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It was like a dream to Stiles in the sense that he didn’t know how it started. One day, he just looked around and realized Derek was there. And it was like he had always been there. In the corner of his eye. Standing omnisciently. Waiting to be noticed.
There were long nights where all Stiles could do was stare at him looming on the other side of his room. Not saying a word. A shadow seemingly frozen against the dark walls. He refused to acknowledge him though. Because that might mean he was realer than Stiles thought. That the delusion had sunken in deeper.
But the idea had stuck so hard that soon it was all he could think about. How real was the shadow of a man?
And of course, this came to a helm. A breaking point. A moment in between deep breaths and sleepy blinks where Stiles couldn’t keep the question behind the cracks of his lips anymore.
“Who are you?” Stiles whispered out into the darkness.
The man’s shoulders perked. Like he didn’t realize he was visible till then. Like he thought he was hidden this whole time. “My name’s Derek,” he said calmly.
“How long have you been here?”
And there was this understood connotation to it. Not here as in inside Stiles’ room. No. Here as in inside Stiles’ head. In his brain, swimming around for something. What that was Stiles’ couldn’t guess. Maybe just to be heard. Maybe just to occupy him. Or maybe to take a piece of his soul from him. Cause that’s what it felt like more often than not.
“A couple weeks,” he said.
And Stiles gave out a shaky breath. “Why now?” he shook his head.
“Do you think I can help it?” Derek said, tilting his head back and coming closer.
And Stiles supposed he couldn’t. So he just turned over, not looking at Derek anymore. Because maybe if he didn’t see him, he would cease to exist. Even if it was only for a moment.
Stiles hand’s knit together as he sat in the slightly off kilter chair. Feeling nervously over the soft spots between his knuckles. “I’ve made a new friend,” he said to them before looking up at Ms. Morrell.
She blinked all knowingly. “Would you like to talk about this friend?”
Stiles didn’t want to tell her. If he told her, it would be real. It wouldn’t just be a secret he kept hidden inside of him anymore. But that was the thing about secrets. They always had a way of coming out. “His name’s Derek.”
Ms. Morrell picked up her pen and jotted something down on her legal pad, carefully. “And… how did you meet Derek?”
“That’s the thing,” Stiles shifted in his chair. “I don’t think I met him. I just… summoned him.”
She looked confused and a little sarcastic. Hell, she always looked a little sarcastic. “So,” she started. “He’s not… feasible.”
Stiles scratched at his short hair. “Not exactly.”
“I see,” she said with a smirk and took note. “Is he here right now?”
“No,” Stiles huffed out. “I don’t know where he is. He keeps disappearing. He might be at his house.”
She nodded with wide eyes. As if she was talking to a child. She was so smug. “And where is his house?”
“In the woods. Behind the police department. In the preserve.”
Stiles had been dropping off his Dad’s lunch because the Sheriff was always forgetting it. He was coming out of the building when he saw him. Standing between the trees. Haloed by late summer leaves. Stiles’ feet stopped short but his mind kept snowballing.
Unconsciously, his mouth hung open in a weird mixture of confusion and …something else. Something sweeter. Something harder to swallow. Something that made him feel like his chest was filling with so much air that his lungs would explode like cheap party balloons. But he choose to ignore it because he was scared to admit it.
Derek turned, going back towards the forest. Stiles knew what Derek wanted. He wanted to be followed. And Stiles gave in so simply, surrendering without a fight. He barely heard the crunch of undergrowth under his feet over the pounding of his heart.
He ducked under branches, not knowing where he was going but knowing how to get there. The forest came to a clearing. An opening in the valley. An old, decaying estate sat on the edge. Rotten, charred wood with flaking white paint cradled the demolition.
Derek was standing on the porch. He rounded a beam that looked like it was ready to snap. He looked so rigid and overly sturdy. Like he could crack from the pressure he put on himself. Or that Stiles put on him.
“Why here?” Stiles shouted to him even though he didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard.
“This was my home,” Derek said, taking a seat on the edge. His feet dangled against the frame that was left of the porch. He telepathically told Stiles to join him.
And Stiles did. His curiosity getting the better of him. “What happened?”
Derek looked into his hands. “Fire. My family was burned alive,” he said.
“Were you inside too?” Stiles asked, a little hopeful. As if this interaction would have been any weirder if Derek were only a ghost.
“No,” Derek said, solemnly. “I was… far away. I haven’t been back since.”
“Why not?” Stiles asked.
Derek didn’t answer easily. “A lot of reasons,” he said after a moment, simply. Too simply. Like a darker truth remained. Stiles had invented it though. So he didn’t ask further. Oddly enough, he felt empathy for Derek.
Ms. Morrell tapped her pen against her legal pad. “And you told your father about this… Derek? Is that why he made you come here today?”
“No,” Stiles shook his head and looked up to her. “Hey, can you stop that?”
Morrell stopped her pen in mid-air. She gathered herself and gave a pompous grin. “Why. Are. You. Here. Stiles.” She enunciated every word.
“He didn’t find out about that,” he began. “He… he found me in the woods at night.”
Stiles woke up one night to a sound loud in his ears. It was like a dog but louder. So much louder and so much more intense. It wasn’t like it was outside his house. Or even outside his room. It felt like it was just in his head. Throbbing through him.
He rolled out of bed and looked around. Derek wasn’t there.
He stumbled down the stairs, his head still echoing the call through his ears. Was it a coyote? He couldn’t discern anything but the need to get out right now. The need for his feet to drag him out of the house.
Once outside, he walked down the street. The July Buck moon overhead hung heavy and full and lit up the world in dim amber light. Stiles shadow against the pavement was long and lanky.
He got towards the end of the street and the forest came face to face with him. For the first time since his feet had hit the floor, he stopped. He noticed the chill in the autumn air. The dampness creeping through his socks. The awful idea that kept telling him to move forward. But he didn’t budge. Not until he heard it again. The cry. It was… a howl. Maybe it’s wolves? Stiles thought but shook the idea away because he knew damn well that wolves didn’t just tramp through California in their spare time.
The sound moved like thunder through the scenery. Bouncing against all the surfaces from the houses to the trees. Stiles didn’t even have to make the conscious decision. His feet did it for him and carried him further into the forest. It hearkened back to the first time he saw Derek’s house. It made his heart hurt.
He didn’t walk for long before he remembered the trail he was following. He picked up speed and was soon jogging through the night towards the house.
When it came into view, he didn’t stop. He plowed up the steps and through the creaky door that only hung on one feeble top hinge.
“Derek?” he called through the house once he was past the doorway. “Derek, where are you?” Because he knew he was there. He just knew.
“Stiles,” Derek huffed from the living room and the boy followed. Derek was crunched against the wall in the corner. A shadow from the tattered second story floorboards cast over him.
“What’s wrong?” Stiles said. Because he knew something was wrong.
“Why did you come?” Derek’s hands slammed against the old floorboards in anger. They shook through the house like a sonic boom.
Stiles backed away a bit. “I-I heard something,” he blinked back. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it?”
Derek didn’t say anything. “Stiles,” he says after a moment. “If I show you something, do you promise not to scream?”
Stiles didn’t know how to answer that. Mostly cause he already felt like screaming. He nodded… silently.
All Stiles heard was the cracking of bone and the occasional groan falling from Derek’s mouth. He felt himself moving farther back. Farther back into the house. Farther back into himself. Not knowing what was going on.
Derek came forward and Stiles covered his own mouth with a hand. Derek’s face was so different. All teeth and hair and cold blue eyes that were almost electric.
“What-“ Stiles tried to make out the words as confidently as he could. “What are you?”
Derek moved forward still. “I’m a werewolf,” he said sternly. “And I’m not going to hurt you.”
Stiles didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was his tiredness still dripping through his veins or the thought that this was all in his head or maybe something a lot deeper that he didn’t want to think about. But he trusted Derek.
“How did it happen?” Stiles said after he caught his breath. And after Derek had changed back.
“It’s… a family thing,” he said. Stiles saw Derek wince at a memory in the corner of his eye. Derek reminding himself of his family. And Stiles prayed he’d never end up like him. Never end up so haunted. But behind is back, he already was. Derek sat his back against the same wall as Stiles. They both stared out into the recesses of the dark house in quiet.
“But you can control it,” Stiles whispered.
Derek wasn’t quick to speak. “It’s complicated.”
“No kidding,” Stiles huffed. “I mean I didn’t even like werewolves as a kid. I was always more a mummy type.”
“What do you mean?” Derek asked.
“Like why out of all the things my subconscious creates are you a werewolf? That’s so strange,” Stiles ran his hands over his face.
“But they are real,” Derek protested. “Werewolves exist.”
“Like you exist?” Stiles asked, too sarcastically.
Derek didn’t protest. “Maybe I should go,” he jumped to his feet.
Stiles sat up quickly. “No. Don’t go,” he blurted out.
Derek looked back down at him. His emerald eyes looked hurt.
Stiles’ chest heaved. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We won’t talk about it.” And they both knew what ‘it’ meant. How they had gotten there. What was going on. “Not anymore.”
Derek stood very still for a moment and Stiles thought his friend might just fade into the darkness. But then he nodded his head, looking distant and still a bit sad. He sat back down against the wall with Stiles. And the way the moonlight touched his skin, Stiles could have sworn he was an angel. But then he thought that with his luck, a demon was more realistic.
Ms. Morrell lifted her chin. “So how did your dad find you?”
Stiles bit his lip. “He came back from his night shift and I wasn’t in my bed. Who knew he even checked?” Stile shrugged. “He sent out his night unit for me and they checked the woods first because they know that’s where everyone in this damn town goes when they are missing.” Stiles took a second. “They found me asleep in the house.”
“And you were punished?” Morrell asked.
“I was… reprimanded,” Stiles nodded.
“Stiles,” the Sheriff seethed on the ride home. Thankfully, he had let Stiles ride shotgun instead of forcing him in the armored backseat like usual. “Would you care to explain to me what the hell is going on?”
Stiles looked out the window absentmindedly. “I just needed to go on a walk.”
“In the middle of the night?” the Sheriff fumed.
“I thought I heard a wolf howl,” Stiles tried to explain. “I had to go investigate.”
“And how did that work out?” his father mocked.
Stiles’ lips pursed into a thin line and his voice went soft. “It was just my imagination.”
“That’s what I thought,” the Sheriff clicked his tongue. “I just don’t know what’s gotten into you, Stiles. You avoid me and you avoid Scott and I know you aren’t sleeping. Now I find you in the woods?”
Stiles didn’t try and protest. It was useless. He was guilty of all charges.
“Just tell me what’s wrong, son,” his father pleaded.
Stiles sat in the silence unable to formulate anything going on between his ears. He would have said all the words he knew if he just could begin to understand what had been happening to him.
His father brought his voice down and the next time he spoke, his tone didn’t echo through the car. Instead, it just traveled in a straight line to Stiles’ heart. “Is this about your mother?”
Stiles let out a bitter sigh and put his feet up on the glove box, obnoxiously.
The Sheriff let out a hot, angry breath in response. “This isn’t the end of this talk.” He waved a finger in Stiles’ general direction.
Stiles didn’t know if he should believe him.
“Was that the end?” Morrell asked.
“No,” Stiles shook his head. “He just assigned you to talk to me for him now.”
“Stiles,” she said. As gently as Stiles believed she was capable of being. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I don’t want help,” Stiles asserted. “I don’t need it.”
“Don’t you want your life back? Don’t you want your solitude?” She shook her head. “Don’t you want to get rid of Derek for good.”
Stiles felt his blood run cold in one swift motion. “Yeah,” he lied. “Of course, I do.”
Morrell smiled. “Well, that’s why I’m here.” She took out a small pad of paper from her desk drawer. “I’m gonna write you a prescription that should help with your delusions.” She scribbled the name, dosage, and her signature. “I’ll see you back here in a couple days to check back in.” She ripped the prescription and handed it over with a small, trying grin.
Stiles stood up and took it from her hand. “Thanks,” he said. Not meaning it. Not being thankful for her at all. “I’ll see you then.”
A day later, Stiles was sitting in his red truck in the drugstore parking lot with the bottle of pills staring back at him. The prescription offered two a day. It was time for his morning dosage. His first dose.
He had thought about what Ms. Morrell said. “Don’t you want your solitude?”
The words played over again in Stiles’ mind.
He rubbed his hands against his head. No. He didn’t want solitude. Solitude is what he had had since his mother died. Even with his father around. Even with Scott around. There had always been this disconnect since she had left. It was like no one around him understood his language. Like he was a foreigner traveling through a vast and unforgiving land.
That barrier that had sunken deep into his bones and separated him in ways he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t comprehend.
But then there was Derek. Who in all their encounters had had a certain air about him. No one compared to him. He was so incredibly different from anyone Stiles had ever met, yet so much more intimate. Like they came from very different places, but were cut from the same fabric.
And even in moments of realization like this, Stiles tried to admit the truth. That Derek wasn’t real. That it was all in his head. That the reason they seemed so connected was because he was Stiles’ creation.
But it never seemed to excuse the fact that Derek gave Stiles hope. Hope that something understood him. And so what if he wasn’t real? He made Stiles’ life suck less. And if he sent Derek away, what would he have left?
Who would he have left?
Stiles grabbed the bottle and opened the glove box. He threw the bottle inside and heard the capsules bounce around as he slammed the door shut.
They weren’t gonna force him back into solitude. He wasn’t gonna be alone anymore. He wasn’t gonna wake up from this tonight.
Stiles lie awake, like most nights. He watched Derek sitting at the end of his bed. His shoulders heavy and gloomy and troubled.
Stiles hurt so bad inside when he looked at him. He was half full. His heartbeat deepened in his chest. He felt the need quaking through him. The need to touch him. That’s all he wanted.
He moved through the sheets towards Derek, reaching a hand out for his shoulder. But his hand didn’t give way to the cushion of flesh. It just moved through Derek’s form like a ghost. Like he wasn’t even there. Because he wasn’t.
Stiles pulled his hand away quickly like he had been burned. He drew his knees into his chest and held his breath to keep from sputtering. The tears filled his eyes so fast that they spilt over onto his cheeks almost immediately.
“I’m sorry,” Derek said, not moving. Staying stoic and distant and Derek.
“It’s…” Stiles stammered and tried to lie back down, but he was so much more rigid. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He wiped his nose with the back of his arm. His bed now felt like nails and he just wanted to sink so deep into them. He pulled his pillow closer, yearning for something tangible.
When he woke up, his pillow was still covered in snot and tears. And Derek was gone again.
“I think I’m in love with him,” Stiles spoke out a couple days later at his next session.
Ms. Morrell looked a bit taken aback. “With Derek?”
Stiles thumbnail found it’s way between his teeth. He nodded.
“And how do you know that?” she asked with a sigh. She was such a bitch.
Stiles shrugged, thinking maybe he could generate some generic answer from his throat. But in a small moment, he pulled the real one from somewhere deep in his chest. “We feel each other’s pain,” he said. “He feels my pain.”
“So, he’s empathetic,” Ms. Morrell nodded and took note.
“No,” Stiles shook his head. “Like he literally feels my physical pain.”
She stopped scribbling and looked up, confused.
Stiles sighed and began to explain.
Stiles got low. The lowest he had been in awhile. Derek hadn’t been around for days. It had felt like months. He missed him. He tried to summon him back. Tried to imagine him in all his favorite spots. But he wouldn’t show himself.
The pain was unbearable. The shower ran over him. He tried to wash away the feeling of isolation but it was no use. He pursed his lips. He sunk down in the shower. He found the loose tile along the border, easing it from its niche. Felt for the thin piece of metal that hid along the edge. He stared down his thin skin for a long time as the hot water ran over the paleness, causing it to redden. Blue and purple veins showed through too easily. He sputtered for a breath but he couldn’t seem to find one. His chest felt like it might collapse again under the weight of everything. The hurt of being alone, the pressure of keeping face, the lack of control over anything. All these feelings he hadn’t had since his mother had passed away. The wounds that had half healed were being reopened by all these overwhelming emotions that he had barely scratched the surface of. His head felt dizzy and his stomach turned and he stopped all the protest in his head. He dragged the sharpness over his skin. Felt it catch. Felt the small tissues part themselves. The pain rushed in like it was long overdue. And then he could breathe again. He could simply breathe again. Then the dizziness turned to an endorphin rush. His stomach seized its motions. The evidence of his moment of clarity washed down the drain.
He wrapped a towel around his waist after the water ran cold. He came back into his room and his eyes fell on black boots before traveling up to Derek’s face. His momentary feeling of happiness was crushed by the look he got. Derek looked angry and hurt and so tired. He rustled with the sleeve of his leather jacket and Stiles’ eyes followed. He saw the dark blood dripping from his fingertips. When Stiles looked back to Derek’s face, there was an unspoken need for explanation.
“I…” Stiles didn’t know what to say. “I just… you weren’t here and-“
Derek came towards him and Stiles backed until he was against the wall. Derek stared him down and let his eyes go to Stiles’ wrist. He took his fingers, still dripping invisible spots onto the carpet. He wrapped them loosely around the boy’s wrist. So both of them could pretend that this was real. That Derek was real. “That’s the last time you do that,” he said sternly.
Stiles couldn’t feel Derek’s skin or his heat or anything but he yearned too. All he felt were the spaces between their minds and all the places their thoughts had been.
All Stiles could do was nod. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would…”
“You shouldn’t have had too,” Derek shook his head as he moved away.
Stiles couldn’t help feeling guilty. But then he remembered that none of this was real.
“Have you hurt yourself since?” Morrell asked.
“No.”
Morrell scratched notes onto her legal pad for what seemed like a long moment. When she was done, she looked up and titled her head to the side. “So you haven’t seen a difference since starting the medication?”
Stiles sat up slowly. “Well I-“
“You are taking the medication, aren’t you?”
Stiles blinked. “Of course,” he lied. “But no changes, not so soon, no.”
Morrell scratched at her pad again. “Has anything else happened that you would like to talk about?”
Stiles shook his head.
“Good,” Morrell sighed. “Send in your father. I want to have a word with him.”
Stiles felt hot all over. “What are you… what are you gonna tell him?”
Morrell raised an eyebrow. “Send your father in. Now.”
Stiles got up slowly and made his way to the lobby. The Sheriff stood from his chair. He had insisted on coming this time.
“She wants to talk to you,” Stiles said with an audible fear in his voice.
His father nodded and patted him on the shoulder without a word before going into her office.
Stiles sunk down into an empty chair and prayed she didn’t tell his dad about Derek.
Stiles needed to let off steam. He was dying inside. He resented his dad sending him to counseling. He resented himself for ever speaking up about Derek. He regretted everything that had happened in between. All the small moments with Derek that he didn’t take advantage of. Because after Morrell had spoken with Stiles’ father, things went down hill fast.
Stiles had prodded his dad on the way home, wondering how much she told him. Did she spill about Derek, about the occasional self-harm, about the fact that he was catastrophically in love with an imaginary being? But the Sheriff didn’t say a word. He didn’t give a hint. The culmination of other’s keen interrogation tactics being put to good use.
Stiles got home. He slammed his door. He blasted his music. He sat on his bed in fear and paranoia and regret. He wished for Derek. But Derek never came. What did was a knock at the door as the night rolled around.
“I’m off to work,” the Sheriff yelled over the music.
“Yup,” Stiles responded hastily. He was mad because he didn’t know what else he could be.
As some time passed, Stiles made his way down to the kitchen. He thought he should eat something before bed, but the thought of food made his stomach churn horribly. He looked around the kitchen to distract himself. His eyes skimmed over the cupboards, the dishes in the sink, and finally landed on a bottle that had been left out on the counter. His dad’s favorite whiskey.
Stiles moved forward and grabbed at the bottle. “Knocking one back before work, dad?” he whispered spitefully. His hands twisted around the neck of it.
“Don’t take it.”
Stiles spun around and saw Derek standing in the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. Stiles’ mouth hung open in surprise
Derek stepped forward. “Stiles,” he warned.
“I’m taking it,” Stiles shrugged.
Derek looked to the dingy kitchen tile and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“Just come with me,” Stiles whispered. “I’ll drive out to the woods.”
Derek didn’t look up. “Fine.”
Stiles grabbed his keys from the basket and opened the door for Derek.
“I don’t think you should do this,” Derek said as he walked out onto the porch.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said.
Derek hoisted himself into Stiles’ truck when he had opened the door.
Stiles got in and pulled out of the driveway, making his way towards the preserve.
The moon was clouded with a white glow as Stiles threw back another swig. It wasn’t just the summer sky. Everything was hazy. Except Derek.
Derek stayed as clear as day as he sat on the edge of the creek, looking into the water pensively.
“Stop looking so sour over there. You’re ruining my good time,” Stiles half-joked. His words stumbled out before fully conceived. He could feel his filter thin.
“This was a bad idea,” Derek said a bit to himself.
“You know you make a great werewolf, but a horrible D.A.R.E. counselor,” Stiles tried to get up but his legs weakened in his efforts and he crashed onto the rocks under his feet.
Derek looked his way. Finally.
Stiles regained himself and made his way over, taking a seat next to Derek. He offered him the bottle before letting out a giggle, “Oh yeah. You can’t do anything good.”
Derek thinned his lips in frustration. “You know, just cause I’m not real here doesn’t mean I don’t exist.”
Stiles gave a laugh, “what does that even mean?”
The werewolf sighed. “There is a place where I am real. Where I live a normal life,” he shrugged.
Stiles felt himself grow more confused. “So why don’t I get that Derek?”
Derek’s voice was quiet and a little apologetic. “I don’t know, Stiles.”
“Why don’t I get the real Derek that I can see and touch and keep here?” his tone rose in aggression.
Derek looked up at him slowly.
“Why do I get this shitty one? This one that’s always leaving me just when I need him?”
“Look, Stiles,” he started to say.
“No,” Stiles stopped him. “No, you are gonna listen to me. I have been dying for weeks because of you. You’ve been killing me. All I want is for you to be real. For you not to be some figment inside my head. To be able to touch you and …just really love you.”
Derek’s ears perked up and he looked up at Stiles with awe in his eyes.
“Yeah. I said it,” Stiles got up from his spot and brushed his hands against his jeans before grabbing the neck of the whiskey bottle. “Just don’t make me say it again.” He tossed back a couple sips and looked out over the water. Saw the light behind the trees reflect in the glimmering pattern. “I should leave here. You should come with me.”
He didn’t wait for Derek to respond.
“We should get in my truck and just drive some place else,” he turned back to Derek whose face had gone cold. “You know? Fuck Beacon Hills. Fuck my dad. Fuck school starting up next week. And fuck that Morrell bitch.”
“Stiles,” Derek said, standing up. “Just stop for a second.”
“No,” Stiles shook his head. “I’ve been stopped my whole life. Everyone has been trying to slow me down and isolate me because they don’t think I can handle it all. Life. Death. Hurt. Illness. Love. But those things don’t stop for anyone and certainly not for Stiles Stilinski. I know that as much as being broken up hurts, being alone is way worse.”
“I know,” Derek said, calmly. “I know it hurts.”
“Like you have any idea,” Stiles argued, tears in his throat.
Derek didn’t say anything.
“That’s what I thought,” the boy cursed and grabbed his keys from his pocket. “Are you coming or not?”
Derek froze, “Stiles. You can’t drive. You drank half that bottle.”
Stiles looked down at the damage he had done to the bottle with a frown. He looked to Derek and dangled the keys, tauntingly with his other hand. “Then stop me yourself.”
Derek’s shoulders slumped, hurt and knowingly helpless. ”I’m not coming with you.”
“Fine,” Stiles said. “Good. Great. Alone again. At least, I’m consistent right?” He plastered a sneer against his lips before turning towards the truck.
“And what if you crash, Stiles?” Derek fumed. “What if you die?”
Stiles turned towards him one last time. He took in Derek in all of his imaginary goodness. His broad shoulders and narrow hips. His scruff and his eyes. His green eyes that looked so expressive. As if they were making up for all the stoic mannerisms he always exuded. For all the collectedness he showed on the outside.
“Then you can sleep in that box with me,” he said it all too simply, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Like he had already accepted that that was how it would go down. And with that, he swiftly turned away towards his truck, ready to leave this excuse of a ‘friend’.
He was 15 miles down the highway, the whiskey bottle riding shotgun, when he stopped to piss. All the alcohol moving through him as fast as it could. His body trying to heal the damage being done. Stiles leaned against his truck, feeling the cold metal on his skin. He just wanted Derek to go away. If he was gonna leave him, he might as well not come back. “Don’t come back,” Stiles whispered to his polished red frame of his car. “Please just leave me alone.”
With a small thought, he rounded his truck and opened the passenger seat door. He felt for the glove box in the darkness. Fumbling it open and reaching for the orange bottle that had gravitated towards the back.
His fingers kept slipping as he took the cap off. With no momentary caution, he threw the bottle back and let the capsules collect on his tongue. He threw the open bottle into the backseat, letting a few excess pills slip between cracks and onto the floor. He grabbed the whiskey bottle in the seat and slung it back, washing it all down.
He came up for air and felt a surge of power course through him. “Try to come back now, Derek,” he whispered. “You just try and come back.”
He got back into the driver’s side of his truck and revved the engine, pulling out the station as quickly as he could. Leaving behind any logic he had left.
“All night units on call, report. We got a code 403 on highway marker 1039. Red truck has flipped off the road. Medical personnel are on their way. I repeat, all night units on call, report.”
Stiles didn’t remember much. Not much at all. He was nearly blacked out through the whole experience. He remembers being trapped, the faint sound of sirens growing louder against the grain of his suddenly pounding headache. But the picture kept fading out.
When he awoke the second time, it was all fluorescent lights. Ms. McCall’s voice rang in his ears. Her tone was so serious as she shouted to others. Why was everyone shouting? Before he could register anything, he was gone again.
The third time, he awoke fully. The lights still bright but less threatening. He became aware that he was laying in a bed and that he had machines all around him. Hospital, he recognized by the smell. He had known that smell too well in his lifetime. The way everything smelled like realization. But not a good kind. A horrible kind. People being brought down from the cloud they kept themselves on. Realizing they were breakable. Killable. Mortal. People realizing that they weren’t getting better. People realizing that though the love you have for others is eternal, life is not. People realizing they had hit rock bottom. Stiles, at this point, had roped himself into the latter category.
He turned his attention towards the window on the left. He could see his father and Ms. McCall talking quietly. In a small moment, the Sheriff made eye contact with Stiles and Ms. McCall’s eyes followed. She said a few words to the Sheriff before coming into Stiles’ room, careful to shut the door behind her.
“Hey,” she said softly. Much like her son, her presence was usually calming. Maybe even reassuring. Reassured that this wasn’t so bad. That there was a world outside of Stiles’ sick mind that was still spinning, unharmed. “How are you feeling?”
Stiles sat up a little. “I’d feel a lot better if I knew what happened,” he said.
Ms. McCall grabbed his charts at the end of his bed. “Well,” she gawked at his papers. “You crashed your truck and retained little injury but you were also intoxicated with alcohol and prescription drugs. We pumped them out of your system and gave you some meds to settle you and help you sleep.”
Stiles’ rubbed his face with a hand. Things coming back to him a little clearer now.
Ms. McCall grabbed the flashlight from her pocket and shined it into his eyes. “How are you feeling now? Sore? Dizzy? Head hurt?”
Stiles felt a little of all of it but nothing dire. “Just exhausted.”
“Yeah, you will for awhile till we can guarantee all the carbon is out of your system,” she smiled.
“Lovely,” he said sarcastically.
“Stiles,” Ms. McCall shifted on her nurse shoes. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
He shrugged, “Do I really look like I have any way of defending even my dignity or discretion?” He motioned down at his hospital gown and all the wires poking out of him.
“I suppose not,” she nodded. She took a deep breath in. “Where were you going? In your truck, that is?”
Stiles sat back and shook his head. “Honestly,” he started. “I don’t know. I suppose I was just trying to get away from myself but I didn’t know how.”
Ms. McCall nodded but looked distant as she processed the response. “You know I have to send your father in, right?”
Stiles pursed his lips, “Yeah. I know.”
“Okay. Scott will be happy to hear you’re okay,” she said quietly and backed herself into the doorway, inviting Stiles’ father in with a wave.
The Sheriff’s eyes were on the ground when he entered the room. He watched as Ms. McCall shut the door behind her and turned towards his son. Taking him in. How he lay there as helpless as he felt.
Stiles sighed, “Please just say something.”
The Sheriff shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Stiles.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me how irresponsible I was? About how I could have died. And how I’m lucky I’m alive.”
“Why did you do it, son?” his father said, sitting down at the edge of his bed. His eyes look more hurt than anything.
Stiles fingered the edge of his blanket. “How much did Morrell tell you?”
“Answer my question.”
“Answer mine first.”
The Sheriff sighed. He looked to the floor. “She told me everything,” he said.
“What do you mean ever-“
“I mean,” his father annunciated. “She told me everything. About this Derek character. About the… razors. About the medicine she gave you and how she supposed you weren’t taking it. About the house in the woods. The werewolf thing.” His eyes were heavy. Stiles could feel the blame he was imposing on himself at an alarming rate. “She said you are showing signs of a paranoid schizophrenic.”
Stiles felt shame everywhere.
“So I ask again,” his father whispered. “Why, Stiles?”
Stiles felt his eyes water. “It’s all Derek’s fault,” he murmured. “I mean granted, he told me not to take the whiskey. And told me not to drive. …And he refused to come with me when I tried to leave. But …I needed him so bad, Dad. And when he told me he wasn’t gonna come, I panicked. I tried to force him out all at once because I was angry and immature and scared that I was more dependent on him than I wanted to be.”
“And you didn’t take your meds. At least, not till…” his father’s voice trailed off.
“No,” Stiles admitted. “But don’t you understand? I couldn’t lose him. I can’t lose him.”
The Sheriff shook his head. Clearly not understanding. “You are gonna have to lose him, Stiles.”
He sat up quickly. “What? What do you mean?”
His father looked to the ground. Ashamed. Traitorous. “You are gonna stay here for awhile and go through some testing in the psych ward.”
Stiles’ mouth hung open. “Dad?”
“This isn’t safe, Stiles. You shouldn’t having these… hallucinations. School is starting next week. We need you safe and sound and having Derek around doesn’t fit into that equation.”
“Dad, no,” Stiles was shocked. “You can’t do this. You can’t do this to me.”
The Sheriff rose from his place. “I’m sorry, Stiles. That’s just the way it’s got to be.”
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” Stiles’ watery eyes blinked tears onto his face. He looked up to his dad in fury, pointing a finger to his face. “I swear to God, Dad, I’ll never forgive you.”
His father looked like he was detaching himself too quickly from the situation. “I have to get back to work. I will see you tomorrow morning.”
Stiles’ tears fell as his father exit the room. He laid back in defeat. In utter defeat, not thinking this could get any worse.
The day faded and the night grew and Stiles went cold. His lights had been turned out at 10pm. He had been told to sleep. He was exhausted from all the work his body had been doing all day to keep him alive. To keep going. To heal him. Every muscle ached. Yet, he couldn’t sleep.
He didn’t notice Derek in the corner immediately. But when he did, he thought he was mistaken. He thought it was just the way the shadows were playing on the wall. But then he stepped forward and up to the edge of Stiles’ bed and they both could hear the heart monitor beside them pick up tempo.
“How are you feeling?” Derek’s voice had a certain edge that Stiles didn’t expect. And he couldn’t help but wonder what it meant.
“Not so good,” he murmured. “How about yourself? Bet you really wish you took that drive with me now, huh?”
Derek’s cheeks hollowed in tension and Stiles could have sworn he saw his heart break. But he waved away the notion, knowing Derek didn’t have a heart.
“I didn’t come here for clever retorts, Stiles,” his voice hardened through the darkness.
Stiles sighed. “Fine. Since I can please no one. Why did you come?”
Derek’s hands knotted together and his eyes didn’t stray from the linoleum floors. “I came to say goodbye.”
Stiles sat forward immediately, ignoring the pull of his IV. “What?”
Derek’s mouth tightened. “You heard me, Stiles”
Stiles felt the tears well up again as if they were just habit now. “No,” he shook his head. “No. What are you talking about?”
“I’m leaving,” Derek articulated.
“But you can’t leave,” Stiles’ chest heaved forward. “I need you here.”
“Stiles,” Derek thundered. “You said it yourself. I’m killing you. Just look at what you’ve done. You could have died last night and you don’t even care!”
Stiles clasped his hands together under his nose, thinking hard. He felt like there was nothing else to do but to prove himself to keep this running. “Derek,” Stiles gasped. “If you just stay, this won’t happen anymore. I won’t do this anymore. Just stay.”
“I can’t stay, Stiles,” Derek shook his head. “I have to go. I can’t come back anymore.”
“No,” Stiles cried out. Tears streamed down his face now. His hands reached out for anything, but there was nothing there. “You can’t do this to me. I won’t let you. You are staying here.”
“Stiles,” Derek said coming forward. He ducked closer to him. “It will be okay. You can’t be scared. You don’t need me to do this. You are strong.”
Stiles laughed sarcastically. Coarsely. “Right, Derek,” he sniffed. His tone turning dark. “I can do this alone? Cause my record shows otherwise when you aren’t here. When you leave me.”
“I can’t help it,” Derek pulled away. “I always wake up before I mean to.”
Stiles blinked, “what do you mean?”
Derek took a deep breath. “I mean,” he says. “I have to go, Stiles.”
“Please,” Stiles pleads. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”
Derek swallows hard. “Goodbye, Stiles.”
And Stiles thinks that maybe if he keeps staring at Derek than he will have nowhere to go. Maybe if he just never blinks again that he’ll stay there forever. And this works for a few final moments. Enough for Stiles to take him in one last time. His shoulders stretched in an attempt to look stronger than he is. His eyes dull green and heavy and distancing themselves too quickly. His lips a thin line from thinking too hard.
A sound from his window pulls Stiles away from Derek. Not just any sound. A howl. A werewolf. He looks towards it, instinctively. His chest flutters in hope. But then he catches it. His glance. He snaps it back to the end of his bed and Derek is gone. Vanished from thin air. Leaving nothing but a phantom of a memory.
Stiles’ turns over and finally feels himself break down. It wasn’t the self-harm that did him in. Or the overdose. Or even the car crash. It was Derek saying he’s not coming back. Stiles can feel the heat in his face as he quakes with sobs that seem to travel through his whole body. And even after he has cried the last possible tear out of his system and is more close to dead than tired, he can’t shake the feeling that if he slept again he’d lose it. The memory of Derek’s face. The memory of the way he moved. The memory of the sound of his voice. And Stiles didn’t want to forget. He never wanted to forget. But despite his insistence, sleep came and began to decay the perfect image Stiles kept close.
The pain wasn’t comparable to anything physical. No. It wasn’t so shallow. So simple as pointing and saying, “here. It hurts here.” Because it hurt everywhere. Every frame of his world was painted in it. The inside of his brain ached through every sphere, every lobe. It was unlike any pain he’d ever felt.
When his mom had passed away, the pain was different. It was isolated to parts of his life. Remembering how her pancakes tasted on Sunday mornings or accidently flipping to her favorite sitcom on TV and knowing exactly what parts she would laugh at. It was something that would hide for small moments and then larger moments and then it was nothing but a nervous tick. Where he’d have to fiddle with something at the mention of her.
This was so much more intense because it was always there. It was this crushing feeling that was sitting heavy on his chest, staring at him and reminding him every second that Derek wasn’t coming back.
In the midst of his couple days at the psych ward, he didn’t speak to almost anyone. Thought it wasn’t a lack of them not trying. Half a dozen counselors tried to sit down with him. Get him to talk about what was wrong. He never said a word. Because speaking out had tripped him up so bad before. Had been the start of the downfall. He had learned his lesson. Even his father’s daily visits were only met with silence. Even when his father had told him he had replaced his totaled car with an old blue jeep, Stiles didn’t even look his way. And the Sheriff stopped trying after awhile. Stiles assumed he was waiting to do things on Stiles terms. He’d just sit in the corner of Stiles’ small extended stay room. Just sit there. Waiting to be let back into Stiles’ life. His mind.
There was an exception though. Ms. McCall would do rounds every morning and evening to deliver the meds Morrell had prescribed before. She had to watch him take them, just to be sure. And they would chat. Nothing too heavy. Talk about Scott’s futile attempts to train for the upcoming lacrosse season. Talk about plans for his junior year. Talk about how the weather was getting cold fast. How everything was dying fast. Stiles only noticing this through his hospital room window.
But once the other counselors noticed that Stiles talked to someone, they took advantage. Stiles began to notice a change in their daily conversations. “So have you talked to Derek recently?” she came out with one day while watering the tiny potted cactus on his windowsill. And though Stiles’ hurt everywhere, he couldn’t help but smile at their feeble attempts to get him to talk. His dad must have briefed them. Maybe they had his file from Morrell’s office.
“No,” Stiles said. “He left me.” He sipped his water and put the pill on his tongue, knocking his head back and letting it teeter slightly before it fell down his throat.
“But he will come back, right?” Ms. McCall tried to smile, hopefully.
“Not this time,” he said more quietly.
“Oh,” said Ms. McCall with a nod. Getting it.
That was one thing Stiles had always liked about her. She was smart. She didn’t need you to spell things out. Definitely not a trait inherited by Scott.
“Looks like they’ll be letting you out in time for your first day,” she smiled. “That’s got to be good news.”
“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged. “I’m sick of summer. Too hot and lonely.”
Ms. McCall didn’t say anything to this. She just gave a little smile.
And Stiles decided that he was glad she knew about Derek.
Stiles was released on a Sunday. The Sunday. The day before his junior year started. Once they determined that they couldn’t determine anything from him, he had been free to go. But he was still ordered to stay on his prescription and see Morrell once a week. Much to his dissatisfaction.
His dad seemed happy that he was home. He picked him up in the blue jeep, which was much older than Stiles had expected but, nevertheless, a respectable effort for an apology gift. The Sheriff even attempted to defy the laws of nature and cook them dinner. Stiles sat silent at the table, trying to find a piece of spaghetti that was actually cooked through.
“So are you excited for tomorrow?” his dad asked. His voice had an edge of preconceived disappointment. Like he already had an idea that Stiles wouldn’t answer.
“Yeah.”
The Sheriff froze and looked at him in surprise. “So,” he started, cautiously. “What classes are you taking this year?”
“Um,” Stiles mentally tinkered through the email about his schedule he had half read when he had gotten home. He rambled off a few that came to mind. “Chemistry, English, history, economics. Nothing too exciting.”
The phone rang in the living room. His dad sighed and looked at the clock, before getting up to answer it. An apology keen in his eyes.
Stiles shook his head. Of course. Work first. Like that ever changed. He picked up his barely touched plate and took it to the kitchen, dispensing of it in the trash.
“Wait, two joggers in the woods found it?” he heard his dad murmur from the other room.
Stiles felt the hot itch of curiosity on the back of his neck. He looked to the phone in the kitchen. He barely thought it through before picking up the phone and holding it to his ear, careful not to breath into the receiver.
“Yes. Female. Early 20’s. But …there’s a problem,” replied an out of breath deputy.
“What’s that?” Stiles’ father’s voice echoed between the house and the line.
“She was cut into two parts bilaterally. Straight through her torso. So far, we only found one part.”
“Jesus Christ,” the Sheriff sighed.
“The state police are on their way to the scene now. We need you out here.”
Stiles’ father seemed at odds. “Huh,” he huffed. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be down there as fast as I can. Call in the whole team and the K-9 unit. See if any forensics guys are on staff tonight.”
Stiles heard the line go dead and scrambled to put it back on the hook.
“Stiles,” his dad called as he walked into the kitchen. “I got an emergency at work I gotta go in for.”
“Oh,” Stiles nodded. “Okay.”
The Sheriff put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m really sorry. I’ll try to make it back as quick as I can.”
“No,” Stiles shook his head. “Take your time. I’ll be here when you get home.”
His father nodded as if he’d forgotten this detail until now and headed to the hallway to grab his jacket.
Stiles leaned against the counter waiting to hear the slam of the front door, the start of his dad’s car, and the sound of its sirens fading away down the street. When he did, a sick smile ran across his face.
He ran to get his jacket from upstairs and pulled some sneakers on haphazardly while trying to call Scott, who, of course, wouldn’t answer. He grabbed the keys to the blue jeep and ran out the door. Desperate for anything to distract from what was inside him.
The thought had ran through his head. That Scott was a werewolf. When he had gotten the text about the bite. When he saw the bandages at school the next day. When Scott told him he heard a wolf howl. It was only normal for him to reach that conclusion.
But it was also normal for him to dispel that notion. Because wasn’t that what had sent him to the loony bin in the first place? Wasn’t that what he was on medication for? For drawing conclusions about things that don’t exist.
And then, again, the thought flashed through him at lacrosse tryouts. But Ms. McCall had talked about how much he had practiced, right? The evidence against practicality was totally dismissible in Stiles’ eyes.
But Scott did need someone to go back to the woods with him. Because he had said he had found the body. And Stiles couldn’t say no. Half compelled by his duty as a best friend and half by his curiosity.
The leaves of the forest were grays and mottled greenish yellows that seemed to happen so fast. It had only been a week since Stiles’ incident out here and yet so many things had changed. Had he just not noticed before how dead everything was?
Recalling tryouts, Scott was perplexed by his own physicality. And the thought crossed Stiles’ mind a third time. He even let the curiosity slip out in joke form but it was rejected so quickly that he couldn’t help but think, for a third time, that he was being ridiculous.
“I swear this was it. The body was here. The deer came running, I dropped my inhaler...,” Scott shook his head.
And Stiles’ was about to bite back a comment about responsibility when he saw him. Standing no more than 30 feet away. He looked the same. He looked angry and strong and still so haunted.
In panic, he smacked at Scott’s shoulder. But the thought immediately ran through his head. Scott wasn’t gonna be able to see him.
But Scott bounced to his feet and stared in the same direction and Stiles fought off every emotion that was whirring through him. Shock, sorrow, happiness. And one quick glance at Scott’s face and he knew. He knew that he could see him too.
“What are you doing here?” Derek said and everything flowed back through Stiles’ head. Everything. His voice, his face, his movements. It was like they were being superimposed and enhanced through all of Stiles’ memories. He scratched at his head, practically feeling the synapses fire beneath his skull.
“This is private property,” Derek bit out. His tone was angry. Borderline furious. And Stiles couldn’t do anything but love it. But fall in love with it. Again and again.
But the searing realization occurred because Stiles could tell something was off. Something was different. And then it hit him like a ton of bricks on his chest. Made him hurt in ways he had been busy repressing all last week. The fact stood bold despite it all. Derek didn’t know him. Didn’t remember him. But maybe it wasn’t Derek. Or at least, not his Derek. Cause this one was visible. Maybe even touchable, though by the glare on his face, Stiles could tell that touching was out of the question at the moment. Maybe this is what Derek had meant. When he spoke of the real version of himself.
“Sorry, we didn’t know,” Stiles murmured because he didn’t know what to say. He saw Derek’s look linger slightly on him, but not long enough to discern anything before he looked away.
“We were just looking for something. Forget it. Sorry to bother you,” Scott said.
He never imagined the sound of Scott’s voice would bring him so much emotion as it did when he was addressing Derek.
Stiles’ heart was being pulled in so many directions. Because Derek was here and he was real and almost everything about this seemed perfect. But Derek didn’t recognize him. He didn’t know him. They were as good as strangers all over again. And part of Stiles’ feared that he would never get a second chance.
Just like that, though, the moment was over. Derek threw Scott’s inhaler toward him and turned swiftly away. And Stiles’ watched him walk away praying that this wasn’t the last time.