocked Stiles into silence. “I think you're the strongest person I know.”
Stiles found his voice, but it was rough and breaking. “I'm not strong,” he whispered. “I'm barely holding it together.”
Derek pulled Stiles into a hug, and the movement was so abrupt, that Stiles froze. Derek's breath was brushing against Stiles' hair, and his arms should've been constricting, but they were comforting, grounding. Stiles relaxed, and even though it was awkward with the gear stick poking into Stiles' thigh, it was just what Stiles had been denying himself, just what he needed. He didn't cry, but his throat locked up with emotion. And then he was pulling away, shoving Derek back angrily.
“You're leaving,” he accused. “Don't- don't act like that, like you're someone I can rely on, when you're leaving.”
Derek was stunned for a moment, shocked out of the -if Stiles was going to be honest with himself- intimate moment they had been sharing. He couldn't explain the rush of anger that swelled up in him, except he could. Because Derek was thinking that he could just leave, that he could put everything behind him? When Stiles was stuck in the town where his father died, in the house that he had shared with the only remaining family member he had. Derek was running, again. Lord knows last time the town went to shit in his absence.
“Stiles-”
“When?” Stiles demanded, weary of all the talk. He wanted to get to the point, and then he was going to kick Derek out of his jeep.
“I'm not... I wasn't... I wasn't planning on leaving until things calmed down. Until Scott had a stable pack.”
Stiles snorted. “Right. And then you'll just leave, huh? Because that's what you do best, Derek. Once everything starts getting complicated, you walk away. You leave everyone else behind. You don't even think about what that does, do you? Are you so self-deprecating that you think no one will care? Because when you left, I cared!”
Derek looked like he'd been slapped, and Stiles waited for the blank look he always got when someone was confronting him, but it didn't appear.
“You did?” he asked, and he sounded so young, so unsure, that it made Stiles angrier.
“Yes, you idiot! I cared, and you left, and you say all this stuff like I matter, but you don't seem to realise that you matter too, you ass.”
Derek smiled, and it looked so natural that Stiles lost his breath. He had never seen such an awe-filled, happy smile, not on Derek. Who was leaning forwards, closing the gap between them.
“You care?”
Stiles' brain was short-circuiting, because whoa, Derek smelled amazing, and he was so close that Stiles could feel his body heat. “Y-yeah. I, um... I do.”
And then Derek's lips were on Stiles' lips, and it probably wasn't good that Stiles had run out of breath, but if he passed out kissing Derek Hale, he wouldn't care. Derek's lips were soft, kind of dry, and controlled. Hesitant, which was endearing, and firm. Stiles kissed back eagerly, because no one needed to know how long he'd been imagining this, and it exceeded his expectations in a way that he expected.
But he clamped down on the instinct to open his mouth and turn the kissing into some R-rated jeep-sex (yeah, he had imagined that quite a bit, too), and broke away slowly.
Derek's eyes opened, and he stared at Stiles as if he were waiting for a rejection.
So Stiles whacked him on the arm and glared. “You're not leaving.”
Derek nodded. “Okay.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “Are we... is this a thing? Is this happening?” He wanted to ask Was that a pity kiss? but he figured that Derek would get offended by the insinuation.
Derek gave him a small smile, a piece of the one earlier. “If you want it to be.”
Stiles was seized with panic, because this was Derek. “But don't you want... You don't want... Not me,” Stiles ranted hopelessly. “You can't have me, Derek. I'm...” He searched for the word, avoiding Derek's eyes. “I'm broken.”
Derek shook his head and lifted Stiles' chin up to meet his eyes. “So am I.”
“That's the point. Don't you want someone who you're sure of, who you don't need to worry about?” Stiles' voice was getting higher, and he really needed to get out of the jeep.
“Stiles, I don't want anyone else. I need someone to keep me on my toes, to bring me out of bad moods, to constantly remind me when I'm being an ass.” He raised his eyebrows. “You fit that description brilliantly.”
Stiles' heart was hammering loud in his chest, and it was pretty embarrassing, since Derek could hear it. “This is really happening,” he said. “Oh.”
Derek leaned forward for another kiss. “Just don't break my heart,” he whispered in Stiles' ear, before kissing down the line of Stiles' throat.
Stiles let out a shaky breath. “Never,” he replied. “And ditto.”
Derek's lips pulled away from Stiles' throat abruptly, before they met Stiles' lips in a hungry kiss that- yeah, there was tongue.
It was wet, and charged, and all kinds of hot that wound Stiles up, before Derek slowed them both down, pressing a little kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth before pulling away. “Never,” he breathed, leaning back in his seat.
“Uh...” Stiles replied, ever the master of eloquence and wit. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and he knew his mouth wasn't closed like it was meant to be.
Derek grinned. “You okay? You look like you might need a minute or two, to return to coherence-”
Stiles punched him on the arm and scowled. “Shut up. You're going to use that against me, aren't you?”
“All the time.”
“So you weren't affected at all by me?” Stiles challenged with a smirk.
“No,” Derek replied with a raised eyebrow. “That was pretty average, as kisses go.”
Stiles grinned. “Look in the mirror, pinocchio.”
Derek did, and glared at his reflection in the side-view mirrors, which glared back at him with supernaturally-blue eyes.
“Your claws are out, too,” Stiles pointed out conversationally.
Derek was waiting for the thoughts to run back, the dark thoughts. But when they came, they were underwhelming.
He'd expected more guilt, more shame, more of him denying himself good things (and Stiles wasn't a thing, but he was good), but all he felt was a tingling on his lips and the ghost of Stiles' breath on his skin. The echo of Stiles' laughter, something he hadn't heard for so long that it almost hurt, how much he'd missed it without realising. His grin, and his banter.
Derek knew that while he might not deserve Stiles, he was making Stiles happier. He was, Derek. It felt amazing, it felt exhilarating, to bring those smiles to the surface, to be good for someone. And they would be good together, Derek knew that. He could see it.
One thing that annoyed him was the smug look on Jackson's face, but considering smug is a constant state of being for Jackson, Derek had learned to deal with it. And if Jackson's comments were inappropriate, Derek would just drop a hint about him smelling like Malia.
Which was a relationship that Derek neither saw coming, nor cared about. It wasn't his business, until Malia tried to brag about their many (too many) sexual experiences. She still hadn't learned about social boundaries, and Derek was sick of hearing her wax poetic about Whittemore's dick. Though it was funny, watching her shoot him down when he got really conceited and nasty.
Stiles had good days and bad days. His bad days were horrible to witness, when he tried to get drunk, when he shouted at Derek and asked him why Derek even bothered with him, and why couldn't Derek just leave him alone because Stiles didn't want his damn pity-relationship.
Afterwards, once he had calmed down, Derek would hold him and tell him that he's an idiot, which was all Stiles needed to hear.
His good days were reminiscent of the days before his father died, and he'd joke and laugh and prank like he used to. They were quickly out-numbering the bad days, and Derek was starting to see in Stiles the man he was becoming, and how Stiles was growing around the loss of his family. Derek was growing as well, and he concluded that it only took him so long because he didn't have Stiles to talk some sense into him, or Scott give him an easy smile and empathetic understanding.
Stiles didn't step foot in the loft again, and Derek found that he couldn't rest easy in it anyway, so he decided to sell it and get an apartment, and if it was closer to Stiles' house, it was an added bonus.
But then Stiles had come up behind him while he was searching the internet for a place, rested his chin on Derek's shoulder, and murmured, “You could stay here.”
Derek froze, and Stiles' heartbeat picked up as he stepped back “I-I... I mean, uh, you know, if you want to. I don't, um, want to pressure you or anything, because we have a good thing here, minus the sex you won't let us have and... I'm shutting up.”
Derek twisted around in Stiles' desk chair and grinned. “You're an idiot.”
Stiles was looking down at his hands, glaring at him. “I know,” he muttered.
Derek laughed at him, until Stiles was flushing and scowling, and then pulled him in for a hug. “Okay,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to Stiles' temple. “But no sex.”
“But we are both mature adults in a scarily steady relationship,” Stiles whined. “You suck the fun out of everything.” He paused. "Without sucking the fun out of everything."
Derek grinned and pulled back to give Stiles a light kiss. “Maybe I'm planning for it to be romantic.”
Stiles' eyes lit up. “Oh my god! You're totally going to take me out to dinner, hold the door open for me like a gentleman, and then we'll come home to rose petals spread on the bed and Marvin Gaye playing in the backgrou-”
Derek cut off Stiles' rambling by slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” Derek growled defensively. “I'd play Whitney Houston,” he deadpanned.
Stiles' eyes widened and he shoved Derek's hand away to burst into laughter. Derek tried to keep a straight face, but he found the corners of his mouth turning up.
The first time he and Derek had sex, Stiles played “Let's Get It On” until Derek threw the stereo out of the window and tackled him to the bed. After that, they didn't actually have sex for half an hour because Stiles had fallen off the bed in a laughing fit and Derek threatened to break up with him if he didn't get his shit together.
They still had bad days, both of them. When Derek had learned that the Hale house was due for a demolition, Stiles found him wolfed out, tearing the walls of his parents' room out with his claws until they tore and bled everywhere. Stiles called him an idiot and wiped the blood from his hands. They sat in Derek's old room while Derek told him stories of his family, and Stiles held him all night, each tremor and sob and self-deprecating comment breaking his heart a little more, and building the conviction that he had finally found someone who understood.
And when Stiles woke up in the morning with a sleep-deprived Derek clinging to him like a monkey, pinning his arms and legs to his body in a way that should've felt constricting but instead felt safe, Derek would let Stiles to make him breakfast in bed, knowing it was a way for Stiles to deal with the guilt of waking him up with his night terrors.
And Stiles could feel happiness, like a muffled, blurred emotion in his chest. He thought, if this was as good as it was going to get, he wouldn't want it any better.
A week after graduation, they were all at Scott's house, in the lounge, talking about their day and what they were going to do now that school was over. They all knew that Stiles hadn't applied for college, but they never mentioned it, and Stiles was grateful.
Stiles was sitting on the floor, his head was resting against Lydia's leg as she carded her fingers through his hair. Scott's head was lying in Kira's lap, and Malia and Jackson were sharing an armchair in a position that should've been uncomfortable, but looked natural between them. Lydia hadn't been jealous when she found out about them, partly because she was still mourning Aiden's death, partly because she'd been dating that new deputy.
And Derek was sitting next to Lydia on the couch, his leg leaning against Stiles' side, that look on his face saying I'm-uncomfortable-with-how-comfortable-I-feel-in-this-situation. Every time he laughed at one of Kira's jokes or Jackson's embarrassing stories of London, he did so with a slight frown that was pretty adorable.
When Derek nudged him with his knee and offered to get everyone another beer, Stiles followed him with a little unease.
“You do realise,” he started when they were in the kitchen and Derek turned to face him, “that this conversation isn't private. I don't know if it's escaped your notice that three of them have supernatural hearing.”
Derek gave him a small smile, one of those ones that took Stiles a while to realise were his smiles, and the nerves in Stiles' stomach eased. “I've been thinking,” he said, hooking his fingers in Stiles' belt loops and tugging him closer, “about us.”
Stiles frowned at him. “You look too happy to be breaking up with me.”
Derek sighed. “Stiles, I'm not breaking up with you.”
“Good,” Stiles replied. “I'm also not ready for marriage. Or kids.”
Derek shook his head and looked to the ceiling. “Not what I was going to say.”
“Then hurry up and get on with it. You're making me jump to the worst conclusions.”
Derek dropped his face into Stiles' neck, which was what he did when he was about to talk about something serious, when he needed to find the words. “You've finished school,” he stated.
“Nice of you to notice,” Stiles drawled.
“But you're not going to college,” Derek continued. “I don't think you should stay here.”
Stiles pulled away from him and looked him in the eye. “Hold up. What do you mean by that?”
Derek ran a hand through his hair. “I don't think you should stay in Beacon Hills.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “I thought you weren't breaking up with me.”
“I'm not,” Derek replied defensively.
“But you want me to leave,” Stiles said slowly.
Derek looked down at the ground for a second, before looking back up at Stiles with a hesitant expression. “What you've been through, what's happened in this town... I think you need to leave for a while, Stiles.”
“But... What about us? This past year-”
“-has been amazing,” Derek finished with a smile. “And I want to come with you.”
Stiles turned away from him and headed towards the refrigerator, taking out a few beers. “I don't know, Derek. I... Where would we go? What would we do?” His voice was calm, but he could feel his heart starting to pick up.
Derek took a bottle from his hand. “Nowhere. We could make it a road trip.”
Stiles squinted at him. “How long have you been thinking about this?”
“A while,” Derek admitted. “But I didn't want to mention it until you finished school.”
“What about the pack?”
“They'll manage. It wouldn't be forever. Beacon Hills is your home.”
“The house?”
“Sell it.”
“My jeep?”
Derek smiled at him. “I know what you're doing.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “What am I doing?”
“Trying to poke holes into it. Stop overthinking. You don't have to go.”
Stiles leaned against the counter. He didn't really have to think about it, now that he thought about it. Because he was sick of avoiding the woods because of a tree stump, sick of taking a detour to the diner because he wanted to avoid driving past Derek's loft. “Ok.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “I think you should sleep on it.”
Stiles shook his head. “No. It's a good idea. As long as you're not planning on abandoning me at the world's largest ball of twine or something.”
“We are not going to see the world's largest ball of twine.”
Stiles clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that.” He moved to walk away and yelped when Derek wrapped an arm around his waist and spun him around.
“You're incorrigible,” he breathed along Stiles' neck, pressing a light kiss there.
Stiles grabbed his head and drew him in for a chaste kiss. “Not now,” he murmured. “I'm pretty sure Melissa would have a fit if we had sex in her kitchen.”
“Hey!” Scott called out. “No sex in my house, at all.”
Stiles laughed and untangled himself from Derek, walking back into the living room where Scott was frowning at him, Jackson and Malia were smirking at him, and Lydia was grinning at him. Kira gave him a small smile and proceeded to brush her fingers through Scott's hair.
“So you heard all that, huh?” Stiles asked Scott hesitantly. Derek tossed a beer to Jackson and sat back next to Lydia, but Stiles stayed in the doorway, watching his best friend's reaction warily. He was Stiles' Alpha, and if he asked Stiles to stay, Stiles wouldn't question it.
Scott gave him a wide, happy smile. “Yeah, man. And Derek's right. You need to get out of here. Though it'll be total anarchy without you.”
“Yeah,” Jackson spoke up from where he was nuzzling Malia's neck. “Who's going to stop Malia from killing Scott and becoming Alpha?”
“Hey!” she protested, twisting away from him. “That was a joke.”
Jackson turned back to Stiles and shrugged. “Getting away was the best thing for me. I was a mess. Look at me now.”
Lydia snorted. “Your extensive list of psychological problems can't be narrowed down to 'a mess', Jackson.”
They traded bitch faces, and Stiles wondered how they ever managed to be a couple when they fought like siblings.
Stiles' eyes found Scott's again. “But seriously, dude, you don't mind?”
Scott shook his head slightly in Kira's lap. “The pack will still be here when you come back. Well, not physically, but... spiritually?”
Stiles winced. “Wow. Way to make us feel like a bunch of New Age Wiccans.”
Derek let out a growl and lurched forward to yank Stiles down into his lap. “Stiles, you're doing it again.”
Stiles glared at him and squirmed until he found a comfortable position, then eyed everyone, who seemed to be waiting on him to say something. “Okay. So I'll go. With Derek. On a road trip. And we'll come back for Scotty's birthday.”
Scott frowned. “My birthday was last week.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Your birthday next year, dumbass.”
Derek shook his head. “Don't insult your Alpha,” he chided.
“I was insulting my best friend.”
“That was horrible, Stiles,” Scott moaned. “I feel like crying. It cut me deep.”
They grinned at each other, and Stiles heard that faint voice in the back of his head, the one that always spoke up when he let his guard down, the one that spat out guilt and blame and never let him have nice things like normality. Derek's hand tightened from around his waist. He'd told Stiles that sometimes he gave off a smell, a little like distress, but unique to Stiles.
Stiles' smile dropped, but he leaned back into Derek and let everyone talk over each other, snarking and joking. Scott started to tell the story of when he first met Jackson, and Stiles wondered when he'd finally be able to enjoy moments like these, where everyone was happy and safe and there was no immediate danger. Instead, he had to live out these moments with bags under his eyes and a self-deprecating voice in his head.
And now he was just starting to believe that he could get past that.