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"This. This is my list."
Derek doesn't acknowledge the piece of paper Stiles is brandishing, or Stiles either. He keeps his focus on the unconscious hunter currently slumping in the new dent on Stiles' jeep, checking to make sure he's not dead.
"I am adding my Jeep to the list."
"Shut. Up," Derek grunts, lifting the man up and hefting him over his shoulder, but Stiles keeps talking.
"No, I'm not gonna shut up, okay, I've had it. The list is already way too long, but my Jeep is the last straw. I gave you a pass on the parts Erica ripped out because I figured you didn't tell her to actually break apart my car and bash me over the head with whatever she found and she just kind of improvised that. But that is a man-sized dent, Derek, and you put it there, and I am already in some real deep shit with my dad, and a man-sized dent is not going to help."
The whole time Stiles rants at him, Derek concentrates on pushing the hunter's car off the road, watching it collide with a tree hard enough to dent, and puts the hunter back inside. The Argents will know the truth, but if the cops come by first, they'll think it was a car accident, and that's all Derek needs for now. This is far enough from his new place that the guy who tracked them down won't be able to give his bosses any good hints towards where he's been hiding, either. Stiles is still talking—"I dunno, you've always been some weird werewolf hobo I guess, so maybe you can't pay me back, but you freakin' owe me, Derek. For saving your life and for my stuff!"—but Derek ignores him and walks right back to the Jeep, sliding into the passenger side. Stiles follows, pouting at his dented driver's side door as he opens it and gets inside. He glares out the windshield, tapping an angry finger on the steering wheel, and shows no sign of starting the car and getting them out of here, so Derek sighs.
"What's on the piece of paper, Stiles?"
"It's a list. Of all of my shit that you've broken. And it's long. Really long."
Derek rolls his eyes and reaches over, snatching it out of Stiles' hand and smirking a little at how Stiles flinches.
"I'll keep it in mind. Now start the car and get us out of here," Derek says, his hearing picking up the sounds of engines coming closer, and he can't tell who they belong to. Stiles makes no move to turn the keys so Derek leans over in the seat, baring his teeth and letting out a rumble of a growl. Stiles makes a quiet, whimpery noise before starting the engine, and Derek gets out of his space.
"I hate it when you do that," Stiles grumbles, and Derek ignores the small jump in his heartbeat.
~
"I am adding this to the list," Stiles coughs, laughing a little as blood drips out of his mouth.
"This isn't the time, Stiles," Derek warns, limping forward with Stiles' draped across his side. He can already feel himself healing, blood drying on his skin where gashes have already closed and the bones beneath have fused back together. Stiles isn't as lucky, though, and with at least three ribs broken and his wrist, too, he's going to be laid up for a while and a lot less help than he has been over the last month. Derek tries not to think too hard about when he stopped thinking of Stiles as an outsider and started going to him for help.
"No, no, I'm pretty sure now's the best time. I need to make sure you remember before the Argents kill me in my sleep at the hospital. Haha—oh, ow. We are going to the hospital, right?"
Derek tenses at the thought of the hunters going for Stiles, knowing it would be his fault. They'd interrogate him for info on Derek, and with the Sheriff's position in question since the Jackson debacle and the Argents' pressure on the department, they wouldn't be as hesitant to harm him.
"Ow, ow, Derek, ow," Stiles is chanting, and it takes Derek a second to realize his hands had started squeezing down hard around Stiles' injured side. He relaxes, unclenching his fingers, and lets out a breath the same time as Stiles sighs with relief.
"Sorry," Derek mumbles, steps getting stronger as his body finishes healing up. He can see his car, hidden in the trees up ahead, and starts to move faster. "Just... don't die yet. We'll get you to the hospital soon."
"Alright, alright. Don't drive too crazy, though, okay? I'm already counting four to add to the list for the ribs and the wrist."
Derek makes an exasperated noise and tries not to notice how easily it makes Stiles smile and his heartbeat quicken.
~
"This is a joke, right?"
Derek glares at him and feels his jaw clench, but he keeps from baring his teeth. He's not here to intimidate Stiles. Much.
"Right, okay, so, decidedly not a joke, then."
"Right."
It's only been a week since he got out of the hospital, and he's got another two weeks to go before his ribs stop making every breath hurt and another month and a half before his hand gets out of its cast, but Derek doesn't have many options. The Argents found out where he's been staying and Isaac, Erica and Boyd are all missing, Scott refuses to listen to him, and Jackson is still killing people. Stiles is all he really has, and even busted up and dosed up on a dozen different painkillers, he's still smarter and more willing to help than most everyone Derek knows. He's also the most likely to lend him a hiding space in his bedroom.
"I wonder if this should count," Stiles says suddenly, and Derek blinks at him, confused.
"Count for what?"
"The list." Derek grumbles and rolls his eyes, pointing out that he hasn't, in fact, broken anything today, but Stiles gives him a smug, possibly high smile and says, "You are, technically, breaking into my room. Again. Even if you did it without actually breaking the window this time."
Derek narrows his eyes and Stiles doesn't flinch, but he does raise his hands in a placating gesture and gives a shrug that makes him wince and hiss in pain.
"Look, uh. If you're going to be hiding out here while searching for your crazy pack pals, you may also have to deal with Get Stiles His Meds duty. Because getting up to take them is kind of really a bummer when it hurts to do, y'know. Anything."
Derek would point out that he isn't anybody's babysitter or bed nurse, but thinking back on how babysitting is most of what he's been doing with his untrained, unreliable pack members, and he actually owes Stiles quite a lot—although he still refuses to acknowledge the list that Stiles keeps bringing up—he figures getting Stiles some water along with his pain medication every so often while he stays isn't that degrading.
"Sure. You're not making me help you in the bathroom, though."
"Aww, c'mon, not even if I bat my eyelashes?"
Derek glares again and Stiles laughs before groaning at the pain it causes his ribs.
"Don't worry, I can soak in a bathtub without supervision. So, uh, what about you? Sharing a bed while you stay will probably get you caught when my dad comes in to check up on me." Derek blinks, surprised at how casually Stiles mentions sharing a bed together, but Stiles doesn't even notice as he continues, "Probably under the bed won't work, either, there's not much space and you're kind of tall. Maybe... the closet? But I think it's full of my lacrosse stuff, it might be a tight fit, and probably not comfortable to sleep in. But you've been living in a burnt-out house and now a sewer, so maybe that's your thing. You could—"
"Stiles," Derek interrupts, and Stiles' sudden leap in his heartbeat makes Derek raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't mention it. "Shut up and go to sleep."
"Yeah, okay..." he says with a yawn, "Wherever you end up, just make sure my dad doesn't find you. Night, grumpy."
Derek snorts at that, but Stiles has already passed out.
~
"Jesus, Derek, are you allergic to dishes?"
"I'll give you a pass on that one, because your ribs are still broken and you're on drugs, but you should really stop asking me stupid questions."
It's three in the morning and Derek is just getting back, and he knows that downstairs there's a cabinet's worth of dishes broken and strewn across the kitchen floor. But Stiles should know Derek's not the type to randomly wreck property, and he's just had a long, tiring fight with Boyd and the other betas that unfortunately started in the Stilinksi's kitchen, and he doesn't feel like dealing with Stiles' attitude.
"Derek, I can't clean that shit up, okay, I can barely stand let alone bend over and pick up a bunch of broken glass and ceramics."
"I'll clean it, go to bed."
"How am I supposed to explain to my dad that a whole cabinet is suddenly missing its contents? Especially when the remains of said contents are clearly in the trash can outside?"
"Tell him the cabinet broke and add it to your stupid little list or something, I don't care. I'll clean it up, but your dad is not my problem."
Derek's getting angrier now, and Stiles himself is close to shouting, even though Derek knows how much that probably hurts. His pack is dissolving right before his eyes, he's being hunted by a force that wants to kill him and another that wants to toss him in prison, he's made no progress on dealing with the kanima, and he's starting to go stir crazy from being trapped in Stiles' room for the past week and a half. Stiles' scent is all over him, Stiles' laugh and the way he moans in pain are all he hears anymore, and the way Stiles looks, regretful and defeated every time he mentions his dad, is all that's on his mind. He hates it. He hates Stiles and being cooped up in this house where he's useless, but he can't leave for very long or else he risks being skewered by one of a thousand things that are trying to kill him.
But Stiles isn't very happy, either, and he pushes an angry finger against Derek's chest. "He sure as hell is your problem. He's still the sheriff, and he owns this house, and he could kick you out or have you arrested if I told him about you, but I haven't. And you know why? Because I'm trying to help, Derek, I really am. But all you do is make everything worse. You try to kill my friends, you get me busted up and make me so useless even Scott barely fills me in on anything, and you break everything you get your hands on, all because you have no fucking idea what you're doing."
That's all Derek can take, and he's up in Stiles' space within seconds, crowding him back against the wall, growling and bristling, but Stiles doesn't shrink away in fear or break his eyes away from Derek's. His heartbeat quickens, but it's steady and angry instead of frantic and scared. The animal part of him, the wolf he's so in tune with he rarely registers it being separate, revels in the way Stiles challenges him, but the rest of him just feels angry.
"I know exactly what I'm doing, Stiles, and I know that I have done nothing but save your best friend's life, save your life, and try to protect who I can from people like the Argents and monsters like Jackson. The only people I've tried to kill have been dangerous, to themselves and everyone else, and it's not like you haven't thought about killing me, even though all I've done is help." Stiles looks away for a moment at that, but Derek doesn't feel any victory in it. He waits until Stiles meets his eyes again and quiets down as he says, "But if you want to turn me over to the sheriff, then do it. Tell him everything. Tell him how I killed the last living relative I had to save his son and the rest of Beacon Hills. Tell him I broke your fucking dishes and your phone and your Jeep and got your ribs broken and whatever else you have on that list. Get me tossed in jail so Allison's family can murder every supernatural thing in the this town, including your friends."
Stiles stares at him, jaw clenched in defiance and anger, even though Derek can see it in his face that he knows Derek is right. But Derek's had enough. Of trying to prove to himself that he does know what he's doing, when being an Alpha is something that was never meant for him, leaving him blindly clawing his way out of the dark. Of Stiles, too perceptive and smart for his own good, throwing himself into the middle of a messy war that he has no business or need to be a part of.
He steps out of Stiles' space, heads back to the window and slams it open, ready to slip back out even though he's only been back for all of five minutes and has no idea where he could go. But he stops himself, turns around and heads for the door instead.
"What, sick of using the window?" he hears Stiles snort behind him. He doesn't answer, walking out and heading downstairs, and fumbles around various closets until he finds a dustpan and broom and goes to clean up the kitchen. It takes Stiles a while to get down the stairs, and by the time he sits himself down at the bottom, Derek is halfway done cleaning up the broken glasses and plates. They're both silent for a long time, the only sound coming from the pieces Derek sweeps up off the floor. When he's finished, he takes the trash bag out to the street and comes back in to see Stiles' head between his knees, his fingers awkwardly folded together over his head where the wrist on his cast keeps his hand from laying flat against his scalp.
"He says he doesn't know who I am anymore," Stiles mumbles at the floor, and Derek knows he's talking about his dad just by the sag in his shoulders. "He's all I have left, and I'm losing him because I have to hide all of this stupid crap with werewolves and kanimas and hunters."
Derek doesn't move, doesn't say a word, but his hands itch to reach out where they're hidden, fisted in his pockets.
"I won't tell him. Any of it," Stiles says, all vulnerability gone when he looks back up at Derek, hands falling down to rest between his knees. "It's fine if you stay, I wouldn't get you tossed in jail. My dad probably wouldn't believe me about any of it, anyway."
Derek knew Stiles was never going to go through with his threat, but he feels relief at Stiles' offer to let him stay. He tries not to think too hard about why. "He's not all you have. You have Scott, Lydia," Derek says, not sure why he's trying to comfort Stiles about this, but he can't stop himself. Stiles looks almost as surprised to hear him as Derek is to have said it, but after a second he laughs.
"You've got it backwards. They've got me, but I don't have Scott anymore and I've never had Lydia. I've never had much of anyone, and I'm losing them all anyway."
Derek looks down at his shoes, thinks of his life when he was sixteen, down to two relatives and memories of a life turned to ashes. He doesn't say anything else, though, just helps Stiles onto his feet and up the stairs, easing him into bed. Stiles falls asleep pretty soon after that, because it's almost four in the morning, but Derek stays awake until he hears the sheriff pull into the driveway after the sun has started to come up.
He slips out the window and hides on the roof, listening as Stiles' dad walks in, sits down on the bed to run a hand over Stiles' buzzed hair and wish him good morning.
~
"It was Boyd?"
"Isaac, actually. Boyd wanted to talk, Isaac got impatient and started throwing things."
"Jeez, you really know how to pick 'em."
"He's just scared. They all are."
"Alright, well. We won't add all those broken dishes to the list then."
"How generous."
"I know, I know, I'm too kind, really I am."
"If you weren't still in a cast, I'd hurt you."
"Whatever you say, sour wolf."
~
"So you've found a new place, huh?"
It's been two and a half weeks since Stiles let Derek start hiding in his room, and they've been walking on eggshells around each other for the last few days since the night with the broken dishes. The Argents haven't backed off and Jackson still hasn't been dealt with, but he's worked things out with his betas and they've found themselves a place on the outskirts of Beacon Hills where there's low traffic and no neighbors to notice any supernatural squatters. At least one part of his life has stopped crumbling to pieces, and he'll take it. Stiles and his dad have been getting better, and Derek thinks one less supernatural thing imposing itself in their space will help even more.
"It's a temporary thing," Derek admits, though he's not sure why. It makes Stiles look a bit happier anyway.
"Well, I guess I'll be seein' you around, then. This'll give you a chance to work off the things on my list that you owe me. Maybe if you're busy with your betas, you won't have as much time to break all my stuff."
Derek snorts and slips out the window, unable to block out the thudding heartbeat in his ears that doesn't belong to him. He doesn't look back up at Stiles before bursting into a run, not wanting to see the smile there that could make him stay.
~
"What are you doing here? You left, like, two days ago," Stiles says, sounding surprised but not unhappy.
Derek doesn't know. He knows he has more important things to be doing. He has the betas to train. He has to figure out why the kanima has only killed one person in three weeks. He has to keep himself hidden where the Argents can't find him while keeping Scott and Lydia and Stiles from becoming their targets instead. But he's been away from Stiles for all of thirty-seven hours—he didn't even make it two full days, but Stiles doesn't need to know that—and his mind has been a fevered mess, his senses drowning in scents and sounds he should have left behind.
He takes a step forward and Stiles doesn't retreat, stands his ground where he's holding some ancient mythological bestiary. Derek takes another step forward, reaches for the book and tosses it to the ground where it slides across the floor. Stiles' heart is hammering, and Derek knows that rhythm. It fills him up, propels him forward like a drum march, and with another few steps he has Stiles pressed back up against his desk.
"Shit, Derek..." Stiles gasps, and Derek reaches a hand up, slowly touches his fingers to Stiles' hip.
"I'll go. Just tell me, and I'll go."
"No, I just— I don't want—" he starts, frowning and letting out a sigh. His eyes don't leave Derek's mouth as he bites his lip, trying to make the words come out right. "The list... It's already really long, Derek."
Derek frowns, not understanding, but can't stop himself from leaning in a bit closer, eyes glancing down at Stiles' mouth, hanging open as always. "Why are you bringing up that dumb list?"
"You've got a habit of breaking my stuff."
"And?"
"What if you break me?"
Their mouths are barely an inch apart, Stiles' breath heavy and wet where it hits Derek's lips, but now their eyes can't break away from each other. Derek's fingers have settled over Stiles' hip by now, and he squeezes and pulls him forward, bringing their thighs and chests closer together. There's barely any space between them, the air filled with warmth and the smell of want and Derek knows Stiles is too young, too human for this to be a good idea, and they haven't talked about all of the things that they really need to, but Stiles has wormed himself so far into Derek's life, stubborn and unrelenting as only young humans can be, that he no longer cares. From the smell of him, Stiles doesn't care too much either, even if he's still sensible enough to have reservations.
Stiles is fragile, breakable in a way that Derek should be terrified of, but he's also strong in a way that Derek can't help but admire. Stiles says he's afraid of being broken, but Derek knows if anyone is going to end up splintered to pieces if this goes south, it's him.
Derek takes in a breath and asks, voice quiet as his eyes glow red, "Do you trust me?"
Stiles doesn't hesitate for a second before nodding.
"Then you'll just have to trust me when I say I won't hurt you."
"That's a pretty lousy argument," Stiles says, but he's starting to grin, hands reaching up to wrap around Derek's neck, fingers scratching through his hair. Derek growls and leans in closer, brushing their noses together.
"Are you gonna shut up?"
"Not until you—" he starts, but Derek leans the rest of the way in, swallowing whatever obnoxious thing he was going to say with a forceful press of his lips over Stiles' own.
~
"You're a liar," Stiles whines, face buried in the pillow. Derek smiles, feeling smug, and presses his nose to Stiles' neck and breathes deep. "I am broken. You have literally broken me in half. This is so going on the list."
"It's not that bad," Derek laughs, rocking his hips and making Stiles moan. "We haven't even started yet."
Stiles groans into his pillow and Derek grinds down into him again, grinning as Stiles' groan turns into a low hum of pleasure. Derek moves again, sliding one of his hands down Stiles' side to settle on his waist and push him gently into the mattress, adjusting the angle and making Stiles gasp in surprise.
Derek presses kisses along the back of Stiles' neck up to his ear and whispers, "I'll go slow. Just trust me and keep breathing." Stiles nods where his face is still hidden and Derek bites at his ear before sliding back his waist and pushing back in, cautious and steady, riding Stiles' shivery moans until they turn into shouts and he falls to pieces underneath his hands, Derek following after.
Later, when they're less sticky and Stiles is groggy and a little less achy, Derek hears Stiles' suggest that the list has been repaid in full, and he lets out a laugh.