Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tuesday

Oh, you can hear me cry

See my dreams all die

From where you’re standing

On your own.

It’s a Tuesday night when his dad dies.

He remembers every second of it. The undeniable click of a gun, the wet gasp, the sickening thud of a body colliding with the ground. It had been so loud and yet all he had heard was silence. Silence filled with the crimson that ran from his dad’s chest and soaked his County issued uniform. He’s struggling for a breath he won’t catch and Stiles is kneeling beside him, and his fingers are trembling but the wound won’t stop bleeding and it isn’t working and there’s so much red.

His dad’s eyes are falling shut and he can barely hear his voice begging for him to hang on over the tremendous beating of his heart. His skin is becoming paler and he’s talking; telling him to stay strong because that’s what Stilinskis do, Stiles, we stay strong and we fight and we survive.

Soon enough sirens are blaring and someone’s pulling him away from the corpse and for a long moment he thinks maybe he doesn’t want to.

It’s over deceptively quickly. It isn’t like in the movies, when the good guy gets shot and his son is kneeling beside him and applying pressure and everything’s under control. The ambulance doesn’t make it in time because life isn’t a movie and most people don’t survive bullets to the chest.

There’s no long speech; his dad doesn’t tell him some close kept secret before his voice catches and his heart stops. He tells him he loves him- sure, that’s a given, but Stiles doesn’t think there’s that much to it even if he probably missed most of what was being said because of the beat of his heart.

There’s just a man, his dad, and him. And a gun. And one of them doesn’t come out alive.

If it weren’t so terribly painful, if it didn’t feel as if he were being ripped apart from the inside, if he didn’t lose the will to live, he might have laughed at how horribly cliché that was.

But all he feels is someone’s strong arms encircling him (Scott, he thinks) and then they’re taking the Sheriff away and covering him in a sheet as if Stiles hadn’t already seen the gallons of blood. Someone’s talking to him; their voice soothing and familiar but he can’t find purchase because all he hears himself asking is why are they taking him away? Dad, please, god this can’t be happening this can’t can’tcan’tcan’t.

Except it is, and it is all Stiles knows before his legs are collapsing from beneath him. His knees are buckling but he’s still standing; someone’s holding him, he vaguely feels them bury his head in the chest and he feels the fabric of the shirt being soaked in his tears.

He thinks he’ll have time to apologise for that later.

So yes, it isn’t like the movies. The hero doesn’t live. He doesn’t get a commendation or a medal and he doesn’t get to see his kid graduate.

Stiles hates clichés, but in that moment, it is all he wants.

*

There’s blood soaking his jeans and caked in his fingernails and Stiles doesn’t even remember getting into the car.

It’s Scott’s mum, Melissa, he faintly recalls. He’s sitting in the back and Scott’s arms are around him and he thinks it’s either Derek or Isaac in the front. He’ll figure it out once he can see past his blurry vision.

*

He vaguely wonders where they’re going and then decides he doesn’t really care.

Someone’s already seen to him, he remembers. At the sight. The scene. The crime-scene, they call it. Like in the movies. The place where a crime’s been committed. The dark alley where his dad was shot dead.

He thinks they said he was in shock, but it’s all sorted. He isn’t going to the hospital and no one can make him, but it turns out he doesn’t have to say a thing because the hospital was two turns back to the right.

His eyes suddenly feel so heavy and he can’t help but bury his face into Scott’s shoulder. Arms tighten around him and his hands are loosening their grip on his shirt. He feels unconsciousness looming over him and thinks this is another thing the movies lied about. In the movies, the kid who watches his father gunned down and kneels by him as he takes his final breath can never sleep. He’s always awake and angry and guilty and on a bend for revenge. The kid who partially dies with his father always lies awake in the bed at hospital at night, the visions plaguing him. It’s not how it happens, he thinks as he finally surrenders to sleep.

Then again, maybe it’s not how any of this happens. Maybe he’ll close his eyes and sleep and when he wakes up it’ll all have been one horrid nightmare that he gets over by hugging his dad and telling him how much he loves him the next morning before he goes to work.

*

It isn’t a dream.

Or a nightmare, or whatever.

It takes the opening of his eyes and the feel of an unfamiliar bed beneath him to tell him all he needs to know.

He’s in Scott’s room. His jeans have become a pair of loose sweats and his shirt doesn’t cling to his body with sweat and his father’s blood. It probably isn’t his shirt.

He takes in the walls, the posters, the wooden desk with his best friend’s stuff strewn over it and cannot help but be thankful for haven been brought here. It’s silly, whispers the back of his mind. His father just died and he’s happy to be at his friend’s house- and by the duffle back in the corner that’s all too familiar to him, it seems like he’s sleeping over too.

He doesn’t move for a while. Doesn’t see a reason to.

He doesn’t replay the scene in his head and when he tries it’s like he can’t remember. All he can see is red and silver and then it’s gone. He doesn’t bother comparing this to what he’s seen in the cinemas. This is reality he thinks, his reality with werewolves and night creatures and hunters and without his dad.

The most normal factor ever, he almost laughs- wonders if he’s capable of ever laughing again, and he’s the one that’s dead.

The one with the normal life, the almost-normal kid, the normal job, and he’s the one that Stiles kneels by as he bleeds to death.

God, the universe hates him.

When he’s finally able to anchor himself to the real world- and god how he hates the real world- he realises two things.

Firstly, the drapes are pulled open and the silver glow of the moon glows from behind the glass. It’s setting, so it’s past midnight. Huh. He’s been unconscious for about four hours. Who knew?

And second, light voices are coming from downstairs. His door’s closed but if he strains his ears he can make out several of them; the McCalls, Derek, Isaac, and maybe the Argents too. He’s sure they don’t mean for him to hear anything, but the structure of the house is built in a vintage fashion, of wood and hollow walls and steep steps so it’s the best for the travel of sound, it can easily reverberate-

Christ, even now his ADHD was playing with him. He vaguely wonders if they remembered to bring his Adderall and hopes they did. His dad just died, he doesn’t need to be thinking about the construction and blueprint of his best friend’s house. Or sound waves. Or screams or falling bodies or the begging of his voice.

He vaguely considers just staying in Scott’s bed and sleeping forever, and then remembers that despite his Werewolf powers, Scott needs to sleep too. And Stiles knows he’s very attached to his bed.

(Or he thinks he is. He should be. Most people are attached to things like their beds, aren’t they?)

When he finally decides to get up and surprise the company downstairs, he reminds himself to thank Scott for carrying him to his room and tucking him in because he knows he would have done it in a very manly way.

He feels like he can almost smile. At least some things never change.

When he’s found his footing and he isn’t swaying or on the verge of collapse, he notices his medicine and a glass of water beside it. He wonders just how thoughtful the McCalls are and downs about a quarter of what’s left of the bottle (not enough to be lethal, he’ll save those for later. Or think about it later.)

His mind is clearing and he suddenly feels so cold, even though it’s gotta be sixty degrees outside.

Okay, well maybe not sixty, but still. He doesn’t think he’s trembling because of the weather.

His bare feet make no sound as he makes his way down stairs. On the way, he pauses as he catches his reflection of the corner of a photo frame. His eyes are red at the corners and his skin is almost as pale as his dad’s had been, except he’s not dying.

Or maybe he is.

There hasn’t been enough time for circles to appear beneath his eyes or his cheeks to become far too prominent, but he knows there’ll be time for that later. Now he’s just got to say thank you because someone caught him when he fell.

Except, he thinks, they didn’t. Not exactly, no, they waited for him to fall and then began to pick up the pieces.

He knows they won’t find all of them. After all, he thinks, a pretty big one is with his dad in a mortuary downtown somewhere.

When he’s finally downstairs no one notices. They’re all talking softly and there’s Peter and Cora and he’s right, Isaac and the Argents and Derek’s there. They’re obviously talking about how to approach the subject, who to go after, who’s throat to rip out, who’s pack they were going to destroy.

Stiles doesn’t care as much as he thinks he should. He’s never been one for revenge. His dad’s dead, and he’s too spent to bother thinking about killing someone for it.

He almost decides he should just go upstairs and crash until morning before he notices that everyone’s stopped talking. His hand’s clutching the railing and his knuckles are white, and he wonders when that happened. Huh. Curious.

Scott’s the first to approach him, but everyone’s shifting too. He takes a few steps forward until he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, and it’s his best friend. His eyes are pinched and he’s biting his lip, his features morphed into worry and fear. He’s sad he’s put that expression on his friends face, before he remembers why.

And then Scott’s talking to him, telling him it’s okay and suddenly Stiles wants to cry because it’s stupid but Scott’s always been able to say the right thing. He’s being pulled into a hug and when there’s another hand on his shoulder he turns around and it’s Derek. There’s something in his eyes and Stiles remembers that he lost his entire family too. Not quite in the same way, but hey. At least it’s something to bond over.

He’s leaning against the wall and wrapping his arms around himself. No one makes him to sit and he’s thankful. Everyone seems to be in a bitter mood after they acknowledged him and even Chris freakin’ Argent is remorseful. It isn’t until Peter- yes, Peter- tells him he’s sorry that he realises he’s being quite selfish.

His dad was the Sheriff. He was his dad, and he was the Sheriff. He meant a lot to other people besides himself. He tries not to shift too much when he’s nodding and he’s wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

Melissa tells him he should have stayed in bed for a few more hours, but all he replies with is another nod.

“Stiles, could you…” Derek is hesitating, as if angry at himself for asking this, but Stiles already knows. They need a description, a tell, anything before the trail goes cold in a few hours. He’s about to say he doesn’t remember much when it hits him, and it’s coming back. It doesn’t shake him. It leaves him slightly breathless, but he’s fine. It’s only a man he’s seeing. His father isn’t in his vision and he’s ever so thankful.

His voice is quiet when he speaks, but doesn’t shake as he expects it to.

“Yeah, I can describe him. I remember everything.” Well, maybe not everything but that doesn’t matter. He remembers the face of his dad’s killer, the sound of the gun as it went off and the fall of a body seconds later.

Allison is saying something; defending him- that no, he shouldn’t because Stiles need sleep, he needs to rest, he doesn’t need to relive it so soon-

But then Chris Argent is arguing, albeit softly, that they need to do this before they lose the man- the bastard who did this and god Stiles wants to laugh because everyone cares about revenge more than him.

Don’t they get it? His dad’s dead. Nothing brings back the dead, not even more death.

For a selfish moment he pities them for their close-mindedness but he knows he’s being absurd. He knows he’s only doing it because soon everyone will know that the Sheriff’s dead and did you know about his boy? Poor kid’s gonna be an orphan, I mean he watched his father get gunned down-

He’s seen it before. And when he meets Isaac’s eyes from across the room, he knows it’s already started, because god, Isaac feels sorry for him. Isaac.

What the hell happened to him?

When their still talking after all while and Melissa is rubbing soothing circles on his arm like his mum used to, he finds his voice.

“I’ll do it. Now, before I forget anything.” Clearly it isn’t what they expect but it morbidly pleases them.  “But…” he trails of and everyone’s looking at him now. He all but wishes he hadn’t spoken. “If he was a Werewolf, or a demon, wouldn’t you have been able to catch his scent? What if it was just a…” he knows they don’t want to hear it, but he says it anyway, “normal human?”

There’s a heavy pause before Peter speaks.

“It might have been a normal human, or it may have been something we’ve never sensed before.” He takes a breath when Stiles tilts his head at him. “But whatever- whoever he was, what happened was too much of a coincidence to be random. It’s definitely related to all this.” Stiles hates that he knows what Peter means.

Something bitter and cold bubbles in his chest. Part of him wishes it had just been some random mugger- but he knows nothing was stolen. Part of him wishes he didn’t inadvertently kill his dad by dragging him into this entire mess.

“Anyway, since we don’t have a scent we might as well have a picture.” He turns back to Stiles and motions to a large notebook they have prepared on the coffee table at the far side of the room. “Stiles, if you would.”

Peter’s asking him for his permission, his help. He would have laughed if it were any other situation.

He’s about to push of the wall when Derek speaks.

“Everyone should go home, go to bed. We can’t do anything today. All we can do is get that sketch and start the search at first light-”

“I’m staying with Stiles.” It’s Allison who speaks first, and Stiles feels oddly touched. Isaac is nodding too. And Cora, to his surprise.

“So am I.”

He wants to say something, tell them they don’t have to, but his voice catches in his throat and his eyes glaze up slightly. He looks down and faintly notes that Lydia isn’t there. He thinks she’ll hear later, but for the first time, find that he can’t quite bring himself to care.

Derek and Chris are about to argue, but Mrs McCall interrupts first.

“Stiles needs rest,” he wants to protest, but Scott’s hand is on his arm and he pulls him back, closer, “so all of you can stay here. There’s more than enough space anyway. And you’ll be needing some sort of proper headquarters while you solve this entire mess.”  Stiles thinks she’s his hero.

Yes, it feels slightly suffocating being surrounded by so many people after what happened, but they’re what’s keeping his head above water right now. He’ll take a little pain if it means they’ll figure this out the only way they know how. Together.

Stiles goes with Peter to sit at the dining room table with the sketch book and a pencil. Scott never leaves his side and Derek takes to resting a hand on his shoulder which is far more comforting than he wants to admit.

While Melissa is appointing bedrooms and plans are being made, Stiles sits down and feels as if each of his bones weigh a ton. Maybe they do.

He starts describing the man with the dark hair and tan skin and sad eyes to Peter. He tells him he looked remarkably ordinary; no facial scars, no stutter, not even hate. He pauses at one point and the older man is patient, his pencil running across the smooth paper like water. Stiles talks about his height- six feet maybe? His clothes, his shoes, because he remembers they were leather and a deep brown and looked like they were from an old western. Peter chuckles at that, and Scott shifts slightly closer to him and Derek never takes his arm of his shoulder. It’s warm, he finds, and he needs all the warmth he can get right now.

When Peter’s finished he shows Stiles and asks him if that was how he looked. He’s an oddly adept artist but all Stiles does is hold out one pale hand for the pencil. Derek frowns beside him and he tightens his fingers around the wood, his fingers quivering slightly as he lowers the pencil and adds a few lines beneath the eyes and around them; making the man seem so much sadder now.

He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until there’s a hand on his and he drops the pencil. His hand is shaking- not trembling, but shaking almost violently and it won’t stop, it keeps moving and he’s trying to still it but he really, really can’t.

And then there’s another hand, Peter’s, he thinks. It stabilising his rogue limb and all he can do is swallow because this is not the time for this, not now, not this, he doesn’t need this right now.

His eyes are brimming with unhushed tears and he’s trying to clench his fists so that he’ll stop trembling but his body isn’t willing to listen to him. There are people talking around him but what are they saying? It doesn’t matter. His father’s dead.

He doesn’t need this now; he didn’t have an attack when his dad bled to death, so why now? God, he couldn’t do this he couldn’t breathe, it was choking him, suffocating him like a rope at his throat.

And suddenly he was drowning and when did become so hard to breathe?

He’s choking and he’s going to die. His dad’s gone and he wants to die.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. He was going down and he was going to drag everyone with him.

He faintly feels his knees colliding with something and he thinks they’re finally leaving him. They’re leaving to drown by himself, everyone’s leaving him. Scott and Peter and Derek and his dad. God, he didn’t want to die alone.

All he sees is black and then air- soft and strong, cold and breezy all at once. There are no more lights, and there’s only one voice and it isn’t his dad, but he isn’t drowning like before.

Someone’s pulling him up and he can finally take a breath.

When he comes to, he’s leaning back against Derek’s chest and Scott’s gripping his arms and he’s telling him to calm down, it’s okay, it’s okay Stiles, please just breathe.

So he does. He takes a breath and then another and another and his vision’s clearing when he realises they’re outside. Huh.

He finds himself nodding to something someone’s said, but everything’s all jumbled up now and he’s just trying to still his mind because suddenly everything hurts.

Why does everything hurt?

“Stiles, Stiles,” Derek’s arms are pulling him back against his chest and he wants to melt into the warmth. He’s whispering softly in his ear and he’s anchoring him to reality. “Come on, just breathe. Breathe Stiles, it’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t believe his words but he calms himself down anyway.

He’s finds it hard to recall the last time he had a panic attack, but then again, he’s finding it hard to recall a lot of things.

“I’m fine.” They’re the first two words out of his mouth and Scott’s nodding in front of him, like he believes him. Stiles knows he doesn’t. “I’m fine- sorry, I just…” He inhales again and wonders how he went so long without.

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Almost surprisingly, it’s Derek who says it. “We should get you inside, I think everyone’s worried and it’s definitely enough for tonight, after everything that’s happened.” And Stiles couldn’t bring himself to agree more.

Scott and Derek both help him stand and there’s an arm at his waist and another is at someone’s shoulder. When the first few steps don’t faze him much or cause his knees to buckle, they hurry their pace because god, it is cold out here. He wonders why he took so long to notice.

Once they’re back inside, clearly someone’s told everyone to back off, because despite the looks he gets no one approaches them. He’s practically carried up the steps and then he’s being tucked in in that same bed again, and Scott’s gripping his hand before he’s succumbing to unconsciousness.

When the figures in his bleary vision move away and close the door behind them, Stiles holds himself from begging someone to stay with him before he’s asleep again, despite his rapidly beating heart and the blood welling at the lip he’s forgotten he’s bitten.

*

When morning comes, it’s with the smell of pancakes and blueberries and hot chocolate. It’s his favourite breakfast, and every time he’s slept over Scott’s it what Melissa always made him. Usually it would have him running down the stairs, racing his best friend. Now it has him turning over and burying his face in the pillows.

When he feels the deep set coldness in his chest and his nails digging into the palm of his hand, he’s almost surprised that all he wants to do is curl up and cry because nothing’s changed, his dad’s still gone. Another day he won’t be seeing him. He won’t be seeing him ever again.

He manages to clear his vision and force a limb to the bed side table where the Adderall is. He thinks he’ll probably want to save some for later but doesn’t quite care when he dry swallows a few. 

He can hear Scott and Derek’s voices downstairs and that’s enough reason to make him stand on shaky legs. He knows everyone else is probably doing their own search now but he’s thankful they decided to stay. He finds he’s craving solace and being alone but he goes downstairs anyway, because he’s worried of what he’ll do if he is. After all, there are more than a few sharp objects in Scott’s room.  And his prescribed bottle of Adderall with more than enough pills to do the job.

Mrs McCall is flipping the pancakes when he finally makes it. He’s nearing the table when Derek’s by his side and lowering him into the chair, and he wonders when the Werewolf become so caring. He doesn’t dwell on it.

“How are you doing?” Scott asks, because he’s Stile’s best friend and it’s his job. “Did you sleep alright? Are you tired-” Stiles wants to say yes, he’s tired. So tired all he wants to do is close his eyes and never open them again, but he restrains himself because Scott’s worried and he won’t hurt his friend anymore. “Stiles?” He realises he probably tuned some of that out because suddenly there are pancakes on his plate and Mrs McCall looks worried.

He just nods and tells them he’s fine.

The four of them sit around the table and no one says anything even though it looks like they’re itching to. He’s glad they don’t.

He can’t seem to find his appetite even though the last time he ate was at dinner last night, right before-

No one questions him when he only drinks his hot chocolate, or as much of it as he can, he’s sure he hasn’t finished it- and he suddenly really, really wants to break the silence because these are the people he’s most comfortable with and they shouldn’t be tip-toeing around him.

He’s about to speak when there’s a ring at the doorbell.

He almost stands but Melissa ushers him down because, Stiles, honey, it’s probably just some telemarketers or something. He doesn’t comment on the large “No salespeople, thank-you” sticker on their fence. He knows who it is. And apparently by the way Scott and Derek move closer to him, they do too.

And isn’t it a surprise when Scott’s father is standing outside, badge shining in the sun and asking to see Stiles.

“I figured he’d be here,” he’s saying, and before anyone can stop him, Stiles is getting out of his seat, and he’s moving towards the door.

“Well, you can’t talk to him because he’s been through enough, he doesn’t need you-” Scott’s mum is arguing with Scott’s dad over Stiles, and he thinks there’s something very wrong with this picture.

“It’s fine.” His two Werewolves are at his side, as if in silent support because they know it’s best to just do this and get it over with. “It’s fine. You need a statement right? I’ll tell what happened.” The tall agent seems surprise, before he’s nodding and moving to make room.

“One condition.” It’s Derek who speaks and Stiles turns to him. “We get to go with him.” At the raised eyebrow, he says, “All of us.” Stiles really just wants to hug the guy now. There’s some nodding and a final agreement and then he’s upstairs and changing into the first sweater he finds and his black denim. He really just wants to get this over with; after all, how much of a better job could the police do than his pack?

Melissa tells him that they’ll be driving to the station themselves, and he wonders where Scott got such an awesome mum. He nods and then he’s sitting in the back seat between an Alpha and a once Alpha and he’s finally warm, despite his thick sweater.

The drive is short and silent and when they get to the station Derek’s arm is still there and Scott is right behind him, while Melissa leads the way. He sees his dad’s co-workers, his friends, and feels Derek tense when one of the embraces him because Stiles, your dad was hell of guy, god, kid I’m so sorry. People are nodding at him but he looks down because he doesn’t want to see their pity.

The agents sit him down at a table in the corner, far from everyone’s prying eyes and offer him coffee. He accepts, and Scott and Derek and Melissa all sit around him like a pack. He would have smiled if he thought he could.

When there’s a steaming mug of long black cradled in his hands, they begin.

“Stiles, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to tell me everything that happened last night; from the beginning.” Despite everything, Stiles it’s thankful for his tone. He realises it’s one of the few things that doesn’t want to make him hit something.

He nods.

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine.”

Someone in beside Scott’s dad prepare a book and pen to note down everything while he’s being asked questions. It’ll be fine, he tells himself. He focuses on his mug and runs his finger over the edge.

“When did you first see your dad?”

“Dad, come on, I’m hungry!” They had just left Derek’s after having the pack solve another cold case. It had been a surprisingly productive day. His dad laughs and throws an arm around his shoulders,

“You’re always hungry, kid. Come on, I know a diner just a mile down.”

“When met at the diner on Ninth Avenue. He’d gotten off work earlier.”

The agent nods.

“What happened then? Did you notice anything suspicious?”

The diner was small and cosy and almost empty. They sat at a booth by the window in the corner and Stiles made sure his dad got the vege-burger and small fries, which earned him a glare.

“What? I’m worried about your health.” He doesn’t mention that his dad’s completely fit and healthy anyway. He takes a sip from his soda,

“So, witches huh? That’s a new one.” Stiles chuckles under his breath.

“We sat, and we talked.”

“About?”

“So, you’re part of Derek’s pack now?” His dad asks curiously. Stiles tilts his head.

“Well, it’s kinda the Scott-Derek pack, but yeah. There’s me, the Argents- more or less, Lydia, Cora- Derek’s sister-”

“School. The holidays. Anything.” Everything.

“So, you didn’t notice anything suspicious?”

There were too many shadows. Stiles knew he was probably being paranoid, like he always was when there was a chance his dad could get hurt. He shakes off the strange feeling as something passes the window and catches his eye. When he turns, though, it’s gone and there’s a lithe black cat pawing at the glass.

“No. Not that I recall.”

“What time did you leave the diner?”

“We should be getting home. I’ve got an early one tomorrow and I believe you have some research on faeries to get to.” Stiles rolls his eyes and peeks at his watch. 10:03 PM.

“Ten. We left at ten. I remember checking my watch after my dad mentioned he had an early shift tomorrow.” He doesn’t mention the faeries.

The man next to Scott’s dad notes something down.

“What happened then, once you left?”

The waitress giving them their bill winks at Stiles and he tries to hide his blush. His dad is chuckling and he slaps him on the arm lightly, telling him to shut up, Dad.

They pay and once they’re outside, Stiles can’t help but shiver. Something’s wrong, he thinks. It shouldn’t be this cold, something’s-

He barely notices the gun. It’s trained at his dad and he feels his breath catch in his throat. Neither of them move and he can feel his dad tensing.

“Stiles, don’t move.” His dad says when he thinks his son is going to do something immeasurably brave and idiotic. He clears his throat. “Please, let my son go- we’ll give you anything you wan-”

But the man with the sad eyes is shaking his head and his lips are tightening. He looks about as tall as his dad and he’s wearing all black, except for the boots- brown, Stiles thinks, brown and like something out of Wild Wild West. He doesn’t comment, just thinks about somehow contacting his pack because there’s a crazy man about to shoot his dad.

“I’m sorry.” And then he’s moving the gun, and it’s on Stiles and if his dad hadn’t been the Sheriff there’s no way he would have been able to push his son away in time.

There’s a bang, a choked sob, and sirens because Stiles thinks someone must have seen and called the police. The man is standing and his dad is falling, he’s rushing to his dad and calling his name but there’s still a gun aimed at his forehead.

But the man just runs.

His knuckles are white and he can almost feel the mug cracking beneath his grip. Scott’s hand is on his when he realises he’s almost broken the handle and he quickly catches his breath and places his palm flat on the table.

He thinks over the memory and remembers. How could he have forgotten?

“-Stiles, Stiles!”

And then he’s back in reality ad he shakes his head.

“Sorry, I just…”

“It’s okay. Just tell me what happened.”

He takes another breath when Derek’s fingers run along his arm.

“We left the diner, and we were walking down the alley to the jeep- and then there was this man, neither of us noticed him until he was pointing the gun.” He bites his lip. “He just, he told us not to move. Not to try anything, and then there was a bang and-” he stops there.

“He didn’t ask for money? Anything?”

No, he wanted to kill Stiles. He was going to kill him, except he didn’t. And why were his eyes so sad?

“It looked like he was going to take anything he wanted anyway.” Derek’s fingers tighten. “And then he heard sirens and just freaked.”

The agent does a double take, “So he heard the sirens and then just left?” he shakes his head, “Why would he shoot the Sheriff dead and then leave a witness?”

Stiles forces himself not to flinch and downs as much coffee as he can. It scolds his tongue but the pain tethers him from the memories.

“So he didn’t say anything?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

*

It’s only after he’s given the description (minus the sad eyes) and when they’re out of the station and in the car does Stiles tell them what he remembered.

Derek looks a short thread from furious, and Scott has to calm him down by leaning over Stiles and telling him they’ll get the bastard. There’s a moment when Melissa’s driving back and she’s asking if he’s okay and he’s honestly unsure how he’s supposed to answer that.

So he doesn’t. He just meets her eyes in the mirror and places his own hand on the Werewolf’s arm.

“He was going to kill you, Stiles. This is because of us, because you’re part of our pack.” He seems angry with himself and Stiles wants to laugh. Why should Derek be mad? He’s the one that got his dad killed.

His dad took a bullet for him. It was like Stiles killed him himself. God, he wants to laugh at the irony. He tried so hard to protect the only family he has left and instead he kills them.

He’s about to say so when Scott’s phone vibrates beside him. He’s quick to answer but doesn’t take his hand from Stiles’ and he’s thankful.

Stiles doesn’t need to strain his ears or have supernatural hearing to know its Peter on the other side of the phone. They’ve found something.

It’s only when Scott puts down the phone that realises how much they have found.

“They’ve found a jacket, abandoned. It matches the description of the one you gave last night. They think they can follow the scent and find him.” Scott’s telling him except it doesn’t make sense because why would the guy just up and leave the one thing that can be used to find him?

But Derek is nodding and Melissa’s stopping the car. Derek tells him they’ll call him as soon as they find something and he doesn’t say he wants to help, because right now he just wants to collapse. They get out of the car where Melissa dropped them off and rush into the woods.

Scott’s mum tells him to come sit beside her in the passenger seat and he does, leaning his head against the window.

The ride is silent until another police car races beside them and it takes everything in Stiles not to break down and cry right there and then.

He doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to really understand that he’ll never be able to see his dad again. He won’t hear him laugh or cry or scold him. He’ll never- god, he’ll just… never.

“Stiles, Stiles, are you alright?” Melissa’s asking him and he clears his throat because suddenly everything’s so overwhelming. No, no he is not alright. He’s not fine, he’s really, really not.

“I’m fine.”

Except he’s sure she can see through his lie, but he bring himself to care right now because where did the weight on his back come from? It’s so heavy. Everything’s so heavy, it’s weighing him down, and he really just needs to get out of the car.

Somehow he finds his voice.

“Ms McCall, could you, possibly-” She knows what he’s going to say before he says it, and he’s thankful. He’s kind of afraid on wasting his breath on words.

They’re pulling over and no sooner than they stop does he unbuckle his belt and rush into the wood to his right. She’s calling after him, and he can hear her, but it’s not like he’ll go far. It’s not like he can.

Instead, he finds a tree and collapses against it because he has never felt more alone. More alone and more sick.

He throws up to his side even though he’s barely had anything to eat. His arms are shaking so badly he doesn’t think they can hold him up, and then there’s a hand on his back, pulling him to lie against the tree trunk.

Scott’s mum’s arms are around him, and he’s collapsing against her. Tears are cascading down from the prison of his eyelashes and god, he can’t do this. His dad’s dead, he’s gone and he’s got no one now. No more family because someone shot the Sheriff, and he’s lying in a mortuary somewhere and Stiles will ever see him again because he’s dead.

Dead.

And oh god, he can’t do this. He can’t, he can’tcan’tcan’t. Stiles is so cold and alone and his dad’s gone and he isn’t coming back. No one ever comes back. Not even his dad because he’s dead and this really shouldn’t have happened. He chokes on a sob and Melissa’s holding him tighter and she’s crying too, her tears soaking his hair where her chin’s resting.

God, he just wants this to be over. He just wants his dad back, and god, he can’t do this. There’s not point to this because he’s so alone now.

It was a Tuesday night when his dad died. And part of Stiles died along with him.

*

He doesn’t know how long they’re out in the woods, but it’s definitely past noon when they stumble back into the car and keep driving.

They don’t say anything, and Stiles is thankful. He doesn’t think he’s quite ready.

Its only when they’re almost at the intersection does Stiles speak.

“Take me home.” He doesn’t need to elaborate because he knows she’s fully aware of what he means. She looks like she’s about to protest when, “please.” And suddenly they’re taking a left instead of a right.

His house looks the same as it ever had. The only way anyone could tall anything was wrong is by looking at the tear tracks on his face and the trembling of his hands. He tries not to dwell on it.

Once he’s able to make his legs work as they should, he’s walking to front door and Melissa’s behind him. It doesn’t matter that he’s forgotten his keys, because there’s once in the empty slot in the door frame where his dad-

He clears his throat (and his vision). The key hole doesn’t seem to want to stay still, he thinks as his quivering fingers fail to insert the key probably. Damn thing.

But before he can curse because stay still god damn it, there’s a hand on his and the key’s finally in the slot. He sends Scott’s mum a grateful look and makes his way inside.

Everything’s the same. Everything’s familiar and normal and reminds him of his dad, and suddenly he’s not sure he can do this. God, why is he even here? He shouldn’t be here, not now, not so soon after…

But Melissa’s hand is on his shoulder and he moves to take a step forth, and his phone vibrates in his pocket.

He answers quickly and out of instinct and just wants something to get out of this because he really, honestly doesn’t want to.

“Stiles.” Scott is breathless and Stiles strains his ears. “We found him.”

*

When they get to Derek’s old burnt house, they park beside his sleek black Camaro and rush inside, where Scott’s waiting for them.

He looks over his best friend’s appearance once before giving him a weak smile and hugging him and Stiles basically melts into his touch. It’s nice he thinks, this. After all, he has given up so much for it, and more.

When Scott lets go, it’s to lead Stiles and his mum by the arm to the main room where everyone else is waiting. They need to be sure they have the right guy; they need conformation for something they already know. They just need Stiles’ permission to tear him to pieces.

They make way for him and Derek is instantly by his side, whispering softly in his ear.

“If it gets too much, just leave.” He nods inaudibly and then he sees a chair in the centre of the otherwise bear room. It’s metal and the man on it is facing away from him, making him take a deep breath and take a few steps so that he could see his face.

He’s wearing black, all black, and Stiles notices the deep brown boots. He doesn’t need to see his face or explain the chills which suddenly rake his body to know that this is the man responsible.

And then the man in the chair tilts his head upwards, and all Stiles can see is the man who killed his father.

He wants to be angry, he knows he should be. He knows he should be furious, that he should want to tear the man apart with his own hands. But when he meets those sad, sad eyes, all he can think is why.

He doesn’t need to say it for the pack to understand. He’s sure they can see it in his orbs. They’re empty, he thinks. Or they should be, because right now, he doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling.

He doesn’t even know if he’s feeling anything.

There’s silence and his shoulders slump further beneath the invisible weight. The man with the jet black hair and terribly forlorn eyes holds his gaze, and he makes no comment. No move to apologise or snare or make a horribly ironic joke. All Stiles gets from the man is pale skin littered with bruises and eyes that will haunt him until the day he joins his father.

Maybe, he thinks, that won’t be too far away.

He doesn’t know if this is supposed to be how it goes. In films they’re always showing flashbacks, moments triggered by certain things. Like seeing his father’s killer.

Except it doesn’t. He isn’t teleported back to the scene. He isn’t lost in a wave of tragic memories. This man isn’t an assassin or mercenary or evil. Stiles isn’t even sure he’s killed anyone before this.

He wants himself to hate the man who took so much (everything) from him, but he knows the man has lost just as much. He wonders how they made him do it. Maybe they killed his kid, his wife, his brother. He’s really trying to hate the man, but he wonders if he would have done any different if someone threatened to kill his dad.

He doesn’t think about it long.

Derek’s suddenly behind him and Stiles can hear his claws unsheathing. He doesn’t move.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

He barely nods, but the other man understands.

Then he’s leaving the room with Scott and Derek is moving closer to the man. He’s out of the house before he can hear the screaming.

He can’t bring himself to hate the man, but he can’t bring himself to be merciful either.

*

The funeral is on Wednesday.

Or so they tell him. He hasn’t made up his mind if he actually wants to go.

He’s in the McCall’s house again, as he’s been for the past week. He tries not the think about the reflection staring back at him from the mirror. It’s someone he barely recognises. He knows it’s him with the black sweat pants hanging of too slim hips, him with the dark bruising circles beneath his eyes and too prominent cheekbones he had been sure would appear. He’s gotten thinner, too. It would have calm as a surprise to him the amount of weight someone can lose in about six days if the edges of his ribs and the slightness of his wrists weren’t staring back at him.

He’s paler than he’s been in a long time, and there’s a look in his eyes. It’s the look of someone who hasn’t slept more than two hours a night without waking up in cold sweat and imaginary blood on his hands, someone who’s barely eaten or spoken and has definitely not laughed in a good, long while. He’s deteriorating, and it’s never been more obvious.

It hurts to smile, now. He’s tried, practicing in the mirror when no one was around. His lips would stretch but it would hurt because of how forced it was, and it would never reach his eyes anyway. After a few days, he’d given up.

When he steps into the shower, the water’s freezing cold. He doesn’t move as it drips onto his back in an onslaught of rain because it’s the first think he’s really felt since that night. The cold is his anchor now, it keeps him awake and alive and moving. It’s painfully refreshing.

After he knows about ten minutes has passed, he steps out of the shower and his eyes glance at the razer hanging from the glass cabinet. He’s never wanted anything more.

Except he forces his hand to stay still or draw back every time, because he knows that if he reaches it he won’t just make scars. He won’t stop halfway. He’ll take the razer and run across both his wrists and maybe even his neck, and he’s afraid to even think about it. So he moves away again and reminds himself that he’ll be hurting his best friend more than anyone if he finds Stiles dead on his bathroom floor. Just think of the mess.

It’s only after he’s changed into a sweater of a colour he can’t concentrate on and taken his Adderall does he make his decision about the funeral.

He’ll go, because after all, he’s screwed up everything for his dad. Hell, he’s even screwed up his life.

He doesn’t need to ruin his death, too.

*

There’s a ceremony, but Stiles doesn’t go, so naturally, neither does Scott and Miss McCall and Derek and Isaac and the rest of his pack. Instead they sit around the coffee table and the Alphas tell them about the pack that sent the man- they’re young and vicious and territorial and Derek promises him they’ll be dealt with ‘accordingly’.

He isn’t quite sure what that means, and apparently his simple nod doesn’t satisfy the older man.

“Stiles, we’re doing your dad justice. We’ll get these bastards and we’ll make them regret the day they decided to hurt one of our pack. We’ll get you your revenge.”

And then words are coming out of his mouth and he doesn’t know how to stop them.

It starts with a soft bitter chuckle that hurts every bit as attempting to smile, maybe even more so. And then,

“You think this is about revenge, Derek?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. It’s rhetorical. “My dad’s dead, do you understand that? I’ll never see him again. The only thing I’ll ever remember him by is bleeding out in my arms because of the mess I got him into. His voice wakes me up at night, it’s wheezing and coughing and telling me to save him but I can’t, Derek, and revenge won’t change that. I got him into this, I practically killed him myself-” And Derek wants to say something, but he needs to say this, “If its revenge I want I might as well kill myself.”

He leaves the other man there speechless and thinks that maybe he will. Maybe revenge is all it takes to end this nightmare.

*

On the day of the funeral, he can’t find his Adderall. When he notices the razor missing from the bathroom and the scissors from the desk, he knows Derek has told the McCalls. He tries not to feel betrayed, and then remembers he doesn’t quite remember how anything feels anymore.

He doesn’t think about it as he goes downstairs and finds his pills in the cabinet where at least one person can see him. He doesn’t even know if there are enough pills to kill him left; he can do some serious damage, sure, but he’s never been one for leaving things half undone.

*

It’s Deaton who brings his suit with Stiles’ key. He hasn’t been back at his house for some time, and really doesn’t want to think about when he’ll return.

The vet gives him a look and sighs when he sees Stiles staring at his reflection on the Wednesday. He’s wearing the suit; it hangs of his shoulders and hips slightly because of the weight loss and is long enough to slide past his wrists. He looks ash-pale against the black, and feels the same way too.

It’s only when he’s trying to do up his tie does the vet come into view. He doesn’t say anything as he adjusts it; the way Stiles’ dad used to. He wants to force the tears back when he remembers there aren’t any. Not anymore.

Deaton leaves a lingering hand on his shoulder before he’s off again, and driving to meet them at the burial site.

*

He’s standing by the coffin when they’re lowering it. There’s a white rose in his hand and the priest is saying something about the Sheriff’s loving memory. He wants to role his eyes because there are about a hundred people here and only his pack knows anything about his dad’s loving memory, and they’d only met him a few months ago.

His hair falls in front of his eyes when he has to put the rose in the hole in the ground, where his dad’s corpse is. He wonders where he is now, and hopes he’s in a better place than Stiles.

He’s stiff and ignores the hugs and pats on the back and pity he’s receiving from people who are practically total strangers after the burial. Other than his pack, his dad’s colleagues are the only ones he really cares enough to acknowledge, but even then it’s obvious he isn’t trying hard.

He’s glad he didn’t have to make a speech. He thinks it would have probably turned into a note, and that’s what people do, isn’t it? They leave notes.

*

When he’s finally at Scott’s house the first thing he does is change. He’s back into some old sweater and jeans and leaves the suit in a miserable heap on the floor. He knows the first chance he’ll get, he’ll burn it.

He’s sitting down on the bed, not sure what to think. Today has just made it official. There are photos in newspapers and articles in magazines because as of now, the Sheriff of Beacon Hills is officially dead.

He isn’t sure what possess him to walk downstairs a few minutes later, when he isn’t surrounded by anyone. They’re trying to give him space and he’s thankful for it.

He finds the back door and easily slips out, his legs taking him in a route all too familiar to him.

*

When he finally has the nerve to enter his house, his legs are shaking and his breaths are quick and uneven.

He’s used the spare key and it’s clutched tight enough in his hand to dig grooves in his palm. He ignores it though, because he’s finally here, he’s home and it’s for real this time. No one’s with him so there’s no need to restrain himself. He hopes the others are smart enough not to look for him.

For a moment after he closes the door gently behind him, he manages to hold himself together. And then he’s looking, really looking, and the wooden panels and the staircase and the shelves and the photos and the memories, and he cannot help but lose himself.

His knees are buckling but he’s still standing, his free hand gripping the doorframe, and all he can think about is how unfair this is.

His dad’s dead, and it hurts. God, does it hurt. Almost as much as knowing that it’s his fault.

He barely notices when the key slips from his fingers and slides through his bloody palm, landing with a soft thump on the carpet. And then he loses himself.

The first frame that comes crashing down is off the dining table, along with the glasses and paperwork they’d forgotten to clean up. Everything’s crashing down and it’s making a mess but Stiles can’t really bring himself to care because it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters anymore.

He barely notices when he’s pushed over the chair or shelf or the mantelpiece, because he’s letting out everything he’s held in for the past week. All the pain and the agony and god why did it have to be this way?  Everything’s suddenly weighing down on him, everything he’s pretended didn’t matter or didn’t exist because it’s so god damn real and it does. It’s drowning him, pulling him under, and when his legs finally give in and he’s lying against the wall, does he fully realise what it means.

There’s a photo in his hands. The frame has spider-web cracks running from one of the edges and it’s stained red from the blood leaking through his fingers. It’s of him and his dad and his mum and it was so, so long ago, and yet he remembers it as if it were yesterday. They’re smiling and they’re happy and now they’re both dead, gone, and he’s killed them.

He barely registers his tears falling onto the ruined frame with the cracked wood until it mingles with the blood and he can hear the first sob choking him. His knuckles tighten around it and there’s another audible crack as the glass shatters and cuts open his palm further, but he’s thankful for the pain. It takes him away from the sadness a bit, the agony, the blame, the loneliness.

He was so, so alone.

It’s when his eyes are drying with tears he didn’t know he could cry did he really notice his pathetic state. Lying amidst a room of ruins with nothing but memories and pain to hold him together. Memories that he wanted to forget and pain which was fading to hollowness. He was falling apart and he knew it.

It took every inch of determination to stand, his bones creaking in angry protest. He’s shaken for a minute, before his legs are walking before he’s able to make up his mind and he’s climbing the stairs with the frame clutched in his hand and leaving drops of blood as a trail to follow.

When he finally gets there, he twists the knob and steps into his parent’s room, or what used to be it. He doesn’t really know why he’s here, only that he needs to be. His feet are shuffling forward and he doesn’t stand to look around, doesn’t stand around and remember because all he’ll find is loneliness; and that’s the worst pain of all.

Before he knows it, he’s pulling back the covers on the bed. He doesn’t even take off his shoes; he just climbs in and lies down in the middle with the bloodied frame clutched in his cut hand a pressed against his chest. It’s ruining the sheets are dying them a deep red and for a short moment Stiles wonders how deep it actually is, before he realises that it doesn’t really matter.

His dad is dead, his mom is dead, and he’s killed them both. All he has to wallow in is what used to be them before everything went to hell. Before his mother was diagnosed and before his father took a bullet to the chest for him.

He curls deeper in on himself and feels a sadness like never before, like the one in the man’s eyes. He thinks that maybe he has them too now, those eyes, and hopes to god he’s wrong.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

*

When he wakes, it’s because someone’s pounding on the door downstairs and are being entirely too loud for his liking.

His eyes snap open and he rubs at them, feeling the dry tear tracks on his cheeks and wanting to do nothing more than succumb to his sudden exhaustion. But he pulls himself up, because if he doesn’t there are going to be more than a few angry Werewolves breaking into his house and he doesn’t really need that right now.

He’s slightly surprised to see the sheets stained in so much red when he pulls the covers off himself, and realises that his hand hadn’t just gone stiff, it’d gone numb all together.

Maybe that should worry him.

He drags himself from the bed on surprisingly stable legs and leaves the photo there, lying on the ruin sheets as a statement of what used to be. Nothing more than a memory he thinks he wants to forget forever.

He looks down at the cut on his palm as he’s walking down the stairs and towards the incessant knocking (and Scott’s calling his name, he sounds worried), and sees that it’s actually deeper than he assumed. It’s long and jagged and diagonal, and it’s bleeding. Maybe that’s why his head’s spinning.

He ignores it because it doesn’t hurt right now and presses it against his jeans where he hopes they won’t notice, then realises that the blood is leaking down is fingers and it’d be blandly obvious to a blind man let alone to a trained pack of Werewolves. He sighs and shoves it into his pocket, hoping, if somewhat feebly, that they won’t catch onto the scent of iron.

Who was he kidding?

He doesn’t think about it as pulls open the door before someone can break it and sees his hazardous reflection in Scott’s eyes, who’s standing there and suddenly pulling him into a hug.

“Damn it, Stiles, what the hell? We were so freaked out man-” and then he notices the look in his best friends eyes and rests a hand on his shoulder.

Derek is behind him, and Isaac’s there too, and they all look… worried. He almost frowns.

“Sorry,” he says in a raspy voice then winces, “didn’t realise I was gone so long.” He wonders how much time has passed when Isaac lifts a delicate eyebrow.

“Dude, it’s been like four hours. What’d you fall asleep or something?” When Stiles tilts his head, Isaac lets out a knowing oh.

“What’s that?” Derek’s noticed then, by the way he’s lifting his nose and sniffing into the air. Before Stiles has any time to do anything, his hand’s being pulled out of his pocket and everyone’s suddenly staring at the deep gash on his palm.

He does everything in his power not to sink into the ground and disappear.

*

Two hours later, he’s sitting down on a surprisingly comfortable plastic chair and wriggling his fingers, careful not to disturb the bandages beneath where Deaton stitched his hand.

Nineteen stitches, it took, and a small dose of painkillers. It’s been cleared, and now the only evidence of the cut but besides the bandages and the future scar is the light crimson blood staining the edge of his sweater and the inside of his pocket. There’s no permanent damage, and the vet says he had been very lucky, and that if he hadn’t come to him chances of an infection would have been significantly higher.

He’s already thanked the doctor and he really doesn’t know what else the man wants him to say, though it’s obviously something by the looks he keeps shooting him. Stiles thinks he’s trying to be discreet, and doesn’t quite blame him for not asking him outright, even though he wishes he would.

Derek and Isaac and Scott haven’t left and haven’t exactly looked him in the eye since they found him at the house. So far, after the drive, no one has mentioned it. He wonders who they’ll tell first when the get to Scott’s house. He thinks it’ll probably be Melissa or Allison.

Derek’s waiting by the corner a few feet from him while Isaac and Scott are outside. They’re talking softly, and Stiles can’t hear them but he doesn’t need to know who they’re talking about.

He’s waiting for the painkillers Deaton’s going to find him, because apparently it’s going to be a tough one, and he’d best not aggravate it if he doesn’t want permanent damage. Stiles holds himself from asking if it actually matters.

When it seems like the vet’s going to take a while longer, he spares a glance at the Werewolf a metre beside him. Derek seems… nervous, slightly. Maybe nervous isn’t really the right word, in fact, Stiles knows it’s not. It just looks like the older man has something to say but is painfully holding it back.

He hates when they do that.

“What? If you’ve got something to say, Derek, say it.” Derek doesn’t seem fazed at his statement and Stiles isn’t that surprised. There’s a moment of silence before the Werewolf moves and sits down on the chair beside him. There’s something tense about his features, and it makes Stiles all the more curious.

He takes a breath.

“It doesn’t get easier.”

He doesn’t reply.

Derek shifts slightly closer to him and turns himself so that he’s facing Stiles, and holding his gaze. Stiles suddenly wants to look away. He doesn’t, only tilts his head in question but doesn’t speak.

Derek licks his lips, and Stiles finds himself following the movement.

“It... There’s no getting over it, but you can get past it.” Stiles still doesn’t say anything, so he continues. “It’ll hurt. For a long time, it’ll hurt, but eventually you start remembering him with memories- good memories, memories that make you smile, or laugh.” He wonders where this is going. He knows how hard this must be for Derek, but he honestly doesn’t think he’ll be getting over anything anytime soon, and it scares him. “Just, just don’t lose yourself. Don’t lose yourself with him, because he’s gone and you’re still here.”

He doesn’t remember whether he’d nodded because suddenly his visions blurring and Derek, Derek freakin’ Hale is pulling him into a hug.

It’s a little awkward and a little uncomfortable but it’s just what he needs and he clings to Derek’s shirt, a little like he did with Scott that night, but something at the back of his mind tells him his relationship with Derek is far more different.

His face is buried in Derek’s shoulder when he remembers his mother, how he watched her die much like his father, and he remembers what he told him that night.

Stay strong, because that’s what Stilinskis do, Stiles, we stay strong and we fight and we survive.

We survive.

And it seems like, in the moment enveloped in Derek’s arms with something strange- something he’s never felt before stirring in his chest (something perhaps not completely platonic), he thinks that he might be able to.

We survive.

*

He goes back to school two days later.

It’s a start of a new term, and it goes exactly how he expects.

Scott’s with him at the gates, and so are Isaac and Allison. They’ve formed some sort of pack around him, with their light brushes and hands at his shoulder, and he thinks he can’t be more grateful for anything else right now.

People stare. They stare and look sympathetic and whisper behind their hands, and Stiles keeps his gaze on his friends or his shoes and they’re pulling him into a conversation because they notice what’s happening too. They’re acting normal and he is too, they’re talking about work and the coach and lacrosse and studying, and it anchors him back to reality.

When the bell rings and he’s at his locker with Scott, he sees her.

Lydia’s practically running towards him and there’s a moment of surprise when she throws her arms around him and whispers that she’s sorry in base of his neck. It’s strange, but she’s warm and a comfort so he throws his arms around her and hugs her back.

Before they go to class, he learns she’s been overseas the last few weeks. She tells him it’d been France and he asks her if it was nice. She smiles and nods and looks like she’s about to cry, but her hand’s on his wrist and she holds it in, because if it’s one things Lydia’s been for him, it’s strong.

It’s Economics first and when they enter it goes all quiet. No one whispers and Danny spares him a glance and a small smile from the front as they take their seats at the back.

It’s so tense Stiles feels like he could choke if he took a deep enough breath when the coach walks in, and for once, he’s thankful.

The man finds his eyes and they soften, before he starts the lesson with a listen up folks, and ignores him for the next seventy-five minutes. Scott shoots him a smile from the side at the coach’s antics and he’s never been more grateful for the spontaneous man.

An hour and fifteen minutes and a long lesson on taxes and investment later, the bell’s ringing and they’re being dismissed. A few people spare him a few looks and shy smiles but they don’t say anything, and he’s glad. He’s not sure what they would say if anyone asked him about it.

They’re the last to leave, Scott and Lydia at either side of him when he hears a distinct,

“Stilinski!”

He pauses.

“Go ahead,” he tells his friends, “It’ll only be a sec.” Scott frowns with those adorable puppy dog eyes before saying,

“You sure?” When Stiles nods he replies, “’Kay, we’ll be right outside.” Stiles rolls his eyes at his best friend and Lydia when they leave, before turning around and facing his lacrosse coach, something akin to dread resting in his stomach.

The man looks as he ever has, with his crazy hair and his crazy eyes and it makes Stiles almost forget about the sad man. He wonders how he looks to the coach now, twenty pounds lighter and with circles dark enough around his eyes to belong to someone thirty-five, maybe forty. He doesn’t think about how his sweater hangs of his shoulders and the belt he’s poked extra holes in hidden underneath.

Finstock’s silent for a moment before he inches closer to Stiles, who re-adjusts his bag strap impulsively. The man just looks at him for a second, as if he’s analysing an open book, before he says anything.

“Your dad was a good man.” Stiles doesn’t reply, only nods. He seems to be doing that a lot these days. “He would have been proud of you.” And I’m sure he was lies down there somewhere, but the Coach doesn’t saying. He’s dismissing Stiles who doesn’t know what surprises him more, the fact that his coach seemed sober today or that he was so sure of his second statement.

He’s dazed and just a little confused when he meets Scott and Lydia outside the classroom.

*

He’s on his second break with the pack (who are trying to act as normal as possible, thank you very much) and he’s feeling every bit suffocated from the looks he’s been getting all day. He tries to tell himself that it’s fine; he knew it would be like this, but he can’t help but feel like every damn whisper is pulling him down. It takes all his will and Isaac’s hand on his wrist not to snap at a couple staring and murmuring without having the decency to be discreet.

He’s on his second break when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

At first, he thinks its Melissa or, surprising enough, Peter, who’d already called him before school and at first break. When he pulls it out though, it reads Derek.

He won’t lie and say he isn’t surprised. He’d barely spoken to the Werewolf since that time at the clinic, but they’d shared more than a few glances. Stiles still doesn’t know what most of them meant.

He tells the guys he’s going outside for a bit, and waves around the phone. They nod and Allison’s the first to ask if he needs someone with him, already packing up her stuff and almost getting up to follow him.

The corners of his eyes lift slightly and he motions for her to sit, says he’ll be fine and it’ll only take a sec, ‘cause it’s only Derek and what could he possibly want to say?

She nods and they all share a look he doesn’t quite get, but when his phone vibrates again he’s pressing answer and rushing outside.

By the time it’s to his ear and he’s saying hello he’s outside the cafeteria and leaning again the building, the soft breeze running through his hair.

There’s a moment of hesitance on the either side before,

“Stiles, it’s ugh, me, Derek” Part of him wants to say, uh- duh, but it’s quick and goes away only to be replaced by,

“Derek, hi. What-” he doesn’t know what to say, isn’t sure how this is supposed to go. He thinks it’s strange, a few weeks ago he wouldn’t have minded telling Derek to buzz off, I’m off from nine to five, but he doesn’t, because somehow that doesn’t seem quite appropriate at the moment. Instead he swallows inaudibly, “Did you, ugh, need something?” He hates being this awkward, but right now it seems he can’t help it.

“No- no, I was just, you know, checking on you. Seeing if you were okay.” Apparently his awkwardness is infectious, because dear god, Derek bloody Hale actually sounds nervous. What the hell has his world become?

“Uh, yeah, I’m- you know, fine. It’s…” he searches for the right word before settling rather lamely on, “fine.”

He can almost hear the older man chuckling on the other side of the phone and feels something flutter in his chest. He isn’t sure what it is, or why it’s there, because he’s had tons of people ask if he was okay, wishing him well. He doesn’t know why it’s suddenly Derek who has butterflies roaming his stomach.  He pushes the idea back.

“Good.” There’s a silence and neither of them are sure of what to say. Stiles licks his lips because his throat’s suddenly dry, and since when did that happen? He feels his palm sweating and resists the urge to bang his head against the building behind him. What in the holy hell was happening to him? “Good, that’s… I should go now, I mean since you’ve got school and everything…” he trails off and Stiles’ heart is thumping so hard in his chest he fears Derek will hear it.

“Yeah, I guess. Thanks- though. I mean, for calling.”

Derek takes a moment to answer, “Do you have anything after school?”

Stiles’ eyes widen. His heart seems about to break his ribcage. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Except it was the good kind of breathlessness, not like he was drowning. Not like he’d felt the rest of the day, it was the kind you had in anticipation, the kind that came with a good feeling. (He hadn’t felt like this in such a long time…)

“Yes,” but then he breathes and realises he’s said that out loud, “I mean no, nothing- I’ve, ugh, got nothing after school. To do, that is. I’m free. After school.” He wants to slap himself because this was Derek, just Derek, why the heck was he acting like some lovesick teenager? He almost groans.

“Did you want to come ‘round? I could show you the new apartment- I mean, since everyone else’s pretty much seen it, I thought we could, well. If you want to, I mean. It’s no big d-”

“Yeah. Yes, I’ll drop by after school.”

“Okay.” Derek says.

“Okay.” He replies.

When he closes the phone he feels something tugging at his lips. It’s light and almost unnoticeable but Stiles can feel it like the first rain of Fall.

It’s a smile, and it’s the first one he’s smiled since that night.

*

He’s nervous when he drives to Derek. Derek’s. Derek’s apartment, he isn’t driving to Derek. Well he is, sort of, but not really because it’s only to show him what everyone else’s seen, and Derek’ll be there because it’s his apartment and Stiles doesn’t have a key to show himself around.

Yes, he tells himself, he’s driving to Derek’s apartment only because he hasn’t seen it before. And Derek is showing him around. That’s as much as there is to it.

He doesn’t remember ever feeling quite as nervous as this.

He knows it isn’t exactly happiness he’s feeling, because yes, Derek’s showing him around and Derek’s smiling over the phone, and Derek actually cares, but his dad’s still gone and will always be gone and nothing will change that. Not even Derek.

But for a while, he can escape it. It makes him feel guiltier than he already is, because it hasn’t even been two weeks and he’s already trying to forget. It makes him feel uncomfortable but he knows that if he doesn’t get away from his friends and how they tread on eggshells around him, how everyone holds their breath when he enters the room, how not even Scott will look him in the eye, he knows that if he doesn’t get away from it, it will drown him. It will suffocate him and pull him so far down that he’ll never breathe again.

So yeah, he’ll face the guilt and anxiousness and the insomnia later, but for now, he’ll forget.

When he gets to the address he’s been texted, Derek’s there. It isn’t much of a surprise really, but Stiles still gets that strange fluttering feeling in his stomach like something’s going far too right to last. He really wants it to get away.

The apartment, from the outside, is modern and stylish and looks like history all at the same time. It’s on the first floor for easy access, and there are no large windows and several doors made for easy escape. It screams Derek even from a distance.

He’s getting out of the car and rubbing his palms on his denim jeans. He thinks that his dad would have laughed at him if he could, he would have teased him mercilessly because Stiles, are you shy?

He stops thinking about his dad because he wants to feel himself laugh again, even though it feels like the entire world is against him.

Well, he thinks when he sees Derek standing by the door in a leather jacket and jeans and a small ready smile, maybe not the entire world.

His feet are moving, and he’s relying on them tremendously, because he really does not want to trip right now. There are like, four steps up to the door and tripping would really not be a good idea.

But then again, from this angle, if he did fall, Derek would catch him.

Something tells him he means that in more than one way, but he shuts it’s up because he doesn’t need this. Not right now.

When he’s finally there, a million miles later, the older man is tilting his head and offering him a slightly surprised grin, as if he hadn’t been sure Stiles would actually come.

All he does is motion with his head,

“Come on in.”

And Stiles does.

*

The inside is just as nice as the outside.

The rooms are completely furnished in leather and satin and wooden desks. There’s a kitchen and a lounge room and a master bedroom and then some. The study with the vintage books and crimson rug is something his dad would have liked, he thinks. Something old and new simultaneously, something that reeked of freshly printed pages and sounded like the tapping of a keyboard constantly at work.

It doesn’t take long to see the whole place. In fact, it’s surprisingly quick and silent, except it’s not the uncomfortable silence the sweat on Stile’s palms is telling him it should be. It’s relaxed and they don’t make small talk to fill it. Instead, there’s him and Derek and light fingers at his elbow and his back that linger, and Stiles immediately misses their warmth when they leave.

He doesn’t say anything of this though.

It’s when their finished and they’ve found themselves on the couch does Stiles notice that the sun’s still up and bright and he really doesn’t want to leave because when he does, the weight will be back and there’ll be pity and sympathy and it will drown him.

He’s frowning at the window as if it’s personally done something wrong with him when Derek’s setting pizza down and he’s asking him which season of Game of Thrones he wants to watch before season four comes out, and Stiles is asking him if he’s got Empire Strikes back because he’s already read the books.

There’s a smile in Derek’s eyes when he gets out the Episode, and they sit through the entire thing debating whether it was better than Return of the Jedi. And then they’re watching Golden Eye and Temple of Doom and skipping that one episode in season three- because it’s got too much red and Stiles doesn’t want to watch it for more than one reason.

He doesn’t feel the sun going down, or the time ticking by. All he feels is Derek as they huddle in the coach together watching Tyrion Lannister and Jon Snow and forgetting the entire world for what it was.

It’s only when his phone is buzzing and Scott’s worried voice is yelling at him from the other side because Stiles, damn it- I was so worried, you missed like, ten of my calls! Does he realise that it’s well past midnight and he’s laughed more in those few hours than he had the entire past month; even before the man with the sad eyes.

And it scares him, because his dad just died and he’s laughing and happy and hasn’t thought about it in hours. It scares him because when he’s leaving, driving off into the dark, there’s the guilt and fear he knew would come back, and not even the sound of Derek’s reassuring voice in his head can calm him down. The weight is back, and it’s heavier than ever because he can’t bring himself to regret those smiles.

The weight is back and heavy on him, and he knows he deserves it.

*

Nine days after his father’s death and two since his night with Derek, they convince him to see a shrink.

By ‘they’ he means the McCalls and the Argents and Isaac and Lydia, as well as the Hales. Even Derek. So what he really means is that the entire pack makes him see a therapist.

He doesn’t think he needs one, and not just because he really doesn’t want to be telling a total stranger about his insomnia and suffocation and how he can’t quite seem to get the red of his hands. It isn’t just because he doesn’t want to tell the guy that his dad’s dead and it’s the second parent he’s killed, and that after a week he’s laughing and smiling and watching reruns of Game of Thrones with a Werewolf. (It was one night, one. It hasn’t happened since and Stiles doesn’t think he wants it to, because it’s fun and he forgets himself but the guilt afterwards is almost unbearable.)

Rather, it’s because he doesn’t want the man finding out more than necessary. He’ll ask about how Stiles’ day has been, if he knows his friends are worried, how he feels and Stiles, this is an hour you paid for. He knows he’ll open his mouth and the funny feeling will be back and he’ll think about Derek and how disappointed his dad would’ve been. If he hadn’t been dead, of course.

He knows that in the session he’ll find out more about himself and he’ll think over the strange fluttering in the pit of his stomach and the sick feeling of self-loathing which always comes afterwards, and he’ll admit what it actually means.

Stiles doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that yet.

But he doesn’t say any of this. He tries to put it off, but it only takes a few hours and a favour from an old Hale family-friend, and he’s standing outside an old wooden door with Scott driving off, promising to be back before the sixty minutes is up.

He vaguely considers reminding him what an unnecessary and pointless idea this is, because talking to some guy he’s never met won’t stop his eyes searching for that razer after he’s had a shower or how many of his pills he’d have to take to be fatal. He already knows, and this won’t change that.

But he doesn’t say anything, because his friend is trying and at the moment that’s more than enough for him.

So he opens the door, mentally prepares himself, and greets the man on the other side.

*

The man’s nice.

That’s the only way Stiles is sure to describe him. He’s got a head of snow white hair and a neat beard, and warm hazel and a small smile that remind him too much of his dad, even though the guy’s at least three decades older.

He wears black framed glasses that are attached to a silver chain around his neck, and a red woollen sweater that makes Stiles think he must’ve played an Extra on It’s a Wonderful Life.

The office is much like the man himself, he notices when the doctor ushers him inside with a soft and gentle welcome. It’s warm and antique, and there’s a miniature fireplace in the corner in front of red walls. He wants to look away, except the paint isn’t crimson or scarlet. It’s darker, something like burgundy maybe. He tells himself it doesn’t remind himself of that night.

Doctor Brad, the man tells Stiles to call him, or Brad, if it makes him feel more comfortable. He sits down on the wooden chair in front of the mahogany desk (much like Derek’s, his mind supplies unhelpfully), and takes in all the warm and welcoming colours and furniture and smile, and thinks he can never be comfortable here.

“So, Stiles, how’s school been?”

He gazes around the room again, and suddenly everything seems so dark- even though the windows’ open in the far corner and morning light streams through. The burgundy is more like black, the more he looks at it, and it all looks like someone’s tried too hard. It’s suffocating.

He forces his mind to take a mental breath. It isn’t time for this now, he doesn’t need to give the Doctor another reason to come back.

“Moving.” He answers as truthfully as he can, and he’s glad no Werewolf’s around to hear the stutter of his heartbeat.

But Doctor Brad just frowns slightly, as if he can somehow hear Stiles thoughts.

“How ‘bout friends? Family? I hear you’ve been staying with Scott.”

Stiles lets out a short breath and calms himself down, settling for another hour of pointless questions by a married man who’s two months from retirement and trying too hard.

*

The next day of school is much like the first, but there’s less staring and only a few people have shot him pitying glances. He thanks whoever’s out there for small mercies.

He’s just leaving Economics, back slung over a too-thin shoulder and jeans hanging off too-slim hips when Danny approaches him.

He’s been fine the entire day, and he’s only got two and a half hours before he can head to the McCalls. He had hoped that Danny would just walk past, offer him a glance maybe, and that’d be it. He doesn’t need any more pretentious offers of consultation. He holds his voice until the older student stops in front of him, hands on knees and panting from his jog to catch up with Stiles.

He gives him a moment and they stand to the side while everyone else rushes to break.

When Danny’s finally caught his breath, he’s standing up straight and he’s looking at Stiles like it’s the first time he’s ever seen him. Like he’s taking in the thinness of his wrists, the hollowness of his cheeks, the dark bags under his eyes and the paleness where they rest. He manages to look him in the eye though, and for that much, Stiles is thankful.

“Hey,” he manages, his voice and inch from playful but not quiet. He’s still getting used to feeling. “What’s up?”

Danny looks at him like he wants to give him the biggest hug ever, but Stiles is glad when he only rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, Stiles. Just,” he pauses, shifting on his feet slightly and trying not to be awkward. “Just tell me if you need anything. Anything at all.” Stiles wants to interrupt, because why is everyone asking him that? He’s fine. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t… “I know,” Danny breaks his train of thought, “that you think you don’t need anyone, or that you have everyone you need already, but if you don’t… Well just call me. Or text, or whatever, okay?”

Stiles mutely nods and almost manages a small smile. He finds it funny how everyone only suddenly wants to help him when they pity him. But he does manage an almost-smile, because Danny thinks he’s helping and Stiles will not be bastard to him, even though he wants to yell that no- thanks, just no.

So instead he says,

“Yeah, thanks. I know.”

And it’s like a weight’s been lifted from the other Lacrosse player. Like the guilt of not carrying for how many years suddenly doesn’t matter because he offer to text when Stiles wanted to take a blade to his wrists or down all his pills in one go.

He doesn’t think about for the rest of the day.

*

What he does think about though, is Derek Hale.

His history teacher is talking about Madame LaLaurie when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He tries to ignore it at first, because there’s a documentary on the screen at the front, and it’s gruesome and tragic and historians are discussing what actually happened when it vibrates a second time.

He tries to pay it no mind, because there’s a girl in the front row who’s tearing up but when his phone shakes in his pocket a third time, Stiles tells himself that he’s already seen this one and knows how it ends. No one’s paying attention to him in the back corner and the film has too much red for his taste anyway.

No one notices when his phone is out and hidden behind his pencil case, a soft green light shining from the top corner. He unlocks the device and finds three unread messages.

He’s about to ignore them because they’re probably from Scott or Lydia asking how he is, but he doesn’t because the name glowing from the screen is Sourwolf.

His breath catches in his throat and suddenly he’s remembering their movie night, and how he lost himself in the husky voice and laughter he’s only heard very rarely. Something flutters in his chest and he finds himself hoping that Derek wants to do it again.

He clicks open the first text and silently reads,

Stiles. Hey, just wondering how you were. How did your session go?

He finds himself slightly disappointed that that’s all Derek’s asking, before he forwards.

I mean, it’s just, if you’re free, after school- did you want to come over again? If you’re free that is.

A smile tugs at his lips. It’s like that one from two nights ago. He thinks he’s excited.

The third message-

I mean, you don’t have to if you’ve got plans, but I just thought you could use a break from… well, everything.

Stiles has never typed so fast in his life;

*

He tells Scott where he’s going after school so he doesn’t freak, and listens as his best friend tells him exactly where he is and what he’ll be doing, and Stiles, man, just call if you need anything.

His chest is strangely light when he drives to Derek’s apartment, and no matter how much he thinks about it, he doesn’t quite know why.

Derek’s out front when he gets there, and he’s smiling lightly and Stiles doesn’t see at scowl anywhere in sight. The tug at his lips is more forceful, and his heart is beating far too quickly to be healthy.

He ignores it though, and he gets out of his Jeep and into the apartment and they have a replay of the first time, and there’s popcorn and pasta because Derek cooked, and Derek cooked for him.

There are a few more lingering touches than last time and the smiles are a bit more secret, and when Stiles finally leaves just before midnight, driving away from a waving Derek and the happiest he’s been in a while, his chest is strangely light and he knows exactly why.

*

He hates how it never lasts.

The happiness, the joy he gets when he’s around Derek. He hates how he can’t lose himself afterwards and everything becomes so, so clear and the weight is back on his shoulders and it’s pushing him down.

It’s drowning him.

He’s lying on the bed, and he feels utterly exhausted but he can’t bring himself to sleep. All he can bring himself to do is think about Derek’s 007 collection and the Lord of the Rings book set which is identical to Stiles own, and his laugh and the way his eyes sort of cloud up when he’s near Stiles. And Stiles knows.

He knows he is so very screwed.

He sees the lights to the rest of the house turning off from the space under his door, and he feels like the darkness is eating him alive, because Jesus Christ his dad is dead and everyone pities him and he might just be in love with the one person he could never have.

He thinks about Derek’s hand on his shoulder, on his knee- how it rests for longer than necessary and how warmth tingles from his fingertips and something stirs in his chest. He thinks about how he’s only managed to smile when around him, and what it’ll be like in a year or two.

When Derek finally realises that no one can save Stiles from the darkness, the suffocation, the drowning, from himself. When Derek realises it’s all been time wasted, hours he could have spent doing something better, more useful than trying to fix a broken toy. When Derek’s smiling but his touches don’t linger and there’s nothing in his eyes when he walks away to move on and leaves Stiles behind alone and broken.

He knows that time will come, because it always does. Everyone always leaves, and Derek is no exception.

Stiles has never been a masochist, but he’ll cherish this. He’ll spend as much time with Derek as he can and he’ll ignore the dark voice in his head and the weight on his shoulders because Derek can make him smile.

Stiles is in so much pain right now, and Derek is the most addictive pain-killer he’s ever had.

Not for the first time this week, he goes to sleep with his eyes brimming with tears, willing himself not to cry.

*

The nights go on.

And so does his life, actually.

Its two weeks since he father bled to death in front of him and he’s had two more pointless therapy sessions and three more nights with Derek.

It hasn’t been long, not at all, but those fourteen days feel like fourteen years. It’s exhausting, moving like this. Like he’s alive, when he really isn’t.

He’s managed to smile, outside his time with the Alpha. It wasn’t real and it was so forced it physically hurt, but it was something. And if he looked at Scott, it was the biggest something in the world.

He can’t say he’s okay though. Time’s moving, he knows, but he doesn’t think he is.

He feels like he’s running in the same spot, for hours and hours and hours. More than once he’s wondering how long it would take him to sneak downstairs and find something sharp, and if anyone would actually notice. More than once he’s wondered how many slashes it would take for him to bleed out like his father had.

He pretends like he’s getting better though. He does try to smile and talk more, and he’s wearing more layers so no one notices his clothes practically hang of his figure now. He can’t do anything about the blankness in his eyes though, or the bruises beneath them.

He’s so tired every morning, so exhausted. Every morning he wonders what the point of getting up is, if it wouldn’t just be easier to let the weight crush him. And every morning he hears Scott’s voice telling him they’ll be late for school if he doesn’t hurry up, or he gets a text from Isaac with too many smiley faces. And every morning he thinks about Derek, and gets up because today might be the day when he’ll invite Stiles over again, and there’ll be relief for a few hours.

So he gets up, and gets dressed, and downs a cup of coffee because he’s still got no appetite and is too tired to consider anything else, and he goes to school and thinks about how easily he could crash the Jeep or drive it off the bridge.

He doesn’t though, because today might be the day he’ll smile again for real. Today might be the day Derek rings him up and asks him to come over.

*

He gets a call from Derek a few hours after school. He’s pulling out from the drive way before he hangs up.

*

They’ve found them.

Another pack- Derek tells him. Not an Alpha-Pack, not extremely dangerous. Just young and extremely naïve. Just young and ruthless and murderers.

His entire pack’s there, including the Argents. They did this, for him.

They’ve been taken care of, Peter tells him. Your father’s been avenged.

So Stiles doesn’t ask about who they were, or how old they were, or about the man with the sad eyes and the western boots.

Instead he finds himself hoping that they died screaming.

*

He’s out in the woods and it’s been an hour since everything had finished. Well, he thinks, should have finished, because this is exactly how it happens in the movies. There’s death, and then there’s revenge, and then there’s closure.

Except Stiles doesn’t feel anything but tired. So they’re dead. He meant it when he told Derek he didn’t care about revenge, not really. Nothing was going to bring his dad back.

So it didn’t quiet surprise him when he found himself collapsing against a tree, and the weight’s pulling him down again. It’s dragging him under, it’ll kill him, he knows. He doesn’t have the energy to fight it.

His knees buckle and he’s about to fall onto the dead grass and dry leaves, and he’s going to tremble under the heaviness until it suffocates him.

Except-

He doesn’t.

His eyes are closing and he’s falling, but there’s a sudden weight at his hips and a warmth he’s all too familiar with.

He looks up with wide eyes.

“Derek?”

His hands are pressed against the older man’s torso as Derek’s hands are solid against his hips, and he’s pulling Stiles so close to him that their chests are touching and so are their knees, and there’ literally no space between them.

There’s a moment of stunned silence and Stiles can feel his heart beat out of his ribcage, because Derek’s somehow getting closer and closer, and he’s leaning down and-

He kisses him.

Derek’s lips are warm and soft against his own, and his tongue’s brushing over Stiles’ lips for access, and when Stiles parts them it becomes so heated he closes his eyes and melts into it.

It’s so deep he’s stunned but Derek’s moved one hand to his waist, and he’s pushing Stiles against the tree with enough force to hear the bark crack. But neither of them notice because Stile’s has his fingers tangled in Derek’s shirt, and they’re kissing each other like their lives depend on it.

It’s only when Stiles needs to breath that they break apart, and their foreheads are resting together, and they’re both breathing deeply. Something light and wet trails down Stiles’ cheeks and it’s only when he tastes salt does he realise it’s a tear. Derek doesn’t hesitate to raise a hand and brush it away, curling his fingers softly along the curve of Stiles’ neck and cheek, and tilting his head upwards.

When he kisses him again, it’s just as gentle and caring as the first time, just as deep and passionate.

Yes, the voice at the back of Stiles’ mind says, yes, Derek is certainly the most addictive drug.

It later when his lips are wet and bruised and he’s sobbing into Derek’s shirt with finger shaped bruises along his hips and a fluttering in his chest, does he wonder how long this will last.

He tries not to dwell on how easy it is for Derek to just destroy him at this moment, rather than later, and how he might actually prefer it if the Alpha just turned around and abandoned him now to save himself the agony of becoming attached.

He wants this, wants this more than anything- wants to bathe in the look Derek gives him afterwards- caring and gentle and loving, before it’s over and the older man leaves.

Even if it means the weight will crush him when he does.