Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

it's getting late and the sun is falling,
who will catch her tonight?
i walk for miles over broken stones,
bleeding feet and aching bones.
but i won't stop tonight, while my body still has fight,
in case the daylight never comes

                                Snow Ghosts - And The Moon

 

 

 

 ***

 

 

It's pale, so pale, wide black eyes like holes drilled into its head but it's not blind.

It searches for him.

Tall and emaciated, human-shaped.

It's close, he can hear it, bare footsteps on tiles where he's cowering under a desk.

"I know you're there," it says, voice like a snarl, like it can only just make words through its lipless mouth.

Stiles is gonna make a noise sooner or later—

—it's smart, it knows this; it's just waiting.

***

"I'm just saying," Scott's saying, hasn't stopped just saying for the better part of the day. "It's the game tomorrow night so, y'know? Ambien is your friend."

Stiles has stopped answering him, head in both his hands and slumped over the cafeteria table. The only words he's got are sleep and bed, so what's the point? Two more hours and he can attempt both of those things.

Just gotta get through two more hours.

He learns precisely nothing about functions and/or roots and maybe a little about post-Cold War economics—something to do with strangled unions, something like that. He'll catch up later when he doesn't feel like ten tons of lead.

First thing that happens, literally ten seconds through the door, is the sheriff saying, "Looking a little pale there, kiddo."

"I didn't sleep well last night."

"You didn't sleep well the night before either, or the night before that." And then his dad looks apprehensive and Stiles would put money on knowing what comes next. "It's not—"

"No, there's nothing werewolfy goin' on, don't worry."

"Because—"

"I promised I'd tell you and I will, Dad." He won't pretend it doesn't sting a little that his dad still doesn't one-hundred percent trust him not to lie, but they're working on it. He thinks they are, anyway. "I swear I will."

It's laughable, really. His dad doesn't trust him not to spill about werewolves and dark druid sacrifices—yeah. Stiles swears, the speed his life pace changes is jarring as hell sometimes. That's probably it. Things are too quiet right now so his brain's relenting, creating monsters in his dreams because all there is to think about is algebra and what to get Scott for Christmas.

So he burrows into his mattress and thinks about the time they spent getting almost crushed to death under the nematon and hopes he might dream about US History instead of rake-thin creatures with eyes like pits.

***

It's dark here, the only lights are low and sinister emergency lighting and it makes his skin look sickly.

"Who are you?"

Stiles won't answer. He has this feeling that the answer is all it—all they—need and once he gives it, things are gonna get worse.

The thing growls, this wet, guttural sound like dry heaving.

"Who is he?"

He doesn't know what that means.

It doesn't see him yet.

It shines a flashlight down the length of the long hall and listens.

***

The whistle goes somewhere miles away, echoes like it's carried on the wind.

Dark shapes blur over him and his eyes feel filmy, his chest crushed and no matter how much air he pulls in it's not enough.

Everything's slowed down and waiting for him to catch up, muffled voices that sound like broken vinyl and in the corner of his cloudy vision, ink-black eyes—

"Stiles!" All the sound rushes back in like a tidal wave and he flinches and throws his arm out. "Ow, dude." Scott's voice. His fist colliding with Scott's nose. Scott's waving a hand about and Stiles' head hurts. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"McCall, get outta the way, Jesus Christ—"

Coach.

Stiles is on the field, the stick from some buffed-up jock on the other team still feeling like it's embedded in his sternum. He slips a shaky hand over his body to check because fuck, the pain feels permanent.

Someone lifts him onto a stretcher and he hears Coach's voice trailing off as he's moved away from the crowd, "McCall, would you get back here, he's not gonna die," and thinks that's highly debatable.

They give him painkillers and a nurse—who reminds him of his old neighbor who turned out to be a pyromaniac—pokes at his stomach until he wants to cry.

He calls her a harpy and she gives him a stiff smile that tells him she'd like to smother him then pokes him once more, just a little harder. She leaves him feeling sorry for himself, half sprawled over the table, bed, whatever. Too wired from the rush of pain adrenaline to do anything but try to breathe his lungs back into rhythm. It's hard, he's sore and winded and shallow breaths, deep breaths, either way he's gasping until the pills kick in.

It's the end of the game by then and Scott's first in to see him, followed closely by his dad firing on all cylinders.

"Bet I could bust that kid's ass on some kinda steroids charges, you just see if I can't," he rants. "Did you see him? I bet he's not even seventeen, probably got held back a decade because he's some kinda missing link."

"Dad, calm down." Stiles sits with a groan, Scott's hand between his shoulder blades for support. "It was mostly my fault, I wasn't concentrating."

"You were like, five miles away," Scott says restlessly. "What the hell's going on?"

"I think I'm sick or something, I don't know."

He really doesn't, that's the thing. Some disease might explain it away, or worse; it's not been nearly enough years yet to forget how bad an emotional trauma can mess up his brain waves, let alone a supernatural one. He remembers pain all over, inside him like something toxic and finding its way into every crack and weakness. Coming out in sporadic, violent bursts that left him crippled. Unexpected ways, panic attacks and sleepwalking and once he'd punched a kid three years his junior in the face and felt nothing but relief.

It's not a stretch to think it's happening now; Deaton warned them after all, and things have been going suspiciously too smooth lately.

"Come on, I'm taking you home."

That's fine, Stiles has a plan. It involves waiting until his dad's asleep, stealing hard liqueur from the cabinet and drinking himself into a coma.

Specifically, a dreamless one.

***

"You smell like a bar."

"I feel—like I walked into a bar. A big, metal one. And then I drank it, all of it. Every drop."

And fuck if teenagers aren't loud. Everywhere he turns there's someone shouting or slamming a locker or chewing obnoxiously; he's got a new-found respect for Scott and the other wolves putting up with all this bullshit.

"Alcohol didn't help you sleep?"

"Oh, it helped me sleep"—trapped all night, suffocating fear, can't wake up— "I just woke up even more exhausted."

"Well, I got one piece of good news. Or, you might not think so, but whatever," Scott says and now that Stiles really focuses on him, he does look suspiciously animated. He points over Stiles' shoulder. "Look."

Scott's pointing at Cora, stood with Allison and Isaac and looking less tense than she's looked the whole time Stiles has known her, and yeah, Stiles is gonna go with that being pretty cool news.

Still, he knows Scott better than that. If Cora's back that means Derek's back, too. "She's not the whole reason why you look so pleased, though, right?"

Scott shrugs a little sheepishly. "I was gonna head over and see him later, wanna come?"

"And interrupt your little wolfy bonding time? No thanks. Besides, I'll probably be dead by then; I genuinely don't think I'm gonna make it through today, Scott, seriously."

"Can I?" Scott holds out a hand and hovers it over Stiles' arm and it's still a little weird, this one particular thing. It feels more intimate than Stiles is entirely comfortable with which is weird considering how much time he spends up close with Scott's—well—everything. Still, needs must and he nods and tries not to get too hung up on the feeling of Scott taking something so very personal from him. "Better?"

God, much better, so much better, he could get down on his knees for Scott right now. "Yeah, much. What's the point if you can't use it to help your friends, right?" he says hoarsely.

"Exactly."

He feels a little more well-equipped to deal with the day and much better equipped to watch Scott and Allison hedge around each other awkwardly while Isaac tries not to look like the guiltiest little wolf in the pack.

Cora rolls her eyes and shares a look with Stiles, a private, wry smile. He leans next to her against the row of lockers and feels genuinely glad to see her again. Beacon Hills without the Hales, despite all the trouble they bring, feels just a little too empty, he's willing to admit. Not that he's been pining or anything. Not at all.

"You're back, then?"

It's a stupid question but she humors him all the same. "Seems like."

"Passing through or here to stay?"

"Derek wants to stay," she says with a shrug. "I guess this is home, when all's said and done."

"Where'd you guys go?"

"What is this, an interrogation?"

"Am I holding a cattle prod?"

Cora barks a surprised laugh. "We got our photo taken with Mickey Mouse."

"Seriously?"

"No, you idiot. We did a little travelling, took a vacation, went to the beach, tried not to get ourselves killed. Your average family trip." A Hale family vacation, he's stuck on how bizarre that thought is. Until Cora asks, "What?" because he's staring off into space.

"Nothing. I just can't imagine Derek at the beach, is all."

"Question is," she drawls, pulling books into the crook of her arm, "why would you wanna imagine my brother at the beach?"

"I'm—I'm not! I don't. I don't normally do that."

"You wanna?"

It gets worse, he does a half-flailing little dance but Cora's not even talking to him. Isaac, she's talking to Isaac. She's tipping her head towards the end of the hall, do you wanna go to class, and Stiles slumps against the locker and feels more than a little dumb.

Allison asks him if he's okay and Scott answers for him. "He's hungover, don't mind him."

She feels his forehead. "You really don't look so good, Stiles. I mean, it's not—is it? Is it the, y'know?"

She means, is it the corrosive blackness eating away at his heart that the three of them never talk about like maybe if they don't, it'll be happening to a different them. Stiles aches, suddenly, one full-body shiver racking through him at the mere implication of it.

"No, no, no, I don't, don't think it's that," he says quickly, half stumbling over his words and obviously playing it off, changing the subject, but Allison looks just horrified enough that she brought it up to accept it. "I've probably caught a virus or something, got a little fever goin' on."

"Yeah, probably."

Stiles repeats, "Probably," and Scott echoes the sentiment and it goes around and around like that for a while, kind of lame how desperate they are not to acknowledge it.

This thing that's a part of all of them, now. The sickly darkness wrapped like a snake around his heart, opened up a crack in him wide and vulnerable, all tender at the edges like a gaping wound.

Thing about wounds is, they get infected.

***

It's—they—they're hunting him.

"We can wait, we have time."

He crawls along the tiles, edging the wall and keeping to the dark.

"There is no escape."

He stops and takes slow, measured breaths through his open mouth, as quiet as he can.

If he can get to the fire escape, get out onto field—

—if he can just get out of here, maybe it'll end, maybe it'll just. End.

***

Allison wants to know if Stiles' police radio still works and if that's not worrying enough, before he even gets to ask why, what terrible reason could she want to know that, Ethan barrels into them like something possessed. Wide-eyed and crazy and he can't find Aidan and that is bad, very, for everyone right now.

Everyone including the entire population of the school when Ethan loses it and tears every single one of them apart.

Lydia can't sense a thing from him, no one-twin-close-to-death transmission thing, and it was a reach anyway. She's worried, Stiles knows her worried face like he knows his own worried face but it doesn't bother him like it might have done once.

Anyway, they've got bigger problems. Like students in the halls and Ethan losing control because he's terrified. Stiles can see him wolfing out already, the glow of red in his eyes. He's shaking violently like there's something under his skin trying to claw its way out and Stiles pulls Lydia back to him like a finely honed instinct.

"We need to get him out of here," Allison says, quick and low, but Scott shakes his head frantically.

"No time, we've gotta clear the halls, now."

Lydia grips Stiles' wrist and pulls him, weaving in and out of bodies. Panic clears his fuzzy head better than a cold shower ever could, adrenaline kicking his body into high gear and he feels, actually, better than he has in over a week. If that doesn't just lend credence to how weird his life's gotten, he doesn't know what does.

Lydia skids to a halt at the end of the hall, in the doorway leading to the main building and effectively splitting the crowd in two directions away from Ethan. Stiles crashes into her, apologizes, then covers her from prying eyes while she pulls out a bottle of expensive-looking perfume and a lighter.

"It'll burn safely and it won't spread, but it'll burn quick," she whispers hurriedly. "I'll set it as soon as you pull the alarm."

He takes off in the direction of the plastic alarm case some thirty feet away and closes in on it, almost there—

—one second and everything slows, Stiles can hear his breath loud in his ears, his heart pounding a drum beat against his ribs like the world's taking a pause for him and him alone. This place is familiar, like something from a far-off memory, and it hits him, the place from his nightmare, this hall right here, and cold chills creep across his skin—

"Stiles!"

Lydia. Ethan. Got it.

He slips into the alcove with the case. It's really now or never and he doesn't have time to make sure nobody's paying too much attention, fuck it, Stiles fully expects to end up in the principal’s office for this one. He jams up the casing and pulls the lever and the shrill bell rings out followed by Lydia's impressive scream.

"Fire! There's a fire!"

He hangs back to avoid getting carried off in the tide of people running for the exit and when they've cleared, right at the opposite end of the hall Ethan's already gone half-alpha'd.

Scott yells, "Don't come any closer," and Stiles stands with Lydia near the flash-burning fire she's created, blue flame turning quickly orange and then vanishing while Ethan's claws scrape against the lockers like a shrill assault against the metal. He stands there, head bowed against them, his whole back rising and falling when he breathes but it doesn't sound like breathing, it sounds like growling.

In a split second he snaps and he's gone, turning on Scott and making a noise somewhere between anger and grief, an awful snarling howl. Scott gets in his face quickly, hands against Ethan's chest and shoving him back when he lunges, back smacking into the lockers.

He tries again, furious this time, and Scott shouts but it's not Scott's voice, it's nothing like Stiles has ever heard. "No!" Ethan falters, eyes going wide and Scott grips Ethan's shoulders and throws him down in his moment of hesitation, sending him straight to the floor.

And Stiles hasn't seen Scott fully alpha'd yet but there he is, red-eyed and truly mean looking, Stiles’ breath drying up in his throat because he was really only just getting used to his best friend having yellow eyes and retractable facial hair and yeah, he'd maybe gotten to thinking Scott looked kind of fluffy and slightly adorable when he was wolfed out, but now this—really—

Deaton had gone on and on and on about the power of a true alpha but it didn't feel like such a big deal until right this second.

He watches, now, as Scott looses a roar that rattles the fucking locker doors wide open and stands above Ethan who doesn't even try to get up. Ethan who's fully human again, shit, Stiles has seen what that guy's capable of so that right there is pretty frickin' awesome.

"Yes!" Stiles puts both hands on Lydia's shoulders and jumps up and down and even she grins at Scott, wholly impressed. "That was—oh, man! That was so—"

"What the hell are you kids still doing in here?" Every one of them flinches and turns. Someone—Stiles thinks the guy might be their new chemistry teacher, everything from the guy's odd Converse to his bright, patterned glasses and crazy, spiky hair screams quirky chemist—is stood right behind him and Lydia looking completely baffled. "Actually, what the hell are you kids doing?"

Ethan's lying on his back on the floor with Scott standing over him, Allison hastily tucking something—a knife, probably—back up under her skirt, and Stiles and Lydia jumping up and down twenty feet from the scene. So it's a good question, really.

"Evacuating, obviously," Lydia covers quickly. "Ethan was freaking out because apparently there's a fire. It's okay, though," she says with a sweet smile. "We calmed him down."

The guy narrows his eyes and Stiles jumps in. "Do we really have time to stand around being suspicious of each other here? There's a fire!"

Works for now, Mr. Chemist gathers them up and escorts them outside and Ethan's as calm as he's gonna get for now with Scott's hand digging into the back of his neck like a leash.

***

Ethan's last memory before his freak-out in the hall is of the lacrosse field.

He tells them something came at him and Aiden, fast as a bullet and huge. He can't tell them what it looked like, because it didn't. It was pitch-black and featureless, just a moving shape.

They split up, Allison, Lydia and Ethan. Scott and Stiles. Safety with an alpha and all that, plus these days Allison's usually got at least two knives and a flash bomb hidden somewhere on her person at any given moment; such is life.

Stiles is literally mid-gushing compliment when Allison calls Scott. Actually, he's been kinda going at it since he got Scott alone. "And that roar, man, I've never heard anything like it—" while Scott's smiling and trying not to preen and failing spectacularly; it's all pretty inappropriate given the dire situation they're in.

"They've found Aiden, it's bad," Scott tells him and it's not like Stiles likes the guy even a little bit but he does like Ethan and it goes without saying that he cares about Lydia.

"Is he dead?"

"No, but he's hurt, come on."

And hurt is an understatement—Aiden's black shirt is ripped and sticking into the bright red viscera of his torn-up stomach and those details are way too much for Stiles to be entirely comfortable with. He's hardly conscious and Ethan's demanding, "Is he gonna die?" and Scott doesn't have any answers for him, nobody does.

Scott calls Deaton and gets the green light to bring him in and Stiles should've known it'd be his Jeep that was gonna get soaked in blood. Lydia twisted around in his passenger seat and Ethan with Aiden in the back, holding his skin together like he might be able to save some of his brother's blood from draining out across the upholstery. Allison on the back of Scott's scooter following behind. The whole journey there is agonizing over Stiles' fraught nerves, his hands on the wheel are going shaky and all that blood—the result is some seriously dangerous speeding.

By the time Aiden's lying in Deaton's surgery, Stiles is running on fumes and he's almost out, collapsed onto a bench out in the waiting room just to escape the cloying iron tang of blood in the air.

Months of nothing and then this, all at once, and he's averaging three, four hours of sleep a night here. Waking up with his legs aching like he's actually been cowering in the dark. Clamoring snarls in his head like a bad case of tinnitus.

"Hey."

Scott sits next to him and knocks their ankles together and they exist in a comfortable silence until Stiles has drawn up the energy to speak. "Aiden?"

"Deaton says he'll live, but he's got no idea what could do that to him. Or what would even attack the twins head on in the first place."

"He warned us about this, y'know."

"Yeah, I know."

Stiles closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall. "So every time someone gets hurt by something and we have no idea what did it, there's gonna be something even bigger coming right after."

"I know that, too."

"And you and me and Allison? We're damaged goods."

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that—"

"You realize we're probably gonna die, right?"

"Your attitude sucks, you know that?" Scott nudges him until he looks. "Hey, we've dealt with bad. Not to mention the fact that we've dealt with bad with way less favorable odds. I mean, three alphas? Derek, Isaac and Cora. A couple of highly trained, deadly Argent hunters and a girl who can sense death before it happens."

"And me," Stiles says dryly.

"Yeah, and you. The smartest guy I know." Scott grins that stupid grin and Stiles doesn't wanna get swept up in his positivity but it's hard not to, the charming bastard. "And the son of the sheriff."

Stiles goes quiet, picks at the seam of his jeans and thinks about saying something super angsty and terribly self-loathing but Scott's the alpha and a member of his pack was just viciously attacked and Stiles is only just beginning to truly realize how different Scott's wavelength is these days. How Stiles will never understand how these things affect him.

So he doesn't.

"Think I should tell him about this?"

Scott pulls a face like Stiles isn't gonna like this. "Definitely."

Yeah, it was a stupid question.

***

Neon green words in the dark.

He's six feet away from the exit.

The thing's close, slapping footsteps just behind him, around the corner.

He gets up into a crouch, edges closer and reaches for the push bar, so close now. He's desperate, fingernails scratching at the surface, horrible echoing scrape.

"Found you."

It's horror, the thing he feels. Pure seeping cold dread. He doesn't need to turn around to know what's happening.

He's trapped here. There is no push bar. There is no fire escape.

Cold, clammy hands around his throat, dragging him upright. He shuts his eyes tight; up close he can't look at them, they're too horrific, he'll never recover from their faces—those endless eyes, mouth like a gaping tear in its jaw—

"Who is he?"

Stiles shakes his head and still, still doesn't open his eyes.

"Him. The blue-eyed wolf. Who is he?"

***

"You're dreaming about Derek?"

"No, I'm not—I just," Stiles splutters, hands balling into fists against the plastic diner table cloth. His head’s a wreck and he’s woefully slow on his wits and Scott's eating a fucking burger and not taking this nearly serious enough. "Some monster from my worst Goddamn nightmare asked me about the blue-eyed wolf and I thought, maybe, just maybe, that it was a little weird all considering."

"Okay, okay, calm down."

"I can't!" But he needs to; he's already short of breath, working himself up into a frenzy because he's so at the end of his tether. So. Damn. Tired. "Look, did he say anything when you saw him? Was he worried about anything?"

"No, nothing. He was really, really okay. Happy, even. Like the trip with Cora did him the world of good."

Stiles sighs and buries his head in his hands, rakes his fingers over his face. "We should tell him about this."

"Stiles, look," Scott says and it's his voice of reason, the one that always starts with the phrase Stiles, look and ends with Stiles wanting to slap him. "I feel it, too. Okay?"

Stiles groans low in the back of his throat. He can't face this, not now. "Scott, don't. That's not what this is."

"It might be. I mean—sometimes I feel like it's trying to eat me alive, like some kinda depression that's not related to anything at all. Even if it was just that, it'd still make sense. But on top of that, your dad was almost murdered, we nearly lost our parents, our only parents—"

"Not technically true for you."

"You know what I mean. You used to have nightmares after your mom, right?"

"Yeah."

"You don't have a sixth sense or something like Lydia, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs. "Yeah. But don't tell me you're not even a little worried that this is for real something."

"Yeah, I'm worried that everything could be for real something, but we don't know anything either way yet. For now it's Occam's Razor, man."

"Word of the day?"

"Well it was—word of last week, actually," Scott says sheepishly and pokes Stiles' milkshake across the table, against his bare arm. The shock of cold is almost painful, he's all too-sensitive. "We got one thing going on right now that we know for a fact is a threat, can we just focus on the big whatever that attacked Aiden? Like, one thing at a time?"

"I'm gonna be in no fit state to help you if I can't get one full night's sleep."

Scott finishes off his burger and grins. "That's why I've got a plan."

He's probably not as reassured by that as Scott was going for.

***

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know—

He's lost count of how many times he's said it and the reason, actually, why he's doing this in the first place, protecting—

"Go on. What is his name?"

He still won't look at them, it, the thing in front of him. Trapped in a classroom somewhere in the building and backed into a corner.

It's dark enough not to see but it digs its fingers into the flesh and bone of his shoulder and twists and Stiles screams and screams, one word, and then he remembers why—

He screams "Derek," and he's handed them something precious.

***

"Your plan? Sucked."

"It was worth a shot."

"My concussion would beg to differ." And his thumping headache, and his bruised cheek, and his slightly blurred vision, although that's probably a side effect of his exhaustion, it's hard to keep track. He has a vague notion, underneath all the other shit going on that's way more pressing, that he probably shouldn't be driving right now. "You know, my dad had to pour water over me to get me out of bed this morning. He thought I was dead."

He doesn't add the details that up until that point, some creature not even Clive Barker could cook up on acid had spent all night tearing into his helpless body. Scott would go all sympathetic on him, tell him dreams really can't come true or something equally as frustrating. He's got no patience for it today.

"You slept, though, didn't you?"

"No, Scott, I was unconscious, knocked out, and I still had nightmares."

"Well, now we know that punching you doesn't help, we can try something else. It's a—"

"Choose your next words very carefully," Stiles says through gritted teeth because he already has a feeling he knows what Scott's gonna say.

"A work in progress?"

"I am gonna get the sharpest stick I can find, and I am gonna shove it—"

"Stiles, the turn!"

"Fuck!"

Stiles jerks on the wheel and hammers the breaks and the Jeep skids sidelong three feet up onto the, thankfully empty, sidewalk. Stiles gets it back under control but just barely, reaction time shot to bits. He pulls up in the street beneath Derek's loft and he's shaking, pulling in stuttering breaths through his nose.

The silence stretches out painfully and Stiles fills it with awkward inner monologue: better not have fucked up the Jeep because he can't afford another trip to the auto shop and he hasn't felt particularly great about that place since Jackson murdered his mechanic, really, last thing he needs right now is more expense and more horrific PTSD possibilities—

"I can take it from here if you wanna go home," Scott says softly. He's worried, really worried, Stiles can see it all over his face and he really hates the fact Scott thinks he can't handle this, like maybe Stiles has finally reached his limits on weirdness or something.

He hates that Scott might be right.

"Did you know that being awake for even twenty straight hours can affect your road reaction time as much as having a blood-alcohol level of point-eight percent? That's legally too drunk to drive."

It's a few tense seconds before Scott answers him. "You pass out and I'm not carrying you up ten flights of stairs, I will leave your ass in the stairwell."

He doesn't pass out in the stairs, thankfully. Not that he had any doubt that Scott would actually leave him but he doesn't much like the idea of Scott carrying him like a drunk bride over the threshold of Derek's place; after all these weeks, it's not exactly the best impression he can give.

And, Derek. Well. Scott's right, he does look okay. Better than okay.

Sat back against the sofa and reading a thick leather-bound book, legs crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. Relaxed, is the word that comes to mind. Nothing tense about him, he's all loose and inviting, it's an appealing look on him.

"You could smell us coming from halfway up the stairs and you didn't even get up to offer us a drink?" Scott jokes and Derek smirks.

"This isn't exactly a social visit, though, is it?"

Derek's gaze skips off Scott and onto Stiles, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows and a heavy feeling tugging behind Stiles' ribs.

Scott goes on, oblivious. "Not really, there's a thing."

Derek's gaze sort of sticks and Stiles wants to ask him what? and thinks maybe this Derek, Derek 2.0, Mr Relaxed-and-took-a-trip-to-the-beach Derek, might even tell him. But then the moment's over.

"A thing?"

"The thing that attacked Aiden, and I don't just mean attacked, I mean it savagely tore Aiden apart with no struggle whatsoever. We need Peter's bestiary 'cause I have no idea where to even start with this thing."

Derek gestures them over, leans forward and slides the laptop out from under the table to rest on top.

Stiles asks, "Where is Peter, anyway? I don't like not being able to see him, it makes me nervous."

"If you believe a word he says, he's at his apartment." Then, Derek mutters, "Having a lavender-infused bubble bath. Which was information that I didn't actually ask for," like he's slightly annoyed by that.

"Wow, it's weird that I can totally imagine that." Stiles really needs to stop saying things like that—Derek raises his eyebrows.

"You image my uncle in the bath often?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, you're as bad as your sister."

"I don't even wanna know what that means," Derek says over the sound of the laptop booting up. "Scott, this thing, what did it look like?"

"Both twins said it was all black, like it had no features at all, and it kind of morphed like it wasn't a fixed shape. Aiden said that when it focused in on him, it grew double its size and charged him like a bull."

"A shapeshifter without a shape?" Derek muses. Stiles sinks into the sofa with a groan; damn, this thing is comfortable. He shuts his eyes and listens to Derek talking and tap-tappingon the keyboard. "Or maybe it has—shapes?"

"Multiple?" Scott asks.

"Ethan said it grew?”

“Yeah, double its size.”

“I've heard stories about stuff like this, people who can't settle on one thing so they spend their lives aimlessly shifting from one thing to the next. The older werewolves used them as horror stories for the kids, saying that they were selfish and attacked other shifters out of spite."

"What does the bestiary say?"

"Umm. Not much. They're not like us, they're not shapeshifters by affliction or birth. The only way something can have multiple shapes is by learning through magic."

The conversation floats over him and it's all quite calming.

He's oddly warm here—Derek gives off heat like a radiator sometimes—and practically boneless, slumped back into the cushions with the rough edges of his headache smoothing out. Safe, he feels safe. And useful just by being here, a part of whatever it is that's going on and he always feels like that here at Derek's, even when he's just sat on his ass doing nothing or waiting around for other people to get shit done.

Safe and useful and so heavy, slipping away like he's sinking into syrup.

"Hey." He jolts with a gasp, eyes snapping open. Derek clicking his fingers directly in front of Stiles' face and Stiles' heart racing like he's run a mile, everything in very sudden sensory overload; panic and Derek's hand huge and warm clamping over his shoulder. "Woah, Stiles, what the hell."

"Good, I'm good," Stiles mutters lamely but Derek doesn't move, watching him closely, still leant all up in his personal space.

"What happened to your face?"

Scott chimes in, distractedly, where he's perched on the table over the computer, "I did," and Derek raises his eyebrows. "It's no big deal."

"To you, it's not a big deal to you, Scott," Stiles amends.

"I told you, dude, Derek doesn't need—"

"I don't need what?"

"Need to know that Stiles is dreaming about you."

He feels like it's becoming a thing, Stiles burying his head in his hands like he can block stuff out this way, even though blocking stuff out has never been a gift of his; he feels every single one of Derek's fingers slip gently away from his shoulder.

"No, I guess, umm—I guess I didn't need to know that."

"Oh, for—not thatkinda dreaming," Stiles chokes out, then says directly to Scott, "And I told you, I don't think they're dreams."

"Wait, slow down, you don't think what are dreams?"

He's got the full glare of Derek's focus back on him, intent now, and Stiles has got a feeling, an understanding that Derek might be able to solve this puzzle for him and he knew it, he fucking knew they should have brought this to him sooner. He is always right, seriously, if there were medals for being right, he'd have like, hundreds.

"More like nightmares. Creatures, they look kinda human but really, really not. And they trapped me and then—then they started asking about you."

"What kind of creatures? What do they look like?"

"Real pale, umm. Black eyes. No, umm, no—" Stiles' voice cracks and he takes a breath containing precisely no oxygen.

He feels light-headed—it's insane how much these things scare the crap out of him and he's watched two huge dudes combine into one massive dude with glowing red eyes. He's watched his best friend's facial hair retract back into his face.

Stiles brings a trembling hand to his mouth and presses his fingertips against his lips and Derek's presence feels careful, he looks awkward like maybe Stiles is about to start crying or something.

"No lips. Skinny, like starved skinny. Ribs all sticking out. No hair, and, and tall, and—"

"Stiles," Derek interrupts him softly.

"And very naked."

"Hey."

They're both looking at him—Scott, too; he's on display like the star attraction at the freak show and in this room with these two, that is really saying something.

"Yeah, you get the idea."

"Wait, you think we're actually dealing with some kinda creature that can get inside people's dreams?" Scott asks.

"Peter did something like that to Lydia," Derek reminds him and Stiles could kiss him on the fricking mouth with how grateful he feels that someone, let alone Derek Hale, is finally giving this some of the weight Stiles is almost buckling under. "So if we are, this thing, things?" He looks at Stiles for confirmation and he nods. "These things are powerful."

"But Lydia's a—a something. Stiles is totally human. Plus, Peter bit Lydia, they had a connection."

Stiles snaps, suddenly, with an anger he didn't realize he had the energy for. "Why are you trying so hard to fight this, Scott?"

But Scott doesn't answer him, he looks—sad? Guilty? And instead asks Derek, "Why are you so quick to jump on this? You? Of all people?" and then it's Derek's turn to go evasive.

Fuck's sake. Stiles actually feels like throwing up his hands at both of them because that's what the problem is here, a seriously characteristic reluctance to communicate. Thankfully, one that Stiles has rarely abided by.

"Guys, I'm freaking out here, okay? Did you know that you can die from sleep deprivation? Huh? Because you can. And it's a shitty way to die!"

"How long's this been going on for?" Derek asks.

"Couple weeks."

He looks surprised. "We should take this one to Deaton."

They both look at Scott—no, that's not quite right. They both look to Scott; there's a difference. A huge one. Comes with red eyes and apparently pretty good leadership skills. Except that this time, Scott takes one look at the desperation on Stiles’ face and agrees.

He and Stiles copy all the information about shapeless shifters from Peter's bestiary onto a USB, then they pack up to leave. Except Derek's tapping his fingers against his knee, watching them agitatedly and it's making Stiles agitated in return, making Stiles watch him right back.

Eventually, he opens his mouth to say something but Derek shakes his head imperceptibly. He looks pointedly at Scott and, okay, that's weird but then this whole visit has been weird. Stiles nods, digs his hand in his pocket and surreptitiously tosses his keys into the sofa cushions while Scott's not looking.

Halfway down the stairs, he makes a big show of forgetting them and tells Scott he'll meet him downstairs in a minute and Derek's sat with his elbows on his knees, swinging the keyring around and around his finger when Stiles goes back in, staring distractedly forward like he's chewing something over in his head.

Stiles feels like they're awkwardly starting an illicit affair or something.

"By the way, did I mention how freaked out I was? This bizarre behavior of yours really isn't helping, Derek. What—"

"Couple weeks?"

"Yeah."

"And they were asking about me?"

"Yeah."

"You told them, though, didn't you?" Derek looks up at him and then it's not a question. "Last night you told them my name."

Stiles goes numb, a dull trickle of shock spreading down through him slowly, his stomach sinking, displacing the rest of his organs. "How—how did you know?"

"I heard you screaming." And then Derek looks a little skittish, eyes turning down. "I thought it was a nightmare."

"What, and—I, I scream often in your nightmares?" he asks roughly and why is he angry? Derek says nothing and fuck, what the hell? "That's why you were so quick to believe me? Why couldn't you tell me in front of Scott?"

"Because you're screaming my name inside your head and I'm hearing it inside my head and that feels a little—" Derek pulls his hands through his hair. "—I don't know, a little private!" He's right, it does, it really does. It staggers Stiles a little, in fact. Makes him flush hot all over.

"Now's not the time for dirty little secrets, Derek."

Derek looks up at him sharply and the hair on Stiles' neck stands on end.

"You think I don't know that? I just wanted to tell you first. Alone. It felt." He pauses like he's searching for the words and suddenly Stiles wants, intensely, to hear them. "Like the right thing to do."

"Oh."

Wow.

"Umm, thank you. That was—" Nice? Thoughtful? Really great of you? Unexpected? No, that's too back-handed. Thank you? He already said thank you. Charitable? No, he's not organizing an event. Can I stay here on your couch with you? No, that's weird, he doesn't know where that came from.

How long has he been stood here not talking?

"Cool."

Derek raises his eyebrows and looks unexpectedly amused. "Cool?"

"I'm lacking the mental capacity to write you a poem just now, sorry."

"That's okay, I can wait."

Stiles huffs a laugh. "Damn, could you save your cheerful humor for when I'm back to normal again, please? I'm worried you're gonna use it all up before I can really enjoy it."

"I'll be sure to save plenty for your poetry."

It takes Stiles way longer than it should to turn around and leave, stood in the middle of Derek's loft like an idiot, contemplating away about stupid things like how warm it looks in here with light streaming in the windows and how cold it is outside where he managed to curb-mount his Jeep.

He gets to the door but Derek says his name softly and suddenly he's right there, half a foot away and it hurts to look at him he's so earnest. He looks devastatingly young and it's easy to forget that sometimes.

"I don't know why it took you so long to tell them my name, and it might not have anything to do with me, but I appreciate it."

He wants to ask, are you having therapy? or what did Cora do to you while you were away? but he manages to hold back those impulses in favor of a much stronger one, the urge to not ruin this moment.

"Don't mention it."

"And, uh." Derek looks down and Stiles sways forward like he's pulled, dipping his head because he wants to see Derek's face. Then, Derek lifts his hand and gives him the oddest look because, yeah, Stiles' keys, in Derek's hand. Stiles had actually gone and forgotten his fucking keys in the end. "You're probably gonna need these."

"Probably."

Derek gives him a nod and drops them in Stiles' hand.

He closes the door and it's just Stiles and the stairs, his keys warm in his palm.

 

 

***

Chapter Text

 

They leave him for long periods of time.

He doesn't know how long.

Just alone, trapped, dark, cold, and it hurts, all of it.

Stretches and stretches of time and nothing, just blankness, deprivation. Then questions, where is he? What is his meaning to you? Why did you save him?

He's breaking.

That's what they're doing; he feels this like he's felt every other thing.

They're breaking him.

***

He tells Scott.

Not right away, not for days.

Scott's worried about this dark shifter and yeah, Stiles is, too, but according to the bestiary pages, printed and spread over every available inch of Scott's bed, the magical shapeless shifter isn't known for attacking humans and it's nice to have only one thing trying to hurt him, personally, at a time.

Scott's in the middle of cataloging the thing's weaknesses, which amount to basically nothing.

"None! Absolutely frigging none. And it's strong, too. The benefits of learning to shift into—whatever the hell that thing was, the shapeless thing, make it pretty much invincible because it's not wasting energy trying to hold a form."

Stiles is making notes at the desk, he's helping dammit, it's really all he's capable of right now and even then, his hand is weak around the pen. It's in that lull in Scott's voice that he blurts out what Derek told him and, as expected, Scott proceeds to lose his shit.

He feels bad laying this on Scott as well as everything else but Scott's—well. He's got the shoulders for it, that natural-born leader thing, the true alpha shtick. He's built for this and Stiles sees him like this impenetrable rock, one of the few things keeping Stiles' head above water, and that might not be fair, but it is what it is.

"I'm sorry," Scott tells him after he's calmed down and Stiles is about to tell him it's no problem but Scott pre-empts him. "Don't interrupt, I've got something to say and it's all emotional and stuff."

Stiles mimes zipping his mouth up with his fingers but it still takes Scott a good few minutes to spit it out because Scott's plenty of things but good with words is not one of them.

While he waits, he doodles little stick wolves with pointy ears and tails on the notepad on his knee. One of them curled up in a ball, sleeping, that he amusingly names Derek in his head. New Derek, Derek 2.0.

He thinks about giving it beach shorts.

"Okay. You asked why I was fighting it, remember? Why I didn't wanna believe your dreams were actually something? I just. Me and Isaac and the others, we're, y'know, werewolves, right? And Allison can shoot an arrow into a frigging eyeball at a hundred yards and Lydia screams so loud I can hear her two miles away but only when someone dies." Scott's gesturing kind of madly at this point. "And—you got to stay you. It's not fair that this has taken you, too. It wasn't ever supposed to."

Stiles is genuinely touched into silence and Scott's blushing furiously, it's all pretty ridiculous and totally worthy of some kind of Academy Award for Best Bromance moment so he says, "I love you too, Scott," because nothing else seems appropriate.

"Just, don't turn into anything, okay?"

"Sure thing, buddy. Can't promise I'm gonna be much use to you if this carries on but I can promise that I'm not gonna change."

And then, as if to really emphasize Stiles' point, his dad calls.

"Another animal attack, a twenty-six-year-old Meredith Hilleman got ripped to shreds an hour ago at the back of the chemical factory where she worked," he tells Stiles in a hushed voice and Stiles imagines him crouched behind his car. "Know her?"

"Doesn't sound immediately familiar."

"They're saying mountain lion. Again."

The Sheriff sounds wholly displeased with that and because Stiles still likes to affirm the fact that he didn't lie to his dad for fun for a year and a half, he snaps, "Well, by all means, Dad, tell 'em a monster did it, I'll be sure to visit you in the asylum."

"Put Scott on."

"Wha—Dad!"

"I can't deal with your sarcasm right now, put Scott on the phone. Now."

"Oh for—"

He thrusts his phone at Scott and throws himself back in the chair with his arms folded.

Scott gets filled in but Stiles isn't concentrating on the words much. His back aches; the upholstery on this chair is scratchy on the bare backs of his arms. His eyelids are heavy and his eyes are dry.

He's suffered his whole life from the affliction that is little details. It's like a disease, mites or whatever. Invading his brain, digging in and scurrying around so he can't not notice them. It's worse, now, it's getting worse every day. Like scabies, it's under every inch of his skin.

Scott's wall clock ticks too loud, his computer fan sounds a fraction loose, his damn chair is scratchy—

"Thanks, Mr. Stilinski, we'll call you when we're close."

"Close to what?" Stiles asks.

"The hospital. They're taking the girl to the morgue and your dad wants us to bring Deaton to take a look at her, see if it's the same thing as Aiden."

"Great, I can run my little problem by him on the way."

"Think we should get Derek, too?"

Stiles instantly says, "Yeah, yes. I do. Yes."

"I don't know if my mom's gonna be able to explain away like, four random non-hospital workers all marching down into the morgue."

"Just ask him to meet us there, we can stay outside and you and Deaton can go down."

"Right, okay, good plan. You call him, I'll call Deaton."

They get up and moving and Stiles feels instantly light-headed but then very quickly better for having something to do. He grabs his keys but Scott whips them out of his hand. "I'm driving, there's ambulances and sick people around there."

Stiles thinks about arguing but he's got no ground to stand on whatsoever.

Lampposts and mailboxes are fine—Stiles tested Scott's with the bumper of his Jeep for him just two hours ago in fact—but ambulances full of dying people, not so much.

***

The Camaro's already there when Scott pulls up the Jeep.

Stiles realizes he hasn't seen it in a while, and he's missed the old girl. She's hella pretty, her owner leaned up against the driver door all leather-jacket cool and if they aren't just a match made in heaven.

Deaton and Scott say a perfunctory howdy before disappearing and Stiles feels on edge because Deaton's analysis of his problem amounted to, "That sounds like nothing I've ever heard of and therefore I'm both highly concerned and terribly interested," and Deaton's—well, Stiles trusts him with his life and all but he's still a dude who gets way too excited by morbid shit, so he's far too similar to Stiles in that regard for him to feel entirely at ease with.

"You look awful," is the first thing Derek says and Stiles presses his mouth together and glares. Derek, at least, has the good grace to correct himself, which means Stiles really must look truly awful. "Okay, not awful. Tired."

"Try almost dead, you'd be closer."

"That's a little dramatic."

"More like an understatement."

"We got a plan of attacking this?"

"Yeah, Deaton wants us at the animal clinic after they're done with the girl's body. God knows what he's gonna do to us."

"You and me specifically, us?"

"Yeah, that a problem?" Stiles snaps and Derek raises his eyebrows.

"No, why would it be a problem?"

Stiles sighs and feels instantly stupid. "I don't know, I think I was trying to pick a fight with you."

"Ah," Derek says with a wry twist of his lips. "I get it, sleep deprivation's a bitch."

"Yeah?" he asks a little desperately.

"It's torture, you know. They use it to interrogate people, one of the easiest ways to break a person down, make them co-operate."

Stiles sways on his feet, punch-drunk all of a sudden. It comes over him in waves, low lights and cold and tired, so tired. When he's asleep he forgets he was ever awake, like that world is real and this Stiles, waking Stiles, doesn't exist. When he's awake, if he forces himself, he can vaguely remember shapes and feelings and sounds. Pain and sometimes questions and their fucking faces and emaciated bodies; God, he wishes it was the other away around.

He's aware of both his palms against Derek's car being the only reason he's not face-down in the concrete.

"Breaking. Why, though? Why are they—" He's muttering under his breath. "I don't understand what they want."

"We'll figure it out."

"Why are you suddenly so nice all of a sudden?" Stiles asks a little hysterically because while he knows Derek is seemingly content with Stiles' company these days, he's not exactly the go-to guy for comforting platitudes.

"That sentence was completely redundant."

Stiles presses his hip against the car and turns to face Derek head on, leans one arm across the roof and strokes compulsively over the smooth metal with his fingertips like it's grounding him.

"And that was deflection," he points out and Derek shakes his head and looks resolutely over at the hospital. "Come on, in like an hour I've gotta share my worst nightmares with a room full of you weirdos, you can't give me this?"

Derek doesn't look at him but he does look thoughtful and Stiles is just curious enough to wait him out. It's worth it to hear Derek say softly, "You took care of Cora."

"Really?" he asks but he's not throwing it back in Derek's face, he's genuinely surprised.

"You really don't get it, do you? I just. I left her with you, and I didn't even think about it. I handed the responsibility of looking after my family to you on an instinct and you didn't let us down."

"So, you owe me?"

"No, it's not that. I don't feel like I owe you."

"Well, you should! Your sister scared the crap outta me, I thought she was gonna die."

Derek huffs. "Yeah, you and me both."

"Then, she owes the both of us."

He pats Stiles on the arm. "Good luck with that."

Stiles watches him a while and Derek looks across the street and pretends not to notice. It's quite companionable, he feels calmer than he has in a while. Since—well, since the last time he was this close to Derek. Whatever that means. You start having intense dreams about a guy and things are bound to become a little confused.

He sees Derek's face change as soon as it happens, the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly. "Are you petting my car?"

He is, he's petting Derek's car, there's no two ways about it. "Yes, I am definitely petting your car."

"Any reason?"

"I'd like to ask your permission for her hand in marriage?"

"Not a chance."

"Can I drive her?"

"Not in your condition, no way."

"But after? When I'm fixed?" Derek side-eyes him. "With you actually in the car? And Scott in the car? I saved your sister!"

"Okay, time out. You get to use the sister thing once, and only once, so think very hard about whether you wanna use it on this."

There are a million things he could ask from Derek, it’s like a carnival in his head right now. This might be some of the best news he's gotten in months.

"No, I take it back. I'll save it. Is there like, a limit on this?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, can I ask for literally anything or is there stuff you won't do?" Derek very slowly turns his head and cocks it slightly and, shit, yeah. "I realize how that sounded, it wasn't. I didn't mean it like that. I meant that in a totally non-sexual way. I'd never coerce you into sex. I—I'd never coerce anyone into sex! I've never even had sex! I mean—I don't wanna have sex with you!"

He shouts the last bit pretty loudly, no wonder Scott and Deaton look so confused and he daren't even ask how long they've been stood there. It's awkward. There's nothing he can do about it, now.

"I'll see you at the clinic," he mumbles at Derek's belt and walks in the direction of the Jeep and just hopes that Scott follows him quickly.

The little bastard's got his keys.

***

He wishes, just wishes, that today would be over.

There's no hole in the Earth he doesn't wish he was standing over, it could be filled with lava or piranhas or black widow spiders and he'd gladly hope for it to swallow him.

Deaton keeps saying, "I need to know what they asked you, Stiles. It's important," and he doesn't wanna talk about it anyway, not at all, but especially this, he doesn't wanna talk about this.

He'd ask if they could do this without Derek here, but it's about Derek so that's not exactly fair.

"I know, it's just, it's foggy and—" Stiles swings his legs under the steel table, back and forth, over and over like a kid in a high chair.

He looks down and fiddles with the chord on his hoodie. Scott's beside him, Deaton stood, Derek leant back against another table a few feet away. Stiles is painfully aware that he's under intense scrutiny from all of them; he can feel the physical sensation of three pairs of eyes crawling over his skin.

"It's frankly a little embarrassing."

"You're always doing stuff that's embarrassing," Scott says and Stiles isn't even gonna dignify that with an answer.

"I'm sorry, Stiles, but we need to know," Deaton says and nope, he's not gonna dignify that either, he's not an idiot, he already knows that.

It's Derek who grabs his attention. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but you're not exactly unique, here. Try remember that a hundred-and-twenty-pound human girl knocked me out with purple glitter. And that Jackson turned into a giant lizard and Scott once sniffed the entire lacrosse team."

It's not enough to put him remotely at ease, but Scott's lame little protest of, "Hey," and the image of Derek cringing and barely being able to watch him roll around the lacrosse pitch with all those guys is enough to lubricate the process a little.

"Okay. Okay. Umm. They asked me my name. And Derek's. I gave 'em both," he says and looks back down into his lap, Scott's shoulder nudging against him. "I don't think I've told them anything else, though. Not yet."

"But they want to know more?" Deaton asks.

"Yeah. Where Derek is, I think." Stiles can feel Derek's eyes on him and his heart's racing, pounding, it hurts. He knows Derek can hear it, fuck, even Deaton can probably hear it; this is insane. Sure it's a weird line of inquiry but Stiles doesn't really get why it's making him feel this intense. "They asked, what did Derek—no, what does Derek, umm. What Derek means to me. And why I saved his life. And—” He has to think hard about this one, it's right there in his peripheral and he can only just grasp it. “They kept saying stuff like, Derek and me were connected."

Christ, he feels like he's about to be sick. His head weighs six tons, he can't look up.

"Thank you, Stiles. Scott, could you go to the store down the street and get Stiles a soda? Something with sugar, please."

"Are you okay, dude?" Scott asks right next to his ear. He's not okay, he's shaking. It's a familiar feeling, too familiar and horribly frightening.

"Yeah," he breathes but it hitches with his erratic heart.

"Scott, he might be going into shock, hurry up, please."

Scott does as he's told, he's up and out of the door quickly and Stiles wants to fucking know, "Why? Why the h-hell am I going into shock?"

"These aren't dreams you're remembering, Stiles. I think that whatever these creatures are, they don't want you to have these memories. You're pulling them out by force and every time you do, it's traumatizing you. Derek?" Derek, fuck, he hasn't said a word, Stiles can't imagine how confused he must be. Actually, yeah, yeah he can. "Come here, please."

Stiles shuts off or something. He doesn't know anything, blank and numb and airless until there's a hand on his shoulder, a thumb pressing into the bare skin at the side of his neck.

It feels like a resuscitation, an electric current and he looks up, blinks a hundred times in a second. Derek's right there touching him. He shudders violently, he thinks maybe they both do, and then Stiles' heart thuds hard but slower, he takes a deep breath.

Derek can hear and feel and smell it all, whatever's happening to Stiles' body because Derek's fucking touching him. Because. Because of it.

"This connection they talked about?" Deaton hands Stiles a soda already cracked open. Scott stands in his peripheral vision but Stiles can't look away from Derek, from Derek looking at him like he's utterly shocked into still silence; Stiles has never seen his eyes so wide or green. "I think they're enforcing it and making it stronger through your subconscious. There's a reason they're doing this."

"Who are they?" Scott asks. "And what connection? How do you know that?" All valid questions Stiles would ask if he could.

"I don't know who they are, I've never heard of anything like you described, Stiles. As for connections, I think they mean friendship, mutual trust, any kind of strong relationship, like the kinds born out of life-or-death situations. But it's something tangible now, when you came into the clinic you both set off my warding spell."

"So they're, what? Trying to connect Stiles and Derek? Why?"

"I don't know. This is—" Deaton pauses and actually huffs out a disbelieving laugh that rips Stiles' attention, finally, away from Derek. Derek drops his hand and they both turn to Deaton. Stiles feels his skin tingle and cool down but the panic doesn't come back. "This is very exceptional, as far as situations go. And I've experienced a lot of exceptional situations."

"So what do I do?" Stiles asks, his voice shockingly wrecked.

"I'd advise you not to fall asleep but I fear that doing so might be detrimental to your health at this stage. Go on as normal, well, not your version of normal. Try not to exert yourself if you don't absolutely have to. Rest, a lot. Sit still. Don't tax yourself physically or emotionally. I'm going to look into this and if anything changes, make sure to let me know."

"Hulked-out, shapeless monster running around tearing people apart, shouldn't be too difficult to stay calm."

"Meredith was a werewolf," Scott says quietly and Derek looks at him, surprised. "Yeah, an omega. I think it really is only going after shifters. Stiles, just let me and Derek?" Derek nods. "And the others take care of this thing, okay? I give you best friend permission to stay completely out of this one. In fact, I'm telling you, as the only true alpha in like, a hundred years or something, that you are not to get involved."

Stiles says, "You can't keep pulling that true alpha crap," at the exact same time as Derek says, "Here we go again," and it's actually funny, or at least it's funny to Stiles, who cracks up. It's probably his nerves.

"Yeah, damn right, I'm the boss, so you can both shut the hell up."

Stiles kicks him in the knee. Derek folds his arms and scowls. It's all quite normal and for just a few minutes, Stiles can pretend.

***

"You keep popping Tylenol like that and I'm gonna start looking for our nearest rehab center."

Stiles mumbles, "Headache," more than a little pathetically but his dad's not letting it go quite that easily.

"I wish you'd see someone."

"I saw someone, I saw Deaton."

"You know what I mean, a different kind of someone."

What he really wants to do is sit on the couch and try to watch Die Hard with his dad, maybe even fall asleep in front of the TV like he used to when he was a kid, that is all. He doesn't wanna talk about their home town being a creeper beacon. He doesn't wanna talk about what happened to Meredith and Aiden. He doesn't wanna talk about his nightmares. None of it.

"Yeah, I could tell a therapist about all the stuff that's been stressing me out lately, see if they can get to the root of my trouble."

"Curb the sarcasm, would you?" his dad says tiredly and Stiles feels, instantly, like crap, but what else is new.

"Sorry."

"I'm worried to death about you, Stiles."

"Yeah, I know. But these aren't normal problems, I can't just take them to a psychiatrist and throw back some Xanax, y'know?"

There's nothing any healer in the world can do for the wound through his heart, the kinda stuff pop stars write songs about but they've got it all wrong, it's not heartbreak, it's fricking dark druids and kidnapped parents and frozen-cold, sixteen hour out-of-body experiences.

And there's not a lot his dad can do about the fact he's suddenly sharing his nightmares with Derek Hale either, so while they're definitely sharing better here, Stiles absolutely doesn't wanna talk about that in any detail whatsoever either.

"I've sat back and felt completely helpless for months while all this supernatural crap has been going on and it's still going on, and now I know and I still can't do a damn thing to help you."

The words, his dad's voice and how terrified he sounds, it's playing havoc on Stiles' already fragile nerves. He can feel his chest getting tight, that damning sensation before everything goes to shit.

"Dad! Please, just—“ He trails off and his dad stops, looks guilty and mortified and it's too damn much, none of this is fair and Stiles feels weaker in this moment than he's felt since the night he spent some quality personal time with Gerard Argent. He's just one person, one human being, too fragile up against all that darkness. "You can, okay. You can help me by sittin' your ass down and watching Die Hard."

His dad's features soften and so does the vice-grip around Stiles' ribcage.

"We're not done, you know."

"I know, but just, not now, please? It's Friday and I'm exhausted and I just wanna forget about stuff, okay?"

The sheriff scoffs, then, rolls his eyes and settles in the armchair and Stiles can completely breathe again. "You sound like an old man. You wait 'til you're working a full-time job and you've got children of your own to take care of, then you'll know what Friday night exhaustion is."

"Some cultures consider running with wolves a pretty solid line of full-time employment, y'know. And they're kinda like children. Scott and Isaac are definitely like children."

"Yeah? So what are the kids doing tonight?"

"Hunting down that shifty thing."

"Of course, of course they're out doing that, obviously. Running round the woods?" Stiles nods and his dad swallows thickly, fingers tapping against the chair arm. "Great. I'm sure Melissa is thrilled."

"Least you're not the only parent worried about their kid getting mauled by a supernatural nasty, huh?"

"Stiles! Really? Was that entirely necessary?"

"Scott's not gonna get mauled, Dad. They're with the twins, I mean, have you seen those guys? And—the other guy, the one they, y'know—morph into." Stiles does an impression of said morphing by smushing his hands together.

"Yeah, that's real encouraging," he dad says and Stiles contemplates his gall, his dad giving him such a hard time for being sarcastic.

"You did ask."

"Well, I've changed my mind."

Around two thirds of the way into the movie and his dad says, "Stiles," and Stiles turns his head and hums to show he's listening. "I'm glad you're not out there with them."

It throbs like a bruise right under his ribs, the look on his dad's face. Strongest person he knows and the one thing he should be able to protect is Stiles and he can't, not from most of this stuff. Not from Stiles throwing himself around every dangerous corner all by his own free will.

And what can he say other than, "I know, Dad."

Because it's not gonna stop and he doesn't want to lie to his dad, not anymore.

***

"How is he weak?"

"He isn't."

It's not true, sometimes Derek is weak, Cora, Scott, Isaac, the people he loves.

The people he'd die for.

"What makes him weak?"

"Nothing, I told you—"

He screams again. Didn't even know he could, anymore.

It'll never be over, this is everything there will ever be from now on and it's hopeless, nothing can save him, or maybe nothing—

"How is he weak?"

—Derek? Come here, please—

Derek.

Please.

***

It's dark—it's cold—everything hurts—

He's struggling with something, tangled up in ropes.

"Stiles," someone says roughly. "Hey."

"Nonononono, please no—"

"Stiles, it's me, it's Derek."

"I don't know where he is, please stop—"

Someone grips his shoulders, it's warm and familiar and he can, he can open his eyes, this isn't. He isn't dreaming anymore. This is his bedroom, this is his bed, and that is actually Derek.

He's shaking violently, heart banging against his chest like it's trying to get the fuck out. His fingers are clawed into Derek's arms like he could honestly puncture the leather of his jacket.

Nobody's ever woken him up mid-dream like that; he normally comes up fighting like he's breaking water, like it's his body's auto-immune response. It feels like he's skipped a heartbeat, like unplugging a computer during a reboot. He feels all wrong like they're trying to reach out to him right there in his peripheral vision, trying to drag him back in, black eyes everywhere.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks quietly and starts to move away.

It's okay, my dad's working the night shift, you don't have to whisper, he replies inside his head like a normal human being but that's not what comes out of his mouth. "No, don't," is what he actually says and he curls a shaking hand he has no control over around the back of Derek's neck, fingers slipping through his hair. "Don't."

He doesn't even know what he's doing or asking for but Derek's smart, so fucking smart, good, smart Derek, well done. He shifts onto Stiles' bed and slides his forearm up the sheets, weight on his elbow and his hand gripping Stiles' shoulder, thumb in that place against the slope of his neck again, just like in the clinic.

Then, Derek tips their foreheads together and shushes him softly and it's like Derek's voice is in command of his heart rate. Stiles shuts his eyes and breathes, feels the steady rise and fall of Derek's chest over him and finds a rhythm to match.

Eventually he can say, "I'm okay, I'm okay," and a few more times just for good measure because now that he's okay, he's very aware that Derek's right over him with his body and his eyelashes right there and it's really fucking intimate. Stiles feels like he's slowly burning and it's kind of heavy and incredible and a ton of other things that don't make sense. Derek so soft and calming, Derek so huge and dangerous. Stiles' brain short-circuiting on all of it.

Derek pulls back until he's sitting up and Stiles snatches his hand back, clasps his fingers together and then decides to sit up too because he feels far too vulnerable laying down.

"Umm. Thanks?" Derek looks resolutely out the window but he still nods. "I guess I forgot to lock the window."

"No, you didn't, I broke the lock."

"Oh."

"You might wanna get a better one."

"Right."

Awkward, awkward silence. Stiles could fill it with a billion random words but he can't think of any one word he wants to say right now more than he wants to do something else entirely, something incredibly fucking stupid, like—like touch Derek.

God, he wants to touch Derek so badly it physically hurts. He pulls his knees up and folds his arms across them, grips his forearms tight like it might curb the impulse.

"Do you know what just happened?" Derek asks and he flinches, Derek's voice is low but he wasn't expecting it.

"You don't have to whisper, my dad's working a night shift," Stiles finally gets to say. "And yeah, you just saved my ass from my dream torture."

"You asked me to come."

Stiles opens his mouth slowly in appalled shock because he did, he totally did. "Oh, crap, fuck. Deaton was right, there's a reason for this, and I'm just, I'm just letting it happen, I'm basically fucking doing their dirty work—"

"Stiles, will you shut up?" He does. Well, he whacks Derek with the back of his hand and then he does. "We don't know what they want."

"Yeah, Derek, yeah we do. They want you. And I'm giving you to them, buttered and on a silver platter."

"But we don't know why they want me, we don't know what their game is and we don't know what they want with you either. You know what I learned in the past year and a half?"

"Why don't you amaze me."

"Patience. And not to assume anything's concrete fact if it isn't."

"Wow, look at that character development."

"I am gonna smother you in a minute."

Stiles' jaw cracks around a yawn. "No you're not."

He shuts his eyes. He can feel Derek watching him and it's so much more intense like this. Knowing. Just feeling the weight of it. God, what is happening? He knows Derek can hear his heart rate kicking back up, knows he can hear the rasp of Stiles' dried-out throat when he swallows. Stiles tips his head back, he's dizzy. He parts his mouth and lets out a shaky breath and he fucking hears the soft, damp sound of Derek's mouth opening, fuck, it's suddenly like a billion degrees in here even though the window's cracked open.

Derek stands up and Stiles daren't look so he doesn't.

"Remember to get that lock fixed, okay?" he says roughly.

"Okay."

"Deaton would probably consider feeling guilty as emotionally taxing, by the way."

Then, Derek's gone and Stiles is smiling but his eyes are suddenly stinging like crazy, they're stinging but he's not gonna cry.

At least not for another fifteen minutes, until he's damn sure Derek's out of ear-shot.

***

He doesn't dream again that night.

He falls back asleep but he doesn't dream.

It's just for a few hours and it's kinda worse when he wakes up because it's real sleep and he wants more of it, he's so groggy, so fuzzy. Confused, too, but that's just Stiles trying to ignore the giant pink elephant in the room because a dependence on Derek Hale as a sleep aid is not a habit he anticipated developing this year.

But he's just not destined to get any more sleep than is barely survivable by, apparently. School and all.

"You smell like Derek, what happened?" Scott asks, no, literally pounces on him at his locker, panic-stricken.

"It's fine, nothing bad happened, will you chill? I'm supposed to be staying calm, here!" Scott steps out of his personal space sheepishly. "I'd call you if anything happened, you know that."

"First person you'd call."

"Yes, Scott. The first person."

"Wait, this isn't about the other day—you—oh my God, dude! You had sex with Derek?"

Scott couldn't have said that much louder, he really couldn't, and, obviously, there's not one person who isn't somehow tangentially related to Derek in some way stood in this hallway right now. The fact half of them are werewolves with supernatural hearing wouldn't make a difference, he said it that loud.

"Thank you, for that," Stiles says hoarsely and tries not to notice the way Cora's studying him like she might be wondering where he'll bleed to death from quickest. "No I didn't," he starts and then goes for louder, much louder. "I didn't do anything like that with Derek! But now everyone's listening, I know you guys are listening, so can we talk about it later?"

Scott lets it go for now, probably out of guilt, at least Stiles fucking hope he feels guilty.

He almost falls asleep twice in chemistry watching some flickering projection of an old film reel. It involves men in suits mixing ammonia and the new teacher—whose name Stiles hasn't bothered to commit to memory but his dirty, straw-blond hair is so crazy today that he secretly suspects birds are nesting in it—talks about industrial-scale fertilizer production.

By lunch, his head is pounding, he's honestly going partially blind, and Scott's a solid presence leading him out of the school and into the passenger seat of his Jeep.

Stiles knows he drifts off somewhere between the parking lot and the cafe Stiles loves because it sells the best ice cream, and maybe he's still half unconscious when Scott shoves him into a hard plastic booth but suddenly there's a massive ice cream sundae in front of him, chocolate sauce and everything, and he adds it to the never ending list of reasons why he loves Scott.

"I bet you can't even remember the last time you ate," Scott says and Stiles really has to think about it.

"Yesterday. At some point. I think."

Scott stares at him for the longest time. Stiles can practically see the gears turning while Scott works through concern, frustration, possible solutions, all that good stuff.

So he takes pity. "So last night, Derek full-on Edward Cullen'd me, man."

"He what?"

"Climbed in through my bedroom window."

Scott splutters and chokes on his Coke and squawks in a beautifully high-pitched voice, "You said you didn't!" Stiles grins around his spoon. "You're a dick, just tell me what the hell happened."

"It was weird, 'cause normally when I'm in the nightmare, even though it's real vivid and I'm really aware of everything, I don't know that I'm dreaming. But this time, they were asking about Derek and suddenly I remembered and I asked him to come." Begged, he begged Derek to come. "And he did, he woke me up."

Scott chews over it for a few seconds before Stiles is suddenly getting whacked on the shoulder, hard, actually.

"Hey! What the hell?"

"You said I'd be the first person you'd call."

"Yeah, on the phone!"

"Why Derek, though?" Scott asks but he's curious, now.

"I don't—know," he blatantly lies, he's normally such a good liar, but it's pretty obvious that one was a failure. "Deaton said stuff."

"Yeah, about friendship, but you don't know Derek's the only friend that can hear you when you're in the nightmare. Maybe it's a werewolf thing, like the howl or Lydia's scream. You know? Like you're so in tune with us that you've got your own way of calling for help?"

"Does this bother you?"

"No, it doesn't, it really doesn't. That's not—I'm glad, I appreciate him helping you. I mostly trust Derek, and only mostly because he has a habit of making really, really stupid decisions." Stiles laughs. "But, I live twenty minutes closer to you than Derek does."

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and tugs it up through his hair roughly. "Okay, then it's not just that. Oh, God. My life has turned into a series of completely mortifying conversations." Scott watches him expectantly. "Remember in the animal clinic? Derek touched me and it stopped me going into shock or having a panic attack or whatever?"

"Yeah, he took your pain away."

"No, Scott. He didn't. He wasn't doing anything."

"I don't get it."

"Neither do I, neither does Derek. I don't even think Deaton gets it."

Scott mulls it over, and Stiles mixes chocolate sauce into his ice cream, makes little spiral patterns, then realizes what they look like and shoves his spoon through them. "That ever happen before with you guys?"

"I don't think so."

"Deaton said those things were enforcing the connection between you through your subconscious, so—they created it?"

"Well, yeah, they must have done. But why would they give me something that nice?"

"Maybe it wasn't—" Scott says and then stops, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. "Nice?"

"Did I say nice? I uh, I meant, marginally helpful."

"Look, if you wanna have sex with Derek, can you just remember that every other person we know he's had sex with is currently murdered to death?"

He doesn't know how many times he's had to say, "I don't wanna have sex with Derek," over the past week alone. No, Stiles just wants to touch him, it's way different. "Can everyone just get off the sex with Derek, please?"

Scott smirks like he can hardly contain himself. "You get off the sex with Derek." And yeah, he set himself up for that one quite nicely.

"Oh my God. What were you going to say? We were serious talking about my very serious problem."

"Okay, okay." Scott puts his hands up as truce. "Maybe making Derek allgood-touching is just a side effect of whatever they're actually planning? Maybe, for once, it's just a good thing."

"Are you telling me I can exploit the hell out of this for my own relief?"

"Yes, that is what I'm saying."

"On a scale of one to ten, how guilty should I feel about this?"

"I think you should probably take that one up with Derek."

"Right, and how does that conversation go exactly?" Scott shrugs. "Help me! I can't—my brain, Scott, it hurts, everything hurts—"

"Okay, okay, just go round there or something."

"I can't just go around to his little wolfy loft, I'm not you."

"Then call him, I don't know, send him a text, ask him if he wants to study together." Scott breaks out into barely stifled laughter again and Stiles swears—"Look, it's Derek, just do whatever it is you do that makes Derek like you."

Scott's still chortling and Stiles feels slightly winded.

He contemplates his ice cream and puts every ounce of energy he has left into not putting into words what he really wants to ask; he likes me?

It'd only make Scott even more insufferable.

 

 

***

Chapter Text

 

Scott calls it a distraction.

A distraction from the nightmares, from the exhaustion, from the fact Deaton hasn't found a single solid lead on what the hell's happening to him yet.

And it's sweet, really, that they've done this for him.

Stiles is three beers full and feeling pretty happy, all considering. Lydia's garden is all lit up with fairy lights and a small camp fire and Scott and Allison are blatantly flirting, pushing each other off the cushions spread out in a circle around the lawn.

Lydia's put something in the drinks, some herb she researched trying to find out how to get the wolves drunk—a thing that's becoming a disturbing curiosity for her—and Isaac's smashed enough to be telling Stiles a story about when he and his older brother took a metal detector around the back of their house looking for buried riches and ended up digging up the neighbor's dead dog by accident.

"He was so mad, he threatened to bury us in the hole with Dave."

Isaac's laughing and then Stiles is too, because: "Dave? He called his dog Dave?"

"Well, he named the dog after himself."

"He was also called Dave?" Stiles asks and Isaac finds that hilarious. Making Isaac laugh like this, in itself, is hilarious. "Dave and his dog Dave?"

"He called—he called it, oh God, he called it Little Dave."

"You're not talking about your penis again, are you, Isaac?" Cora asks, appearing out of nowhere as she does sometimes.

She settles in close by them, Lydia handing her a drink and shoving her so they can share a cushion and it worries Stiles a little that they got so close, so quickly. The two most terrifyingly perceptive people he's ever met in his life. Dangerous, is what it is.

"Have you seen it?" Lydia asks her and Isaac makes a noise like a protest.

"Oh, yeah."

"I wasn't talking about my penis, I was talking about Dave and his dog Dave!"

"Sounds pretty far-fetched," Lydia says and then laughs. "Fetched, get it?"

"Why would I call my penis Little Dave?"

"I don't know, it's not even little." Cora's definitely not on her first beer. Stiles wonders what Derek would think about that. "And it really doesn't look like a Dave."

Stiles is curious. "Then what does it look like?"

Cora considers it. "More like a Sergio."

"Can we stop talking about my penis, please?"

Lydia purses her lips. "Let's talk about the shaman, then."

"You don't know that's what it is," Isaac argues and Stiles is lost.

"What? The what?"

"I do know because I researched it and I'm rarely wrong," Lydia says pointedly, then she looks at Stiles. "The shapeshifter, it's a shaman, a sorcerer."

"Wait, Derek said it was just a dude who couldn't figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up."

Lydia dramatically rolls her eyes. She's in her element here, animated to the point of becoming magnetic when she gets like this. "That's partly right, or that's the legend, anyway. But it's not because they're lost or confused, it's because they're so steeped in magic that they're more like spirits than people. They connect with everything in nature so intensely that they are everything, just by their nature."

"Okay, but that doesn't sound very hacky, slashy, werewolf killer. Sounds more wandering magical hippie."

"Most of them are, just not this one apparently. Think more—dark sorcerer. These guys don't just shift with their bodies, they shift with their souls. Their spirits shift. Derek had an idea that maybe they looked down on werewolves because they see them like abominations."

"Derek thought what?" Scott asks, finally pulled out of his Allison narcosis.

"That the shaman might be killing werewolves because—" Lydia starts but Scott shushes her way over-dramatically, drawing out the sound like a hiss, eyes all alcohol-bright and his face all flushed.

"Stiles isn't supposed to be getting involved with the shifter thing!"

"Come on, Scott, he seems perfectly fine," Isaac protests and Stiles knows they all think he's just suffering from some kind of debilitating illness. What Stiles suspects, though, is that they're secretly blaming the nematon thing and none of them dare voice it out loud to him.

He's not gonna lie, it irks him, gnaws at him in all the wrong ways; they think he's weaker than Scott and Allison, like he can't handle it as well as they can because he's not a wolf or good with a frigging assault rifle.

He sounds paranoid as fuck so he just tries to not think about it, except it's hard not to when they're all together like this.

It's dumb but he's feeling stubborn and his patience is so razor-fine these days. "Yeah, I'm totally fine, Scott. Come on, out with it. I wanna know." He glares at Scott, just daring him to object. It's gross, Stiles is gross. He knows Scott won't say anything in front of everyone because he's too good a friend and here Stiles is, staring him down like a grim challenge that Scott's got no chance of winning.

He doesn't feel great about himself right now.

Lydia continues, practically vibrating with eager energy. She's a veritable ball of magical excitement these days. Except when the bodies show up. Those days, once the screaming's stopped, Lydia's deadly quiet.

"Werewolves only shift with their bodies and so the Shaman sees them as unworthy, so he or she hunts them down and kills them. It's a working theory but it's a pretty good one. It fits in with what Derek remembers from stories as a kid."

"That's very interesting, thank you, Lydia," Stiles says pointedly and he's gonna blame it on alcohol when Scott justifiably kicks his ass later.

"Problem is, if he or she is doing magic, how the hell do we find and stop them?" Allison asks and it's the last straw for Scott who looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel, and as funny as it looks, Stiles just can't be this cruel.

"We don't, sorry, guys." He's actually apologizing to Scott but whatever. "Doctor's orders, I gotta stay rested until I'm all better and that presumably means no tangling with dark sorcerers any time soon."

Scott rolls his eyes and yeah, Stiles is fifty-percent still gonna get his ass kicked, but they're good.

It's a quick subject change after that, a few more beers and Stiles ends up laid flat on his back in the grass with Cora at his side, staring up at the clear winter sky while she waves her finger about and tells him about the constellations.

"That one's Canis Major." She directs him to a clutter of stars threaded through the many like the strings of fairy lights in Lydia's garden, all twinkling like they're trying to wink at him.

Aliens. When he was a kid he used to think the ones that twinkled were aliens. Hiding in and amongst the other good, proper stars like sneaky bastards. He used to tell his mom to tuck him in extra tight just in case they tried to abduct him and she used to say, if they did, they'd bring you back pretty quick, don't you worry, honey, and it took him until he was thirteen to realize she was implying that aliens might find his company unpalatable.

Cora's still talking. "The brightest star right there, that's Sirius. At night, it's always to the east and low on the horizon."

"Trust you to know the dog ones."

"Trust you to not know them at all," she counters quickly.

"Okay, smarty pants, how do you even know this stuff?"

She goes quiet for long enough that he thinks she's fallen asleep or forgotten about him and he's about to get really annoyed because hey, he's a lot of things but Stiles isn't boring, thank you very much. He turns his heavy head and feels the grass tickle his nose and Cora's not asleep, she's smiling; beautiful, really. It suits her.

She slants her eyes over to him and says softly, "Derek taught me."

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat. He feels his heart do a lurch in his chest, an almost audible whumph, before it picks up speed and starts to thump away hard.

Cora can probably hear it, he thinks vaguely. Judging by the look on her face. The way she turns her head to him, the slowly dawning look of surprise.

Yeah. Cora can definitely hear it.

***

"Why, just tell me why?"

Somewhere in the last stretch of darkness, he's gone hysterical, fighting, screaming, demanding answers.

They don't punish him for it, though.

They simply observe.

"What do you want with him? What do you want with me?"

The questions go around and around.

He has the feeling they like this but he can't stop. He can only take so much. He's so, so very human.

One of them finally speaks to another. "It's working. He came once."

It's the first time he's ever heard them do that. They've only ever spoken to him before, never to one another.

Stiles pounds a bloodied fist against the cold, tiled floor. "What—what are you talking about?"

"He will always come for this one."

It's the strangest thing.

The one that spoke. It doesn't sound like one of the creatures.

***

It's 4AM, it's freezing, but it doesn't seem to matter.

Stiles grips the swing chains tightly, feels the metal bite into his palms and fingers, and watches Derek's shape drift towards him across the park.

Silently, he takes the empty swing to Stiles' right.

He's on edge too much for silence, strung-out completely like a junkie in withdrawal. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror while he drenched his face in handfuls of cold water. Pale. Dark circles under his eyes. Looks on the constant verge of either crying or flipping out and psychotically murdering someone. That was right before he decided 4AM was a great time to go for a walk.

"Thanks for the, y'know," Stiles says as a pretty good starting point. He means, thanks for the wake-up phone call, it was much quicker than a thirty-minute drive across town to break the lock on my bedroom window. Or marginally quicker, the six missed calls it took to rouse him aside.

"Modern technology, it's a marvel."

"And for, y'know," Stiles follows up with eloquently. And that means, thanks for meeting me here at this ridiculous hour just because I asked you, didn't say please or anything.

"Stop thanking me."

"Okay. I can do that."

More silence, he doesn't know how to break it, breech it, close the gap. He fucking wants to so badly. Everything hurts, he's sick of pain, he's sick of everything. Great, now he is fucking crying. His eyes are stinging, he's trying not to let anything fall but it's too late, too late for Stiles, leave him alone to die, goodbye cruel world—

Who said that? Was it Bugs Bunny? He'd quite like it printed on his gravestone because it seems appropriate.

"Umm."

Stiles flinches. "What?"

"It's okay to feel like crap, y'know," Derek says softly.

"Oh, is it?" Stiles snaps, something wet on his face and he swipes at it quickly with his sleeve. "Well, thank you for your permission, Derek, it's exactly what I needed."

"Then what the hell do you need?" Derek snaps right back and Stiles shuts his eyes, can't look at him, can't look at anything.

He can hear Derek breathing purposefully, like he's trying to calm himself down. It's fucking hilarious really, that Stiles needs this guy's help. When he opens his eyes, he can see his own breath, an icy cloud scattering to the night, a short, bitter laugh he wants to watch.

"Forget it, who can you help? Couldn't help Boyd, or Erica." He feels a sick, twist of viscous thrill like a knife stuck in his heart, every beat contracting around sharp metal. The crack widens; the blackness sings to him, urging him on, baying for confrontation. "Couldn't even help Cora without Peter's help. I mean, your own sister would be dead right now if it wasn't for the guy you almost permanently murdered."

He braces for it, actually wishes for it to come, wound up and trembling. Derek stands, a dark shape against the silver half-moon light. Blue, blue eyes and growling deep in his throat and it churns low in Stiles' stomach, he wants it, needs it, doesn't even know what it is anymore.

Then Derek staggers, wrenches himself back violently and stalks away and Stiles could punch himself in the face.

"I didn't mean—" he chokes and takes a deep breath, says louder, "You're not supposed to walk away!"

"It's walk away or kill you," Derek calls back over his shoulder and against all odds, Stiles actually huffs a laugh. Only explanation he's got, Derek's a wizard.

He scrambles to his feet and jogs until he catches up, already out of breath and wobbly on his legs. "There's plenty of stuff around Beacon Hills at night that could potentially kill me, y'know. How guilty would you feel if one of them did and you coulda' prevented it?"

Derek acts like he's considering it. "Not that guilty."

"You feel guilty about everything, you wouldn't feel bad if I died on your watch?"

"I don't feel guilty about everything."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm sorry, when did you become my shrink, exactly?"

"I'm an expert in Hale psychology."

"I liked you better when you were crying."

"I wasn't crying, I got cold in my eyes," Stiles tells him distractedly. "Just like I wasn't actually insulting you back then. I just. Y'know."

Derek rolls his eyes so hard Stiles is surprised he doesn't strain something. "You're an idiot."

"Yeah but I'm an idiot that saved your sister, so." It gets a smirk out of Derek, so Stiles is pretty pleased with his apologizing skills, all in all. He eyes up the dirt trail Derek's taking them down. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Derek says enigmatically, dramatic thing that he so often is.

"I'm starting to feel like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol." Derek dips his head and his smirk turns into a grin suddenly, a real, honest to God smile. It's incredible, reminds him of Cora last night. Beautiful, Stiles' brain oh-so-helpfully supplies but he shushes it. "What?"

Derek shakes his head.

"Oh no, you don't get to do that—"

"Do what?"

"Do that, smile like that. You don't get to do that and then say nothing."

Except, Derek apparently does get to do that, because he says nothing. Stiles supposes he's earned that for the dead pack insults, skilful apology or not. Another minute, though, and Stiles is weary and out of energy. He sags and can't catch his breath and Derek slows and watches him warily, hovering like he thinks Stiles is about to pass out.

"Give me a few minutes, I'll be fine," he says, which is honestly pretty at odds with the way he's obviously not.

Derek guides him to a thick, bare oak tree, its roots twisted up out of the ground like bony knuckles. Stiles sits heavily and holds his spinning head in his hands, feels Derek's knees knock into him gently where he sits opposite.

"Laura loved to read," Derek tells him softly and Stiles’ skin shivers into bumps, he daren't lift his head in case it breaks the spell. "She used to call me an uneducated peasant because I refused to pick up a book that wasn't on the school reading list."

"You're always reading," Stiles blurts out, because when has he ever been able to keep quiet.

"So would you if you'd been called an uneducated peasant enough times," Derek says dryly. "One Christmas, she read A Christmas Carol to Cora and me. Christmas at our house was like a circus, there was so many of us." Derek's miles away, gaze caught over Stiles' shoulder like he can see it all playing out. "Me and Laura put the tree up every year and every year Peter would act like he was above all that stuff, called Christmas the unholy demon spawn of an ill-considered, drunken Pagan-Christian one-night stand."

Stiles barks a laugh that's too loud in the soft ebb and flow of Derek's voice, but it doesn't throw him off. His eyes skip over to Stiles and he keeps talking.

"The year she read A Christmas Carol, Laura found a walking sick somewhere—I'm pretty sure she stole it, actually. For the whole holiday she followed Peter around with it, hitting him and saying God bless us, everyone. She used to look me at me afterwards and wink. I thought it was hilarious."

For half a minute, Stiles is right there with him in the Hale house, warm and lit up with Christmas lights. Laughing at Laura, carefree with Derek. Then it's gone and he hates Kate and Gerard Argent with an intensity that scares him.

"My mother used to say, don't hate the dead," Derek says like he can read Stiles’ mind, although right now it's probably not that difficult. "She used to say it was futile."

"My mom used to say, It makes me so mad that I can't ever stay mad at you." He doesn't know where that came from, he didn't plan on saying it. "She said it all the time, like it was our little in-joke."

Derek watches him with his head cocked just slightly, his expression carefully mild, almost tentatively open. Stiles realizes with a bloom of heat in his stomach that he's being studied. Derek's reaching out with all those crazy senses of his and quietly learning. It's such subtly animal behavior, not the kind of thing Scott would ever do despite his status, and Stiles is suddenly very aware that Derek's as much a wolf by nature as he is human.

It feels like a small revelation, some missing piece of the puzzle.

"I'm pretty messed up, Derek," he says roughly. "I need your help and I'm not Scott, I can't do your wolfy stuff. I can't—Idon't know how to ask."

"You kind of just did."

"Yeah? You wanna tell me how I'm supposed to complete this request, because in my head it sounds an awful lot like I'm soliciting you for sexual favors."

"Well, you've gotta say it now," Derek says around a tiny smirk. "Come on, what was it you said earlier? You don't get to do that and say nothing."

"Not cool. You're not allowed to use my words against me, they're all I've got."

"Then let's hear them."

"Weren't we meant to be going somewhere?"

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, my car. I was gonna drive you home, it's freezing out here, you're obviously crazy, what the hell is wrong with you? It's the middle of the night."

"You were pretty misleading, I'm calling false advertising."

"If I'd told you I was taking you home, you would've picked another fight."

Stiles nods, impressed. "Touché."

"I win?" Derek asks incredulously.

"Huh?"

Derek smiles, the real one again, the ridiculous knee-weakening one that does terrible things to Stiles' stomach. "I did, I just made you listen to me." Then he actually dips his head and fucking laughs and that and the smiling—

"Oh my God, you're gonna kill me," Stiles rasps.

How. How is this happening right now? He wanted a walk in the night air to cool his head. He wanted Derek to do his laying-of-the-hands shtick to maybe ease his suffering and hopefully give him a few nightmare-less hours. Maybe even a good old fashioned argument in the park like a couple of drunk idiots to blow of some steam.

He should've seen it coming really. Like an eighteen-wheel truck with flashing lights.

"Probably, but not tonight."

"Will you carry me?"

"Absolutely not."

Derek hauls him to his feet with a hand around his wrist, layers of Stiles' jacket and hoodie and shirt between what he really wants. His heart rate starts to climb again and he experiences the most brutal head rush he's ever felt in his life, like a cleaver splitting his skull in half; his ass feels somewhere on top of his head.

"I'm going blind," he says flatly, like he's actually annoyed that this is happening to him.

"No, you're not." Derek steadies him with a hand on his chest, right over his problematic heart, that treacherous fucking little shit. "Jesus."

"Yeah, can we not make a big deal out of that please—"

"Your stress levels are up, I get it. It's your sympathetic nervous system reacting to prolonged pressure." Stiles stares at him. "What, I aced biology, you're surprised?"

"By you? Constantly."

Derek looks away from him, down at the ground. He drags one hand through his hair at the back of his neck, a nervous tell. "Come on."

He keeps a wary eye on Stiles the whole walk and he sticks close, their shoulders brushing together on the narrow trail. The Camaro's parked on a side street cluttered with houses and she's a sight for Stiles' literally sore eyes.

It's only the second time in his life Stiles has been in this car, first time with Derek actually driving, and it's definitely a mood lifter.

Derek explains why the hell he parked so far from the actual park as he pulls them out. "People see a black Camaro like this outside a park at 4AM, and then they see me getting out of it, they jump to drug dealer pretty quick."

Stiles laughs; it sounds drawling and goofy, his head rolled back lazily against the seat. He's completely exhausted now he's sat somewhere warm and comfortable.

"Is your dad home?" Derek asks.

"Night shift." Derek blows out a frustrated sigh and Stiles asks, "What?"

"You could. I mean, maybe it'd be better if you." Another sigh and Stiles is about to comment that Derek really needs to work on his words. "You should stay with me and Cora tonight."

Stiles won’t lie, he frigging loves that idea, he could marry that idea and have little idea babies with it. Shacking up at action HQ sounds pretty awesome by itself but not being alone sounds even better. Oh, who's he kidding? Derek—being with Derek sounds even better.

"Yeah?"

"Anything happens and I'll be able to hear it straight away, I can wake you up without, y'know, having to drive across all of town and climb in your window or call your cell twenty times."

Derek sounds downright perky, now.

Didn't even need to sell it, I'm already sold, buddy, let's go is what he says in his head but out loud it sounds more like, "Okay. Yeah, that sounds like a plan," because despite what people believe, Stiles can actually be cool sometimes.

He fires off two texts, one to his dad saying he's staying at Scott's and one to Scott telling him to lie his ass off if his dad calls, he'll explain later but no he's not in danger.

He's glad, when they get there, that Cora's fast asleep upstairs. He doesn't really get this place, the layout confuses him, but Derek assures Stiles that he won't have to share a bed with his sister. He tells Stiles about the first and last time he ever did and Stiles gets the feeling that Derek just really likes talking about her, because the story’s completely redundant and it's not often that Derek does sharing for the sake of sharing, 4AM foray into the woods notwithstanding. Apparently back when Cora was only six she kicked Derek so hard in her sleep that she dislocated his shoulder.

Derek visibly shudders, stood backlit against the low kitchenette lights with a glass of water for Stiles in one hand. "Never again. Anyway, take the downstairs bed." Stiles opens his mouth to stick his foot right in it but luckily, Derek pre-empts him sardonically. "I won't be in it. I gotta finish something up for Lydia."

The laptop sits open on the coffee table at the opposite end of the room.

"For Lydia?"

"Yeah," Derek says slyly. "About the thing that you're not allowed to get involved in, so don't even ask. Just go to sleep."

Hey, he's not gonna argue tonight. He's only just got the energy to toe off his sneakers and tear off his jacket and hoodie before he falls into the mattress—the ridiculously comfortable mattress—and pillows that smell like shampoo and Derek—the ridiculously good smelling pillows.

He can't sleep, though, not yet. He's still got the thing, the thing he can't figure out how to ask and Derek's not helping but Stiles is beginning to think that's more to do with Derek's issues with boundaries than anything else. Like Stiles has to outright ask or Derek can't be comfortable with something quite so intimate.

Stiles sits up, legs crossed, back poker straight. Like he's preparing for battle.

"Derek," he says softly, pulse thready already. Derek looks up from the sofa, glow from the computer screen smudging his face into shadows. His eyes are wide and bright, he's still as prey like Stiles might have some chance of mortally wounding him. "The other night, when you woke me up? When you umm, did the thing, whatever it is that's happening with us. After you left, I didn't dream at all."

He twists the corner of the comforter in his hand violently but he doesn't take his eyes of Derek, he's already making himself vulnerable enough. Derek who stands and looks so much smaller and softer without the leather jacket and in his own environment. He moves with an animal grace when he walks, when he stops next to the bed and sits at the edge.

He nods and rolls up his sleeves like he's bringing some kind of clinical detachment to the situation. "So how does this work? Do I just—touch your skin?"

Stiles shrugs, voice caught in his throat. He's shaking again, anticipation this time. Powerful surge of need so bad he feels crippled with it. Derek swallows and reaches out, watching the path of his hand like he's fascinated by it, mouth parted and his breath loud in the painfully tense silence; Stiles doesn't think either of them can talk anymore.

He watches Derek's face like he's trying to memorize it. Silver-blue light streaming in through the tall windows making him pale and uncertain, fragile even; damn, it's the most fascinating thing.

Stiles hears the soft sound he makes when his fingers slide over the skin of Stiles' forearm before he even feels it properly. Then it hits him, warmth like it's soothing up through his bones, smoothing out the aches and easing his sore head. It's like a wave of euphoria, a slow hit of morphine. When he was nine, he broke his ankle jumping off a moving skateboard like a dumbass and they shot him full of anesthetic to set it and that's what this is, Derek's his intravenous pain medication.

"You're really not doing that on purpose?" Stiles asks hoarsely, slumping—no, collapsing, actually—against the pillows at his back and pulling Derek forward awkwardly with the movement, Derek's free hand sinking, palm-down in the mattress beside Stiles' hip.

"No, I'm not doing anything."

There's no tell-tale visible pressure across Derek's veins to say he is. It's not the feeling of something being taken from him, it's more like something being added. Alka-Seltzer for the soul or something, he imagines it orange like the chewy sweets and fizzing away through his bloodstream, making him glow.

"Can you feel anything?"

Derek watches his own thumb stroke gentle arcs across the soft skin in the crook of Stiles' arm. "Yeah." He swallows thickly but doesn't elaborate. Stiles is close enough to see every single tiny shift of Derek's face and his bottom lip is trembling ever so slightly and Stiles doesn't know what that means.

"Derek." He's said Derek's name a thousand times in a thousand ways but he's never said it like this before, desperate and breathy like that, a terrible, wrecked sound that gives too much away. He repeats the word like he can fix it, "Derek," but it's fucking worse this time, typical, really.

"Oh my God, Stiles, shut up," Derek groans, actually groans.

Then he's all up in Stiles' space suddenly, climbing over him, knees pressing in at either side of Stiles' hips. That and Derek's hands sliding up and up his arms, his shoulders, cupping his neck and sliding into his hair, are the only places they're touching.

Stiles tips his head back to look up at him and he can't fucking breathe or blink or—function, anything! His hands move on their own, fingers curling around Derek's biceps and digging in and Derek gasps and then Stiles does, too, the touch like some kind of feedback loop, a low static hum.

"It's just, this isn't," Derek mutters, shaking his head and a little dumb struck.

"It's not weird, it's just the—"

"Yeah, yeah." Derek's fingers twist and scratch in his hair and lines of shivers ripple down Stiles' back and then Derek shivers right back, goosebumps prickling up under Stiles' hands on his arms.

"I mean we should use it, right?" Stiles asks; it's rhetorical, course they're gonna use it, fuck.

"Of course we should, it'd be illogical not to."

Stiles could kiss him for being so smart, there'd be absolutely nothing weird or illogical about that whatsoever. "Right? Yes, that is exactly it!" He arches his neck, leaning his head into Derek's hands like a cat being petted, and Derek strokes him obediently, watches like he's learning how to make it good. "God, you're smart."

"Uh huh."

And, and, and gorgeous, fuck, just look at you, you're ridiculous, and why, why did you come to the park tonight, why did you do this, why am I, I am, aren't I? I'm definitely, I'm completely screwed because I'm—I want—how has this happened—

Stiles is pretty sure this needs to stop right the fuck now before he embarrasses himself by saying any of that or just being completely betrayed by his own body in every single way because there's no way Derek's not gonna be able to smell horny all fucking over him soon.

"Okay, okay, I think we're good. I should probably, y'know."

He means sleep but Derek's on top of him and he doesn't wanna say that while Derek's on top of him.

"Of course," Derek agrees, wearing a little dazed frown like he'd forgotten that was the entire purpose of this endeavor. He shifts off the bed and stands in one fluid motion, unwinding himself and stretching against the windows and it's just not fair, if Derek's gonna do stuff like that.

Tonight's already making itself a special little entry in Stiles' brain as one of the most important nights of his entire life, magical touching and actively being a part of the supernatural shenanigans aside.

He doesn't know what to file it under, though. The night he realized he might wanna fuck a guy? The night he proved to his dad it's not how you dress, it's where you wanna put various people's sex organs that counts?

The night he was pretty certain he was falling for Derek Hale?

He looks up from the bed, from Derek's bed, helplessly silent. Derek cocks his head and blinks and says, "Sleep, I'll keep an ear out just in case," so, so softly before he walks away.

And yeah, Stiles is gonna go with the last one.

***

They spend most of Sunday morning fucking around with their new super powers in Derek's kitchen.

Because, firstly, Stiles is good at having small, controlled, and most importantly contained freak-outs and he manages to slip one in in Derek's shower first thing. Give him some restful sleep and he's back on the horse pretty quick. Only a few hours, though; he'd woken up at ten-thirty with Derek shaking him. He'd been tossing and turning, his heart apparently racing, but he doesn't remember much of anything so he thanks whatever demon God's out there for that freaky werewolf hearing.

Secondly, Stiles has always been curious about everything to an unhealthy degree, driving himself and everyone he's ever met to distraction with it, but he's delighted to see that Derek's just as much an inquisitive nerd as Stiles is.

He should've known really, what with the constant reading Derek does.

So when Derek hands him a coffee, stood leant up against the counter in jeans loose on his hips and a vest and bed hair like something out of a men's magazine, Stiles covers up the urge to stare by repeating "one of us, one of us," over and over again until Cora throws something at him and then leaves, slamming the sliding door behind her.

It's like some freaky trust exercise, they stand facing each other and Derek actually asks, "How dumb do you feel right now?" and Stiles agrees, "Very," with a grin.

Derek takes his arm and just holds it and there's that warmth again. It's different when they're analyzing the shit out of it, when Stiles is actively processing and cataloguing his body's reactions.

"Weird, huh?"

Derek breathes, a half laugh and a little awestruck, "Yeah," and then, "Can I?" and Stiles nods, effectively giving Derek free reign to do whatever the hell he wants. He pulls his hand away and Stiles' arm tingles; the warmth lingers like touching a radiator for a couple seconds. "So it doesn't disappear? The effect just kinda—"

Stiles can see what he's getting at. "It stays around then gradually wears off, like actual painkillers. Probably why you had to wake me up this morning, it'd worn off."

Derek grips him again but harder and with both hands on Stiles' upper arms this time. It's more intense and Stiles thinks about Derek's hands in his hair, how that felt so much more overwhelming.

The thing is, Derek's completely comfortable with touching people. Or maybe not comfortable, just used to it as a means of communicating. Even when they barely knew each other, Derek was all up in Scott's grill from the get go and occasionally, all up in Stiles' too. Stiles guesses that's simply a side effect of growing up in a pack. Derek's just physical and he expresses himself tactilely and he's not all that concerned with normal social protocol—which, Stiles admits, is one of the reasons he always kinda grudgingly thought Derek was weird-cool, even when he sort of wished he'd die.

Stiles is mostly a touch-avoider. He touches the people he's comfortable with, that is to say he touches Scott. He hugs his dad, sometimes. He has the occasional moment of wild abandon and celebrates not getting killed and/or other people not getting killed by pawing at someone like Allison or Lydia or Isaac.

His mom was like Derek, she'd communicate with her hands. Brushing the hair off his forehead or stroking his face, getting someone's attention with a hand on their arm or back. He spent hours curled up in hospital chairs and nurses and doctors used to ruffle his hair, or touch him on the shoulder, and he hated it, they were a poor substitute for the real thing because close to the end, his mom could barely lift her own hand from the bed and that—she'd hated that. She'd hated not being able to touch Stiles or his dad.

So when Stiles blurts out, "Do you think it's just hands?" he passes it off as him being a little overwhelmed by all the calculated, intense, pre-meditated and very much happening in the harsh light of day touching.

"As opposed to?" Derek asks warily, eyebrows raised.

"I—I don't know, I have no idea."

"You must have had some idea since you said it."

"When do I ever think before I speak, come on?"

Derek folds his arms over his chest and looks decidedly unimpressed. "Don't pull that crap on me, it's not gonna fly anymore."

"Okay, like, umm." He flails around for something, the least sexual thing he can think of. "Hugging?"

"I'm not hugging you."

"What, why?" Stiles squeaks affrontedly. "I'll have you know, I'm very huggable."

"You're not huggable," Derek says with a scoff. "In fact, you're pretty unapproachable."

That's—not exactly news to him. He didn't know Derek thought that, though. "That's a little rich coming from you, isn't it?"

"No, it's pretty accurate coming from me. You keep people at arm's length. Usually being a sarcastic little—"

Stiles interrupts him. "You mean instead of using my claws?"

Derek cocks his head. "Exactly."

"What is this, psychoanalyzing hour? I already had a shrink, buddy, she ditched me a long time ago."

"I can't imagine why."

"Now who's the sarcastic one?" Stiles asks roughly. He's getting himself worked up, all that floating, displaced anger easy to gather up and direct when he's around Derek. "Anyway, if I'm so unapproachable, how come you're always coming to me for help? Or even better, how come you're always relying on me to save your ass?"

"Because I trust you," Derek snaps then looks away and yeah, Stiles wasn't really expecting that.

"Oh."

Derek clears his throat. "And, umm. I'm not sure. I think it's any skin contact. But I feel it more when you touch me instead of the other way around."

And Stiles thinks, fuck it. An admission like 'I trust you' from Derek, the fact that he has this curious gift of making Stiles feel worth a damn and probably because he doesn't try to, the fact that every time Stiles wakes up fuzzy and exhausted his world has narrowed down into a tighter and tighter point. So fuck it it is, and he crowds Derek against the kitchen counter, hands molding over the thin material of Derek's shirt against his sides, nearly choking on his heart in his throat.

Derek looks like he's gonna allow it, he's not protesting anyway, he's not responding at all actually. Stiles can totally work with that. "Don't touch, okay?" he whispers and then tips his forehead against Derek's and exhales slowly because there it is, right there, Derek was right, it's just skin on skin.

He shuts his eyes and rolls with it, literally, turning his head to rub his cheek against Derek's stubble. Derek grips him right back, almost silent sigh in the back of his throat and hands on Stiles' hips over his jeans. He breathes against Stiles' ear, hot and damp. He dips his head and rubs his nose against Stiles' jaw, inhales underneath his throat and right over the thrumming vein in his neck like he's scenting him and there's no fricking way that Derek can't smell need all over him right now and Stiles just hopes he can pass it off as whatever the fuck's happening to them, lump it in with the various feelings going around because Derek's currently all over him right now, Stiles knows this is affecting him, too.

Then his pants vibrate. He's so caught up in Derek he doesn't even notice, not until Derek's pants start vibrating, too.

"Phone," Derek breathes against his collarbone, one hand raking up his back.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees stupidly, pressing Derek back into the counter with his body.

"No, I mean, phone. Your phone, my phone, they're going off."

He's annoyed, and that's putting it mildly. He puts the barest amount of space between himself and Derek, just enough for them both to pull out the offending distractions. Except it clicks, suddenly, that there's only one reason they'd both be getting texts at the exact same time.

Derek's eyes go wide, Stiles curses under his breath. Allison's text blurs in and out of focus.

It got Scott and Isaac, everyone still alive, call me NOW.

He goes momentarily weak, hand flinching around his phone, because he can't process that single sentence. Got Scott, it got Scott, it got him. Scott who's basically invincible in Stiles' eyes. A surge of panic white-hot discharges in his stomach and he freezes, everything he's got clamping down on ithard enough to squeeze his lungs dry.

Derek startles him, one hand gripping Stiles' shoulder and his thumb pressing into that familiar place on Stiles' neck, a gesture that looks more like instinct now.

"Stiles," he says, just like that, just his name like saying it out loud helps. Derek's face is drained of color, his other hand holding his phone up against his ear. "Allison? Yeah, I'm here. Are you with Cora? And she's not hurt? I'm already with Stiles, we'll be there soon."

"What?" Stiles asks eloquently.

"They've taken them to the clinic so we need to go, now."

He grips Derek's arm tight, slides a hand around the back of his neck and brings them together numbly. Stiles tucks his face against Derek's throat and breathes in like strength is a thing he can inhale.

Derek's warm and solid against him and it doesn't change the fact that Stiles is terrified and increasingly fucking pissed off that they can't seem to catch a break but it does ground him. Derek's touch, the spread of his palms up the back of Stiles' t-shirt, all of it rebalancing the floor under his feet. Stiles' voice sounds completely rock-steady when he pulls back enough to say, "Okay, let's go."

Derek nods and Stiles knows it's no trick of the light that he looks a lot less pale.

***

"Isaac's fine, he should be lucid soon, but Scott bore the major brunt of the attack," Deaton tells them the second they get through the door.

The clinic is painted in red, so much of it, glistening wet, sickly and everywhere.

Scott's laid, torn up and as pale as death, in the middle of a steel table and Deaton says he's never seen a person, animal, anything lose so much blood before and there's nothing else in the whole world that exists to Stiles for the longest minute, just Scott and Scott's blood draining away.

Scott, the kid who cemented their friendship by sharing his last peanut butter cookie with Stiles in pre-school. Scott, who bought Stiles a Gryffindor scarf with the last of his allowance when they were eleven. Scott, his best friend in the whole world, Scott—

This can't be happening.

Allison stands as still and silent as a ghost and she touches Stiles' arm when he tries to say something to her and can't choke out the words. Cora strokes Isaac's hair off his clammy forehead while he mumbles incomprehensible gibberish, his eyes flickering under his eyelids like he's in a fever dream.

Deaton has stitched Scott's wounds closed, all of them, six he can see across Scott's stomach, chest and one thigh and clearly more he can't, and lathered a couple of the real raw looking ones in salve and herbs. Stiles and Derek flank the table, Scott's body, and Stiles sees some of the horror he's feeling reflected in Derek's wide-open, terrified face.

He can't ask, he can't bear it, so Derek asks instead. "Is he gonna live?"

"He's started to heal himself," Deaton tells them carefully like he's choosing his words.

"Derek," Stiles stutters, his voice cracking and wet. "Derek, what does that, what the hell does that mean?"

Derek looks at Deaton for the longest time and Stiles hates it, like they're exchanging information he can't see and that's just—he can't—

"What? What the hell does it mean!?"

"It means he doesn't know."

"No." Stiles shakes his head, puts a hand over his eyes and rubs. "That's not. That's not an answer! That's not—"

He hears Allison choke somewhere behind him and his first instinct, the very first thing he thinks, is that Scott would want him to go to her, and Scott's not fucking dead, it's ridiculous, they're not widows, not—not yet.

She falls into him the second he's close enough, clutches at his jacket and buries her face in his neck and he can hardly hold her up under the weight of both their grief. It feels more like she's trying to tear holes in him than hug him.

Human. Both of them, too human. Too fragile in the face of all this. Allison's weapons mean nothing in this room. Stiles' plans and schemes and aptitude for words are useless. It's like six years ago all over again, a doctor telling him we'll just have to wait and see and Stiles has never been a patient guy.

Every time he feels like he's hit rock bottom, it's like the world says challenge accepted and here they are.

"Derek?" he hears Deaton ask softly, miles away, it feels so distant when Allison feels like the only solid thing in the world.

"We can't fight this," Derek says. "My mother, my mother said—" He makes a noise like he's in pain and Stiles does turn at that, Allison too.

"Your mother said what, Derek?" Deaton asks. Derek's face scrunched up like he's confused, his weight slumped heavy on his hands against the steel table.

"I can't remember," he mumbles, and then louder, afraid, "No, no, I can't—"

"Derek?" Deaton goes to his side, quickly. "What can't you remember?"

Allison swipes the tears off her face furiously like she's angry they're there. She whispers, "What's happening?" and Stiles shakes his head, he really doesn't know, everything's happening to him through a filter because Scott's half-dead, he might not make it this time, and Derek's freak-out feels like just another nightmare.

"Derek, answer me," Deaton commands in a low voice but Derek cringes away from him. "Look at Scott, Derek, look at him. He's dying, what can't you remember?" Derek shakes his head, looks at Scott helplessly. Then he doubles over, holds his stomach and cries out.

Deaton holds both his hands out like a crossing guard and Stiles realizes he's moved forwards with intent, Cora too.

"Don't touch him," Deaton says and Stiles just wants to know what the fuck is happening right now, to all of them. "I need him to feel this pain, it might make him remember."

Cora shouts, "Remember what?"

"I don't know!" For the first time, Deaton sounds really panicked. Panicked and frustrated, like he's just as in the dark and that right there is a truly grim thought. "Someone's taken memories from him, I didn't know that."

"About what attacked Scott and Isaac?" Allison asks.

"I don't know—"

"Then what do you know?" she demands, a ringing strike of steel running through her voice.

Deaton rounds on both of them. "Up until this second, I knew that Derek had heard tales of these shifters from his family and nothing more than that. Now, I need you all to calm down and stay back. Can you do that?"

There's so much tension in the room, Stiles could choke on it, pull out one of Allison's knives and cut right into it like butter. Cora's furious, her fingers clenching into fists, all of her shaking and Derek's half supporting himself against the table and Scott's—Scott's blood is everywhere—

Stiles drags his hands into his hair for something to hold onto.

Deaton approaches Derek slowly.

"Derek, can you hear me?"

"It's gonna kill me," he says, voice high and tight. He sounds so much like a scared kid all of a sudden and it sends chills down Stiles' spine.

"What's going to kill you, Derek?"

Derek gasps, grips Deaton's blue lab coat with one hand and drags him closer, looks up at him with wide eyes like he's seeing something horrific. The room goes deathly silent like a held breath, like they're right in the eye of the storm, the moment of tense quiet before everything goes to shit again.

Then Derek passes out.

Everyone still conscious in the room stares down at him blankly.

It's almost anti-climactic.

Scott's torn to shreds, Isaac's delirious and Derek's sprawled out on the floor unconscious.

Stiles turns to Cora, completely dazed, shock dulling all but his most basic sense of absolute numb confusion. "Three wolves down, one to go."

It's a real indication of the bleakness of their situation that Cora actually nods.

 

***

Chapter Text

 

The thing's touch burns like frozen steam across his skin.

"It's almost time."

"For what?" he asks weakly even though they rarely answer his questions.

"Time for all this to end."

"Please, please—" he trails off, no energy left to speak.

Please, Derek, please.

Nobody comes.

Please.

Anybody.

Make it end.

 

***

 

"Stiles?"

"Mmm."

"Come on." Lydia claps her hands right in his face and he bats her away. "Focus, we'll get nowhere if you're gonna fall asleep on me."

"I spent last night asleep on a waiting room bench—"

"And you're not the only one," Allison interrupts.

"Did you also spend last night getting tortured by creatures from Hell?"

"I told you you could go home and get some sleep, it's fine."

"No way, Scott's—and Derek's—just, no, okay? No."

Lydia watches them, back and forth like a tennis match across the library table—huge downtown library, not the school library—where she's sat at the end like the head of their dysfunctional little family.

"Guys, focus. Come on. This is code red, werewolves down, team human, okay? We have to pull it together."

What's that Stiles has been saying about humans? Too weak, too fragile. And yet here they are, the wolves truly down and Lydia's the absolute antithesis of weak and fragile right now.

Stiles looks at Allison across the table, the dark circles under her eyes, the tight press of her lips together. Hard. She looks hard. Hardened. Preparing for another loss because she's a solider, terrified all the time but still ready. If Scott died, Stiles would be scared of her and what she might do, he realizes with a dull jolt. He's not sure even Chris Argent could bring his daughter back from that in one whole piece.

He gives her a small smile, biggest gesture he's capable of, and she gives him one back, weak and tired but genuine. It's enough, though. Just enough to get his head back in the game.

Four hours of compiling everything they know and everything they can learn in that amount of time into one giant record and Lydia sounds like the sheriff the way she's going on about the key to good detective work being patterns.

They're surrounded by stacks of books and colored strips of paper for bookmarks, scribbled notes and Derek's laptop. It's past 11PM, the only light at this hour coming from the wall sconces, low orange and dusty because the town council's saving cash or something, can't afford to turn on the overheads for the only three people crazy enough in Beacon Hills to be holed up in a library this late when there's another 'savage animal' on the loose.

The thing Derek's working on for Lydia is a comprehensive list of every story he'd ever remembered his family tell him about non-wolf shapeshifters. Lydia—genius, psychic something Lydia—thought it'd be useful to know everything Derek knew. She'd asked him not to research it, just to tell it exactly how he remembers it.

And he has, all of it. Stiles has raked over some himself because he's fascinated by this small insight into Derek's brain. Everything from his memories right down to the way he writes, kind of matter-of-fact with the odd, deadpan turn of phrase that Stiles can actually hear in Derek's voice.

Lydia's equally fascinated; Stiles suspects she's reading this thing for fun, never mind research.

"Did you know Talia Hale could turn into an actual wolf?" she asks Stiles, wholly impressed, and yeah, he knew that, Peter told him once. "And that she was loved and worshipped by everyone? Although that might be some Derek bias creeping in."

Stiles thinks about Derek's smile in the park and guesses she's right.

Lydia goes on. "It's rare, though, full shapeshifting. I feel like it's relevant. This shaman hates werewolves because they're still essentially human, they don't shift with their whole souls, they're like charlatans." She points at the old book in front of her, an anthology of Slavic Mythology. "It says here: the most popular dark shape shifter souls are humans who turn into werewolves, rather than wolves. Werewolves are a human with karma, where shapeshifting into a wolf is a human without karma. These fierce shamans will eradicate or fight non-shaman shape shifter humans who are called false sorcerers and dark magicians."

"Okay, okay." Stiles rubs both hands over his face. His brain is so cloudy he can't string thoughts together too well, they're all tangled up in a ball like his headphones get the second he puts them in a drawer. "So it or he or she or whatever hates werewolves. It's killing werewolves. It's already attacked the twins, Scott and Isaac, it killed the omega—"

"It probably thinks it's killed Scott," Allison adds quietly. “It'll know that without him, the pack is weaker.”

Stiles wonders if Allison knows just how right she is about that. "Yeah.”

"Let's run it down, come on," Lydia quips, hand banging against the table-top to pull their attention. She's all energy, keeping their spirits up with fierce determination; Stiles honestly doesn't think he could've done this today without Lydia. "We know why it's killing the pack, we know what it wants, we know it's goal and its motives. We don't know who it is, we don't how to find it and we don't know how to stop it. So how do we figure those things out?"

"We use what we do know," Stiles says. "And we look for patterns."

"Yes. So where. Aiden was on the lacrosse field. Scott and Isaac were in the woods at the back of the school. I mean—" Lydia pauses to huff a laugh. "It could just be because our school is full of werewolves and there's always a high probability of finding one there. But it might also mean that it knows the area around the school well enough to hunt there."

"They probably work there," Allison drawls wryly. "They usually do."

"They could, it's a possibility."

"Meredith's the exception," Stiles points out. "She went to the school years ago but she was attacked miles away."

"Okay, well there's always exceptions, those can be just as important."

A few minutes of silence go by while Lydia scribbles down more notes. Allison finally breaks it. "Exceptions. It hasn't tried to attack Cora, Derek or Peter yet. And Cora was there, me and her went out with Scott and Isaac, she was close by, it could've attacked her easily."

It hasn't attacked the Hales. A thought occurs to Stiles.

"Derek knew something, you saw him yesterday in the clinic. And he said something about his mother, right?" Allison nods. "Remember when we were trying to find the nematon? Peter said that Talia took the memories from him and Derek so they didn't know where it was. She had the power to take memories. Maybe, maybe she was the one that took whatever was causing Derek so much pain yesterday. I mean, who else do we know with that kinda power except Deucalion?"

Allison's eyes go wide. "Derek said it's gonna kill me, and he was holding his stomach— "

Stiles is right there with her, feels like a cartoon light bulb is pinging over his head. "Maybe it's already attacked Derek."

"And, what?" Lydia asks. "Talia didn't want him to remember? But this thing is incredibly strong, how did she stop it from killing him?"

"I don't know but you said it hates charlatans, right? False sorcerers or whatever?" Stiles asks and she nods. "Talia wasn't like the others. She was the real deal. Maybe she did something, fought it off or used magic or something?"

"So, whatever Derek forgot might lead us right to it and tell us how to stop it?" Allison asks because yeah, that sounds about the bones of it.

It's something, a plan, a highly plausible working theory and it's the best hunch and most knowledge about anything Stiles has had in way too long and there's something hugely settling in that.

But—because there's always a but—he's got the nagging suspicion that there's some huge piece of the puzzle missing, a patch of information right there in his blind spot. He's seen the movies, though, watched all the TV shows, so he voices the suspicion out loud instead of keeping it bottled up so it can come back to bite them in the ass later on.

"Well, yeah, there is one problem, a pretty big one," Lydia agrees and looks at Stiles and Allison in turn. "We've gotta get Derek in the tub."

 

 

***

 

Something's different.

Stiles doesn't know much anymore, they talk about him and he's mostly too sore and exhausted to listen, but he knows that.

"Can he do it?"

"He'll do it. He'll do anything."

"He calls but the wolf doesn't come."

"He doesn't because he can't. He's weakened and soon, he'll be even more so. It's almost time."

Stiles mouths those words to himself silently, tries to sear them into his brain so he can't forget because it's so important, he doesn't know why but it is; Derek, weakened, almost time—

One approaches him. No, not one, someone. Not like the others, he's not like those creatures.

"Stiles?"

Stiles trembles, turns away, can't because—because he's human, this man is human.

"I need your help with something. I need you to understand, I can't find him without you."

And he won't, Stiles is going to make sure of it.

"I'm sorry, you can't warn him—"

And then Stiles screams. He goes blank.

He forgets.

 

***

 

"Absolutely not."

"But—"

"Allison, he can't do it yet."

Deaton's got a point.

Derek's officially on strict house arrest under the aggressively watchful eye of Cora, and Stiles hasn't seen him since Monday morning. Not since Derek had regained consciousness groggy and confused in the clinic, wanting to know why the hell everyone was looking at him so expectantly.

Stiles knows Derek well enough to know that it's got to be killing him.

"Whatever he knows could stop this thing!" Allison argues – and argues and argues but Deaton's not having any of it.

"If we do it now, it might kill him."

"How long until it's safe?"

"A few days, at least, and then it's in Derek's hands. But until then, it's in mine and I'm saying no."

Stiles sits with Scott and his mom in the back room while they debate, voices carrying clearly through the walls but it's all Deaton could do – set up a proper bed for Scott here, somewhere surrounded by mountain ash and protections. Where Deaton could pack him full of magical plants and herbs and healing balms. Somewhere Mrs McCall could be alone with her son.

Stiles doesn't know what he can do for her. He can hardly do for himself, he's in a real sorry state. A blood-soaked tissue balled up in his hand from the nosebleeds he's been having on and off since he woke up and running on around twelve hours of sleep over three days. Three days since he touched Derek in the loft kitchen, since waking up at Derek's on Sunday morning, and now it's Wednesday night and he's using Scott's mattress as a pillow, slumped forward in a stiff plastic chair next to a lifeless body and it's agony, how familiar this all is. Or it would be, if he could feel anything except numb and threadbare.

He'd been worried Scott might look at Stiles one day and see that he'd reached his limit and it's a sick, twisted irony that the day has come but Scott's not fit to witness it.

Deaton had said Scott was making progress but nothing is set in stone, he could backslide just as quickly. "Think of it like a coma, it's a state he can heal in but it's also dangerous with no guarantee that he'll wake up," he'd explained.

So now Stiles feels like they're keeping an eye on him for signs or something, one way or the other. He just wants Scott to tell him everything's gonna be okay, because that's what Scott does and Stiles just can't make himself believe it coming from anyone else.

"You know," Mrs McCall starts, her voice scratchy. "First time I saw him change, wanna know what literally my first thought was?"

"That explains a lot?"

"That was my second thought." Stiles smirks into the sheets. "I thought: anyone tries to take that kid's lunch money and they're dead."

The smirk turns into a full snort and he looks up at her, the red-rimmed eyes and the curl of hair falling over her forehead and how she hasn't taken one hand off Scott the entire time she's been here.

"I mean, how ridiculous is that?"

"It's the least ridiculous thing I've heard in like, a month."

"That's not comforting," she says wryly. "When I'd worked it all out in my head, when it finally made some kinda sense, I just. I thought." Stiles waits her out and doesn't look, he can't watch her struggle anymore, he can't take it. "All the crazy stuff going on, all the danger, but I thought that, at least he can take care of himself now. It was so stupid. Because there's always going to be something worse out there, isn't there?"

"It's not stupid." Stiles voice is shaky and pathetic, distinctly lacking in anything like conviction. "He was doing a great job of it until Sunday. He was doing a great job taking care of us all."

"Yeah, well, that's what he does, isn't it? Takes care of everyone. Why can't he be like other teenagers, huh? Only one thing on his mind."

"And not running around the woods with his claws out?"

She doesn't answer straight away, and when Stiles looks, she's watching him carefully. "Do you ever wish he hadn't been bitten?"

"Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

Stiles thinks the correct answer should be always but he can't say that. It's not true. "You know that old saying, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger?"

"You're not quoting Nietzsche at me, Stiles," she says and rolls her eyes. "Come on."

"Hey, it's a good line! Some very famous individuals have used that line. Kelly Clarkson knew what she was talking about, don't knock it," he argues. "Anyway, I wasn't gonna go with that one. I was gonna say it's more like: who doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean Derek, Peter, Isaac, the twins, Chris Argent, even Allison." He can't help but look at Scott when he says Allison; it's an instinct excruciatingly honed by months and months of watching Scott's little wolfy ears prick up every time someone so much as mentions her name. There's no reaction this time, though. "Almost everyone's tried to kill someone on our side at some point. Now it's like, I can't imagine my life without all these people in it."

Mrs McCall huffs a soft laugh. "What a morbid but ultimately kind of sweet thought."

"Yeah. Problem is, Scott said we'd never faced a bad situation with better odds than right now. But right now we've got Scott in a coma and Isaac and Derek aren't exactly in any state to fight a damn thing and Ethan's barely letting Aiden out of his sight and I—"

Her hand on his is warm and sudden and he chokes, words getting sucked back up inside his windpipe. He wants to do something ridiculous like crawl into her lap like a kid or find his dad and hug the crap out of him or climb into the bed next to Scott and snuggle him like a huge fucking puppy. He wants—

—he wants Derek.

He wants Derek so bad he could tear strips out of his own skin. It's like a physical ache, nothing can override it. Knee deep in the blood of his friends and Lydia's books and exhaustion and underneath it all is a pulsing vein that craves.

He's starved of any sense of security, Scott's safety net brutally cut out from under him when he's hardly got the strength to hold up on his own anymore. Even the inside of his own head is corrupted by something evil; every time he shuts his eyes it's like playing Russian Roulette.

"The wolves might be down but I'd say our odds are still pretty good," Mrs McCall says softly.

"Optimism runs in your family, you might wanna get genetically tested for that, it can be really dangerous."

She whacks him around the head. "One of these days Stilinski."

"Someone'll staple my mouth shut, yeah, I know."

She's said that to him ever since he was eight years old and told her that her pasta boiling skills could use work. Hearing it now is actually kind of nice, if anything about this could be considered nice.

So he smiles at her and tries not to feel it crack. He tries to rodeo up some of that positivity she and Scott share so frustratingly. He sees Scott's expressions on her face, all that determination and will to carry on. Scott never gives up and Melissa hasn't given up on her son or on Stiles, the least Stiles can do is try back it up.

If you're going through Hell, keep going.

"Stiles?" He turns at Deaton's voice in the doorway. "Can I talk with you a moment?"

He says a quiet goodbye to Mrs McCall and a see you later, dude, to Scott and finds Allison's gone.

"She's gone to get something from her father that might help," Deaton tells him.

"Help Scott?"

"No, help you. I haven't forgotten your problem, Stiles, I hope you haven't either."

Stiles glares at him, feels his eyes bug out of his head. "Oh yeah, come to think of it, it did slip my mind."

Deaton looks decidedly unamused. "I meant, I hope you haven't forgotten the possibility that what's happening to you is just as dangerous for everyone as what's happening with the shaman."

He—had actually. Or maybe not forgotten, he's just been so hung up on how much trouble it's causing him, on his own suffering, that he hadn't really considered it much past a personal grievance. He forgets, sometimes, that it's real and it's really happening. There's no physical wounds to show except the bruises under his eyes.

"Okay, but there's nothing we can do, right? I mean, we can stop the shaman, maybe, but we don't even know what's wrong with me."

"There's something you can do. I want you to see Derek."

Heat floods his stomach. Hell, he's getting as bad as Scott, just someone saying Derek's name sends his heart into palpitations. "But you said that Derek was off limits, at least for another few days."

"I said that to Allison. He's not strong enough for me to almost kill him, yes," Deaton says dryly. Then he turns unnervingly skittish. "I just want you to see him. You can bring up the ritual if you like, just tell him what I told Allison, he can't perform it yet."

"But why?"

"I think you know why, Stiles."

Yeah, he really doesn't wanna have too much of an in-depth conversation about that with anyone, least of all Deaton. Besides, Stiles doesn't need much convincing, he's got a surge of adrenaline punching through him enough to probably fucking fly all the way to Derek's.

He turns on his heel and heads for the door but Deaton stops him.

"Wait," he says, and Stiles just manages to reign in the urge to groan. "I've called you a cab. The thought of you behind the wheel right now concerns me."

And, yeah, well, he can't really argue with that logic.

"Sometimes I think you're like a puppet master," he tells Deaton as he sits on a bench like a good boy to wait for his taxi. "Instructing us all to dance, puppets, dance."

He could swear Deaton smiles at that.

 

 

***

 

"Oh no, no way."

"Cora, would you just let me in?"

She's got the door open just a sliver, enough that Stiles can see the stern frown on her face that means death to all that don't heed it.

"Not a chance, Derek's not up to all your crap right now."

"Could you at least tell him I'm here."

"It's late, he's sleeping, so no."

"Then I'll go wake him up."

"Like hell you will. You'll go home, Stiles."

"I can yell pretty loud, y'know."

She presses her mouth together in what might be considered an attempt not to strangle him, but she opens the door so it's worth the risk; he can shout really loud, after all. She steps aside and he slips in quickly before she can change her mind.

"I swear, you are so infuriating," she deadpans. "Can't you take your weird crush on my brother and put it back on Lydia where it belongs?"

It's like a soft punch to the stomach and unfortunately his wits aren't about him enough for a snappy comeback so he ends up with a lame, "I-I don't, I don't have a weird crush on your brother."

She looks at him like he's an idiot. "Do you recognize the futility of trying to lie to me?"

"Okay, so how about you shut the hell up, because Derek's got your freaky werewolf hearing too, y'know!" he whispers roughly. "Anyway, what do you think I'm gonna do to him?"

"Why are you whispering? If he's awake, he'll hear you anyway."

"I don't know!" He makes a weird arm movement, an aborted sort of exaggerated shrug. "Could you just. I'm not—I'm not at my best here, okay?"

Cora goes quiet. She blinks slowly and nods and it's such a Derek-like gesture; sometimes she looks and acts so much like him. She waves him in, properly in, and it's calming, just being back here. Calming and then empty, because Derek's not on this floor which means he must be upstairs and it's so close but Stiles can't even see him and that's torture.

He leans back against the desk and scratches his fingernails into the wood to ground him, all his body so heavy, relying on solid stuff to keep him upright.

"How's Scott?"

"Deaton says he's in the werewolf version of a coma."

"I don't know how to say this without sounding kind of insensitive," Cora starts, looking down at the floor. "But I don't want Scott to die."

It drags a laugh out of him, Stiles will give her that. "I know."

"I'll help if I can, I hope you know that, too."

"Thanks, Cora."

"You're here to ask Derek to get in the tub, aren't you?" she asks softly. He knows what she's thinking, and they both know that if Stiles said getting in the tub could help them find and stop this thing, then he'd do it even if it meant risking his stupid, stubborn life. "Stiles, please," and it's gotta take her a lot to say that to him. "Please don't."

"Deaton says he's not strong enough, yet."

She rolls her eyes. "You might have noticed this, but my brother doesn't exactly always do what Deaton, or anybody for that matter, says is best."

"Valid point."

"I know we have to stop this thing, but—" Cora stops and wraps her arms around herself, a jarring show of vulnerability.

"Look, Deaton's not gonna do anything until he thinks Derek can take it, he made that abundantly clear, trust me."

She blows out a harsh breath and starts pacing. "You saw what happened at the clinic, one little flashback and Derek was unconscious for eighteen hours! What d'you think the whole ordeal is gonna do to him, huh?"

"It might weaken—“ Weaken, weaken, why is that so important, why does he remember that—

“Stiles?”

“It might weaken him for a couple days, sure, but we did it to Isaac and he was fine."

She doesn't look convinced. “You saw him. This isn't like Isaac.”

"Okay, well, we did it to me and I'm still standing. And let's face it, I'm not exactly Mr Universe, am I? It's his choice, Cora. Whether I ask him or not. And you might not believe this, but I'm not actually here to kidnap your brother, bundle him into a car and take him to Deaton right now. I just." Oh, wow, awkward. "I just wanted to see him."

Cora's listening carefully and Stiles knows she's checking for lies and she isn't gonna find any.

"If he ends up in the tub before he's ready, I'm holding you personally accountable, I hope you know that."

"Received, loud and clear, thank you."

She sighs softly and he thinks it's probably all the give he's gonna get from her. "You should keep talking to Scott. People in a coma can sometimes hear what you're saying, did you know that?"

"Yeah, doctors say it all the time."

"Specially things like certain threats," she says with a wry little smile. "Like, I'd better be awake the next time you do that?"

"Oh. Oh, that?" Stiles splutters, shit, he'd forgotten about that. "Yeah, that was—that was a weird thing to say, huh? Adrenaline, or something."

She takes a few slow steps forward and he feels like a trapped rat, caught on the desk but that doesn't stop him from leaning way back even though she's like six feet away from him. Then she scoffs and stops, shaking her head at him like he's vaguely amusing.

"Wow, you've got it bad. Derek's waking up."

He's getting whiplash here. "What?"

"I'm going out" she says all matter-of-factly. "Stay with him, okay?"

"You'd trust me to stay here with Derek?"

"He's out of it but he could still kick your ass, Stilinski. Come on."

That's not what he meant but then, he doesn't really know what he meant, so he says precisely nothing. Cora grabs her coat and keys and then she's gone and he's alone. Alone in the loft with Derek and what feels like Cora's blessing or something; fuck, there goes his heart again.

He climbs the stairs like he's going to his execution, as nervous as that but running through with anticipation like shots of alcohol in his blood. Derek's gonna be the death of him one way or another.

Stiles clears his throat and then realizes how utterly ridiculous that is, Derek can hear him already, can definitely already hear the crazy, jack-rabbit thump of Stiles' heart against his ribs.

He's never been up here before, it's bigger than downstairs. All flushed a hazy red by curtains mostly drawn across the tall windows, turning the light from the street lamps outside scattered and warm.

Derek's blinking and shirtless with the comforter pooled around his hips, hair stuck up all over and sat up on his elbows, and holy shit Stiles breath seizes up in his throat and his mouth is literally watering.

He thinks it can't possibly get much worse until Derek says in a sleep-slurred, throaty voice, "I thought that was you."

"Deaton sent me." Stiles wraps himself in it like a shield.

"Scott?" Derek asks quickly.

"No, nothing's happened to Scott, Scott's the same."

Derek's head falls back and he breathes and Stiles is thrumming with the need to touch him, he's not going to be able to fight it much longer, he's already done a pretty bang up job controlling himself this long. He blinks and in the space of half a second, he's somehow halfway across the room.

Derek's pale up close, his eyes smudged by dark circles. He looks a little like Stiles feels but he's still a real sight for sore eyes, staring up at Stiles helplessly from the bed—the bed.

"Deaton sent me,” he says again like a dumbass, shaking down to his bones. “I gotta ask you something.”

"Wait, sit down." Derek grips Stiles' sleeve and pulls his ass onto the mattress. "You look like the walking dead, Stiles, you should've come sooner. Why didn't you?"

"We've been pretty busy trying to figure out how to stop this shaman thing from finishing what it started," Stiles snaps with a flare of anger appearing from quite literally nowhere. "You're not running a spa here, Derek. I can't just come around, feel you up and then sleep in your bed whenever I feel like it."

"Did you think I'd kick you out?"

"No, no, I didn't," Stiles admits; he really didn't, but it doesn't stop the whole thing being completely weird and awkward. "To be fair, I thought Cora might, though. I was kinda right, she tried. She's like Cerberus up in here, man. I mean, I get it, she's worried about you—"

He's rambling.

"Stiles," Derek interrupts softly, studying Stiles' face carefully. "It's been bad, hasn't it?" Stiles doesn't want to answer; he's stubborn like that and it's difficult being this unsteady in front of Derek, but Derek must be still half-asleep or something, because he admits, "I know it has, I feel awful and it's not just 'cause of what happened at the clinic."

"Umm, yeah. Yeah, it's been—" Stiles chokes and trails off and his voice cracks and it's awful, really awful, so bad he wants to get up and leave and never show his face here again. Throw himself into a ditch and wish himself into non-existence, just fucking peace out, bitches.

Derek shifts on the bed. He slips both hands inside Stiles' jacket until it's off his shoulders and down his arms. It's the sweetest thing and Stiles has to talk fast because things like this don't normally happen to him. “I'm cursed, I'm not four. You don't have to—“

But Derek pulls the jacket off him and throws it to the floor and talks right over him. "You could have come sooner." Then his fingers spread over Stiles' shoulder, his thumb against Stiles' neck.

Stiles goes weak, pure relief cutting his strings like the tension was the only thing still holding him up. He reaches out blindly for Derek, hand curling around one bicep and then he's slumping forward, more like buckling actually, forehead against Derek's shoulder and Derek's hand cupping the back of his neck, fingers carding in his hair.

"Was that an open invitation?" Stiles asks, muffled where he's buried his face against Derek's neck; Derek who's all warm and sleep-smelling, making Stiles feel thick like treacle.

Derek rubs his nose against Stiles' temple, rubs Stiles' skin with his fingertips. When he speaks he sounds a little slow, slurred. "Mmm, definitely." Stiles forgets that his own touch comforts Derek, too; it's a profoundly powerful feeling.

"I'm staying over again by the way, just thought I'd let you know that. I need you in touching distance tonight, I need—"

He gets that far and then suddenly Derek's arms are around his middle and Stiles is rolled, bodily, into the empty side of the bed. Derek looms over him, looks down at him in the shallow light spilling in through the gaps in the curtains for a few soft, sweet seconds. Concerned, confused, a touch fond, all those things on his face; Stiles doesn't know how he does that for such a brooding kinda guy but he does. He's incredibly expressive when he wants to be.

Then he lies down, on his side and facing Stiles, who's got the urge to talk rising like an unruly wave. "I didn't actually expect. I mean, I wasn't demanding to sleep with you or anything. That's not where I was going with that."

Derek shushes him. "Take your shoes off in my bed."

Stiles does; it's rude is what that is, wearing shoes in someone else's bed. He kicks them back over the side with a couple of really loud thumps that make him cringe and then Derek reaches out, slips a hand under his shirt and spreads it over Stiles' side.

He melts against the mattress and muses that it's only when he's not feeling the ache and sting of being sleep-tortured that he realizes how bad he actually does feel.

Now he's good-tired, heavy with the numbing pull of sleep, content enough not to care about how crazy intimate all this is so he shuffles forward into Derek's space and presses one palm flat against Derek's steady heartbeat.

He sinks fast like a lead weight, no crushing darkness, no pain or fear, no black eyes.

Just Derek and the feeling that his nightmares can't touch him.

 

***

 

Unexpected.

Is the first word that comes to mind.

Stiles wakes up slowly, feels dissolved like he's become one with the mattress, and pleasant like they're getting on great, but then it hits him: that's not the only reason.

So yeah, finding his nose buried in dark hair and realizing Derek's a cuddler is definitely unexpected. Major cuddler, though, not just an arm slung over Stiles' body or something. Derek's wrapped around him fetal style, like Stiles is a teddy bear. His head pillowed on Stiles' arm and tucked right under Stiles' chin, both his arms wrapped tight around Stiles' middle and their legs all tangled together. He can feel Derek's bare stomach pressed all up against where his shirt has ridden up.

And Stiles is holding him right back, one hand wrapped securely around Derek's shoulder so he can't get away and the other loosely threaded in his hair.

He feels pretty amazing. Warm and safe and rested--actually rested. No headache starting its vicious ascent up his neck and boring holes into his brain. No aches or pains or debilitating weakness, crippling depression like waking up in a cloud of thick grey fog. None of that.

The sun's trying to creep its way through the curtains and the clock says six-thirty and it's just a morning. Yeah, a morning waking up with Derek in his arms, but that just makes it better as far as Stiles is concerned.

Except there is a thing to be concerned about. Derek's skin under his hand is so smooth and Stiles' body pressed tight up against him feels too good and he needs to de-tangle, quickly.

He tries some kind of roll manoeuvre but Derek pulls him back in with a disgruntled noise like he doesn't approve. His hands curl and uncurl up against Stiles' bare back because apparently t-shirts aren't barriers for Derek Hale, he's having none of it, he's getting right up there.

Nope, it's not good. Well, it's good, it's so fucking good, but it's not.

Stiles coughs and says loudly, "Derek."

"What?" is the hoarse, sleepy reply and seriously—

"You're awake?"

"I am now."

"Okay, you don't see a problem here?"

"Yes. You're talking. Shut up," he says flatly and just tightens his arms and settles right back in and what the hell?

And Stiles can't exactly say, you're cuddling me, it's weird, because if Derek wants to cuddle him in his sleep—or ever, actually—then he really does not want to ever discourage that behavior.

So he says, "I've gotta go to school, like, soon. Can't miss it, it's kind of important, y'know, my whole future and all that jazz," and Derek sighs and the warmth of it soaks through the front of Stiles' shirt.

He lets Stiles go and rolls onto his back with a groan and Stiles is inclined to agree. He feels quickly bereft, an uncomfortable coldness creeping across his skin. It wasn't like that before and Derek frowns at him because he's clearly thinking the same thing.

"You think that means it's getting stronger or something?" Stiles asks even though he knows the answer, he just needs to voice it out loud.

"Probably."

"Think we should be worried?"

"Usually."

Stiles reaches out to find his phone from wherever he tossed it last night and checks with his hands shaking, developing a major kind of unfortunate anxiety every time he reads his messages these days.

Derek asks, "Any news?" and Stiles shakes his head and blinks and swallows down whatever emotion's trying to claw its way up his throat, file it away for later. Weird amalgamation of relief and frustration and inadequacy.

"Deaton said Chris Argent has something that might help us," Stiles says instead and Derek looks, for a couple of seconds, like he might ask Stiles if he's okay, push for an awkward emotional check-up. Thankfully he seems to think better of it.

"Oh, great, I always love when Argent gets involved."

"Come on, he's a good ally."

"He's your ally. Not mine."

"You're real grumpy for someone who just had a great night's sleep, y'know," Stiles muses, sitting up and stretching himself out, cracking his joints and intensely aware that Derek's watching him. "I know you're secretly in a good mood." Derek raises his eyebrows. "Sorry, the cuddling gave you away, buddy."

"You tell anyone about that and I'll kill you," Derek says completely without heat.

"I'm just not feeling the death threats anymore, I think they need work."

Derek's idea of working on them is shoving him out of the bed and telling him to make coffee, which is fair enough since he did let Stiles sleep over again and all.

He figures out the machine pretty quick because he's a genius. It's way newer than the one his dad's got and not for the first time, Stiles wants to know how the hell the Hales' have a certain quantity of really expensive shit. He's thinking offshore bank accounts and vaults filled with gold bars or something, and when Derek comes downstairs with his hair wet from the shower, Stiles needs one hell of a distraction, so he just comes out and asks.

Derek takes the steaming cup Stiles hands him and actually smirks. "You're probably not far off. I don't even know how they got so rich. There's a ton I don't know."

"Don't you ever wanna find out?"

Derek drinks his coffee and hums. "Sometimes. There's usually something trying to kill me, though, so it can be hard to find the time."

Stiles laughs, man it feels good to really laugh. "You gotta let me help you with that." Derek looks dubious; Stiles knows he values his privacy. "I wouldn't pry or anything, but you know I'm good at finding things out and I think maybe it'd be cool for you to know. Y'know, once this latest round of evil's been defeated. It'd be a good distraction, anyway."

Derek actually goes thoughtful, like he might just be considering the offer. He shrugs. "Maybe. Anyway, where's your Jeep?"

It's an uncharacteristically gentle deflection and Stiles isn't gonna push him, not when Derek offered him the same courtesy. "Deaton got me a cab because apparently I'm a danger to myself and others."

"Good call. I'll give you a ride back to the clinic if you want?"

"What about Cora? Actually, where is Cora?"

"Stayed over at Lydia's apparently," Derek tells him, tapping a finger against his phone in his pocket. "Which is weird, 'cause when we got back here on Monday she told me that if I tried to escape she was gonna hunt me down and nail me back into bed."

"Wow, your sister is strict."

"Yeah, you're telling me."

Stiles leaves out the part where he's fairly certain why Cora stayed over at Lydia's and that it has every reason to do with Stiles, the things she knows Stiles wants to do to her brother and her supernaturally good senses.

"Kinda brings me nicely onto what I wanted to ask you last night," he says instead and Derek focuses in on him with a chafing intensity. "I don't know how to say this without you going off on one."

"Well, I could suggest you say it quickly."

"The reason you went all Sleeping Beauty on us on Sunday." And wow, that was a revealing analogy. "Whatever it is you forgot? We think it might help us catch the shaman."

"That's why you came around, you wanted to ask me to remember," Derek says and it's not a question, he's hardly even saying it to Stiles, more like he's saying it to himself. "Obviously, that's the reason. Umm." He shakes his head a little. "Yeah, Deaton said I was having some kind of flashback. I don't remember anything and Cora won't talk about it."

"You said that your mother said something, but you couldn't tell us what," Stiles tells him as gently as one can explain this type of messed up crap. "And then you said it's gonna kill me and you were in pain like something was attacking you."

Sometimes, Derek has this way of looking like the most lost puppy in the shop window and it wrenches at Stiles' heart like those ASPCA ads on the TV, which under the surface isn't as ridiculous as it seems; Derek is as vulnerable as any of them when it comes down to it. Emotionally, even more so.

"Like that thing was attacking me?"

"Maybe."

"And I forgot?"

"Or someone wanted you to forget."

Derek dips his head and closes his eyes. It's a startling confirmation of the trust Derek talked about and Stiles instinctively wants to step up and protect. So he does, without so much as dwelling about it he moves closer and lets the urge to touch drive him, curling one hand around Derek's wrist.

"She protected us from too much," Derek says eventually, gaze settling on where Stiles is touching him. "Before the fire, we just weren't prepared for how bad things could really get. We didn't know how much stuff out there wanted to hunt us."

"That's what moms do, man."

"Doesn't help in the end though, does it?"

"Let's face it, there's not much that does."

The corner of Derek's mouth twitches up just slightly, eyes still fixed on Stiles' hand on his arm. "So what's Deaton gonna do? Freeze me half to death and then ask me questions?"

"Yup," Stiles says brightly, stepping back out of Derek's personal space where he can breathe again. "If you're thinking that sounds painful and horribly traumatic, you'd be right."

"I can't wait."

"Yeah, well, don't get too excited. Deaton also said you couldn't do it until he deemed you were fit enough after your, y'know, previous episode." Derek looks downright offended at that. "It was pretty melodramatic, dude. I'm just saying. Hey!" Stiles yelps and falls back. "Did you just poke me?"

Derek shakes his head and blatantly lies. "No."

Stiles rubs his stomach where Derek's finger seriously just poked. "You lying asshole, you just poked me."

"Do I look like the kinda guy who goes around poking people, Stiles? Really?"

Stiles gawps at him because he's all bright-eyed and charming and maybe he's putting on a front to hide behind, maybe he's going for a much needed distraction, either way Stiles completely gets it. And either way, it's insanely hot and Stiles wants to do something stupid like kiss him or hit him or climb him like a fucking tree.

So he does the only sensible thing and pokes Derek back. Or he tries to, but Derek's reflexes are disturbingly quick and he catches Stiles' wrist, then his other when he goes in for a dirty jab to Derek's side. He pulls Stiles hands up between them, pulls Stiles closer, and grins at him wolfishly, downright filthy. Stiles' heart kicks up and he's suddenly sweating and Derek's pupils dilate; Stiles is close enough to watch it happen in all its glory.

This touch is way different from the others. It doesn't feel like relief, more like tension, unbearable and winding up like a wire being drawn taught. Derek's looking at him like he could eat him alive and every nerve in Stiles' body is reaching out, desperate for Derek to just do it already.

It's sheer reckless stupidity to take this any further but it doesn't matter, right now Stiles couldn't give a crap, better senses out the window and it's not like he had many of those left anyway.

He looks Derek right in the eye and drags his hands apart, pulling himself up in an arch into Derek's body, Derek looking the couple inches or so down at him with his mouth parted and Stiles can actually feel both their hearts pounding up a veritable orchestra.

God, he wants so bad it's out of control. He says, low and rough and eager as sin, "What? Huh, what're you gonna do, Derek?" because there's only so much Stiles can take and Derek makes a noise in his throat like a growl, crowds him up against the fridge, pushed right up between Stiles' legs. "Oh, fuck."

Then, Derek drops him like Stiles is burning. He backs right up and looks appalled and Stiles' chest goes tight, his brain dissolves into fuckfuckfuck.

"Nothing, I'm not gonna do anything. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," Derek mutters, looking everywhere but Stiles. "It's just, it's this thing, y'know? I shouldn't have done that. I know you don't—that wasn't—" Derek can't even string whole sentences together and Stiles has never seen him like this; he's feeling pretty speechless and dazed himself. Eventually Derek just gives the hell up and throws his hands out helplessly. "Oh my God, you never shut the hell up but now you decide you're not gonna talk?"

And all Stiles can come up with is an extremely faint, "What do you want me to say?"

Derek sighs. "Nothing. This whole thing is crazy. The quicker we figure it out, the better."

There's something so final about the way Derek says it and Stiles feels like a boundary has been firmly erected, six feet tall and made of solid bricks. A clear line with do not cross written all over it in red paint.

Stiles feels hollow, the urge to seek out comfort from Derek stripped back to something clinical and perfunctory. He doesn't like it, not one bit, and that tells him everything he needs to know about where his own line was, how he actually feels about Derek.

He takes a breath and pulls himself together.

"Yeah, it's umm, seven-thirty, I should get to my car. My dad'll be home in like an hour."

"Your dad." Another look of pure horror crosses Derek's face and then quick as it came, it's vanished. "Right, let's go."

Derek leads Stiles out and locks up behind them.

 

***

 

Chapter Text

 

 

"Deaton says Scott's improving."

Allison's M.I.A, or in other words, hiding out in Deaton's back room with Scott where Stiles had left her earlier when he'd picked up his Jeep. Isaac's with Derek, the twins are nowhere to be seen, and it seems Stiles and Lydia are the only ones who've shown up for school today. Well, and Cora. Except Stiles had hidden from her in the bathroom, which is pretty high on his list of behaviors he's too old for.

"Well, that's good," Lydia says encouragingly, handing him his books from his own locker because for the past two minutes he's been stood banging his head against hers. "That's everyone on the up, just in time for tomorrow night."

"Yeah, it's gonna be awesome," he drawls.

Deaton gave him buckets of good news earlier, including the Argents’ old book on dream walking because that's Deaton's big plan—to take a walk inside Stiles' dreams and see what he finds. He'd also told Derek that Friday night is the night he gets to freeze half to death, so it's all operations go.

At least Lydia doesn't appear to know where Stiles spent the night, meaning Cora's either super respectful of her brother's privacy or she's just too mortified about the whole thing to talk about it.

"You're a real ray of sunshine today,” she says dryly.

"I'm on edge, that's all."

"More nightmares, I'm going to assume?"

"You shouldn't assume."

"Don't feed me clichés." She shoves her own books into his arms for that and slams his locker loud enough to double his misery. "Not when I have to listen to Karlin go on and on about how great solvents are for a whole hour."

"Who?" he asks vaguely.

"Chemistry, Stiles, it's where we're going," she says wearily, like she's said it a thousand times.

"Oh, that guy." And yeah, it's weird that he keeps forgetting his teacher's name. The guy wears lime green and yellow patterned glasses for fuck’s sake, the least Stiles can do is learn his damn name. "Solvents?"

"Yes, solvents, the thing we've been studying for over a week now."

He barely knows anything about solvents and that's pretty weird too, or maybe not, considering the week he's had. "Okay, let's go be productive."

"That's the spirit."

Productive falls apart completely when he spends the entire class staring out the window, mind blank like white noise. It's one of his many, many defense mechanisms, full brain shutdown when there's stuff he really doesn't wanna think about. He can't push it out so he smothers it in static until it's buried.

The teacher, Larkin or whatever his name is, only calls him on it once, and he's all gentle and concerned when he asks, "Stiles? Is there a problem?" Stiles tells him no and he smiles and says, "Good, that's what I like to hear," and it's frankly all a little creepy but whatever.

Lydia wants to research through lunch, she's got her bulging book on European Sorceries ready to go and a, "We need to be as prepared as possible, not like all the other times," attitude that Stiles just cannot handle.

Out in the hall he has a tantrum worthy of a five year-old in a supermarket, sliding down his locker, sitting cross-legged on the floor and refusing to move while Lydia looks helplessly mortified. In the end she drags him up by his arm—it's get up or end up dragged across the hall floor on his ass—and promises him no researching in a voice like his mom used to use when she was at the end of her wits with him.

"Come on then, we may as well not waste the afternoon," Lydia says cryptically and leads him outside and over the lacrosse pitch.

She sits down under a thick tree and produces a hip flask from her bag, pink and studded with little crystals. She gives him the biggest smile, a "Bottoms up," and takes a long swig.

"What is that?"

"It's vodka."

Stiles settles in opposite her and holds out one hand. "Oh, gimmie." It burns all the way down his throat but it's a good burn, warming against the winter chill and bracing against the nightmare that is his life. He hands it back to Lydia and she drinks. "Not that I'm complaining or anything, but why are you bringing alcohol into school?"

"Do you really need to ask that question?"

"No, but I wanna."

She passes the flask back to him and leans back on her hands, sighs a stream of white breath into the air like smoke. "You know that myth that St. Bernard's carry brandy in a flask around their necks?"

"They don't?"

"No, Stiles. Alcohol dilates your blood vessels, people who are drunk are more likely to die from hypothermia than people who are sober," she tells him flippantly.

"Which is why you brought us outside in the cold to do this?"

She completely ignores that remark. "Anyway. I had this—you're not allowed to laugh at me, okay?" Stiles shakes his head. "I had this image in my head that I was like a St. Bernard that could sense out people in danger."

He snorts with his lips fastened around the flask and she hits him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Stiles throws up his hands but he's still laughing. "That is an image I want to keep forever."

"Amusing," she drawls and rolls her eyes. "It felt kind of appropriate, though, and it's a hell of a lot cuter than Banshee. So I had an idea to fit the image. A few shots of vodka is a pretty good way to calm someone down in a crisis. I give you—" She gestures out her hand to him. "Exhibit A."

Yeah, she's right, he does feel a lot better. Fuzzy and mellow. Outlook: a little brighter. "Very Clever."

"People shouldn't doubt me."

"Okay, so why are you getting drunk right now?"

She looks at him like he's crazy. "Because nobody is getting drunk without me. Anyway, Scott's my friend, too, y'know."

He feels pretty awful for that. "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry."

"Come on, don't get maudlin on me," she says with a shove to his shoulder, taking back the flask. "After tomorrow night, we could be one problem down, only one to go." He makes a sound like a groan and it was supposed to be in agreement but Lydia's not convinced. "You don't like it, do you? That Derek's going in the tub?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Didn't I say people shouldn't doubt me like three seconds ago?"

He's gonna blame the alcohol and Lydia's peaceful presence for why he suddenly just wants to blurt out everything; he never could keep himself in check around either of them. "Do you still love Jackson?"

Lydia's eyes go wide, her mouth makes shapes around words that don't come out and he relishes the moment because it's rare he gets to fluster Lydia like this. Rare anyone does.

"Umm, I don't really know why you're asking that question.”

"So that's a yes, then."

"Wha—Stiles!"

Stiles barrels on ahead, he's started he may as well take this awful confession kicking, screaming and fighting to its bitter end. "How do you cope with being in love with him but not being able to be with him?"

If anything, her eyes get wider. "Stiles, I don't. Do we have to talk about this? I thought that was over."

He cringes. Oh, fucking hell, could this get any worse. "Oh, God, no, umm. I'm not talking about, y'know—"

Lydia takes a few seconds to chew it over and then she lights up, suddenly intrigued and leaning forward on her folded legs and that's just as bad, what is he even doing right now? How has his life gotten to this point?

"Who are you talking about, then?"

"Umm."

"Are you talking about Derek?" She does a weird jazz hands type flail then starts pointing at him. "We were just talking about Derek and you said—oh my God, you are, you're talking about Derek!"

"Oh no," Stiles splutters and moans and covers his face with his hands. "Can we just pretend I didn't say anything? I liked it better before I said anything."

"You're in love with Derek?" He peers at her through his fingers, his face scrunched up. She looks pretty shocked, as shocked as he feels because in love feels a bit heavy handed but then it kind of is, as heavy as a boulder repeatedly rolling over his poor crumpled and battered body and yeah, that sounds about right, that sums up exactlyhow he feels right now. "Oh, wow."

They say confessions are supposed to be good for the soul, lighten the load or something. Like maybe some weight should be lifting off his shoulders. It feels more like an acknowledgement, like he's pulled back the curtain and his emotions are out in the light where he has to examine them. Like there's no running from it anymore. Someone else knows and now it's a fact, not a theory, and it's so much more difficult to not think about.

You can't deny something that's out there for people to see.

"Could you not tell anybody about this?"

"Does this mean that for the very first time, I'm officially the first person to know about something? Other than that some person's died, obviously."

"I guess so."

She smiles softly and holds up one hand with her pinky out. "I promise."

He finally peels his hands off his face to link his finger through hers. "What are we, six?"

"Don't mock the power of the pinky promise."

He tries to compare it, looking at Lydia in this moment. It's a little like a dream, ironically, how much he'd loved her. It's untouchable, hazy and unreal and kind of sacred. Derek's this overwhelming tangible presence. He's an assault on Stiles' senses, a physical reality he wants to touch and have, craves it like he's dying.

"Anyway, the answer is yes," Lydia says suddenly, very quietly and not looking at him, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. "Y'know, to the question you asked. Umm, yeah. I still do."

He feels like an insensitive dick and also a little relieved because with everything else going on, heartbreak at least is a normal teenage emotion and werewolf, hunter, banshee or human, it still fucking sucks.

Lydia goes on. "I think when you know someone, all of them, even the stuff that makes you wanna wrap your hands around their neck until they're not breathing anymore, and you still wanna be with them all the time and you still get crazy thinking about them. Yeah, that's—that's it. It doesn't really get any easier."

"That was a vivid way of putting it but yeah, you kinda summed it up for me there, thanks." He drinks until he hears the last sloshes of vodka and hands it back to Lydia for the last sip, gentleman that he is and all that. "Honestly? I don't know what to do. It's one thing having to contend with sorcerers and monsters but Derek is a whole other matter completely. He always has been."

"Have you told him?"

"Derek, Lydia. This is Derek we're talking about."

"Your logic is a little flawed there, sugar. I'd think Derek more than anybody would need to hear something like that out loud. He's not exactly had the best track record, y'know. I doubt he trusts his own judgment all that much."

"I don't know, he made it pretty clear this morning."

He recognizes his mistake the very second Lydia's eyebrows almost disappear into her hair. "This morning?"

"This is not fair, you can't get me drunk then take advantage of me like this!"

Apparently she can. "This morning where?"

"Derek's place." Stiles fists his hands and opens his mouth in shocked horror and why, why is he still talking? "When he had me pressed up against the fridge." Oh dear God, it's like he's lost his mind.

Lydia nods slowly and deadpans, "Oh, yeah, this sounds like a lot of very clear signals."

So he tells her the whole sordid story, from beginning to end, no details left out. He doesn't quite get the reaction he's expecting when she flicks him on the forehead and complains that he should've told her sooner.

"How am I supposed to work with half the facts?"

"I thought you were busy working on the shaman," he yells, affronted and holding his face where her tiny but ridiculously sharp finger went in.

"I've been doing a little research on the side, sue me for trying to help you. I won't make that mistake again."

Color him pretty touched. "Well, have you come up with anything?"

"Don't you think I'd have told you if I had?" she asks flatly. "You dreaming about Derek kinda changes things, anyway. Sounds like this could be more about him than you."

"But why me? Why are they torturing me?

"I guess that's what we've gotta find out."

Stiles grins. "We? Thought you said—"

"Shut up, I was being facetious."

He flings himself back on the ground and sighs, spreads his arms wide like he's trying to make a snow angel in the dirt. Lydia shuffles somewhere near him and lays down, curled up against his side.

The sky's pure winter-white, sparse tree branches twisting against it like fingers. He has the vaguely too-normal thought that it looks like it's going to snow soon and he likes snow, especially close to Christmas.

Eventually Lydia speaks, soft and muffled against his jacket. "Wanna lay out here for the rest of the afternoon?"

Stiles makes a noise like, "Meh," because it sounds nice but it also sounds cold and there's a high probability they'll fall asleep and die of hypothermia apparently.

"Wanna go to English class drunk?"

Another grin stretches across his face. "Why, Lydia, you're a genius. Why did I ever doubt you?

So they do, and it's hilarious for like a whole two hours which is an absolute improvement on his mood.

That is until three-fifteen. Until Stiles gets a frantic phone call from Allison.

Scott's awake, but it sounds like anything but good news.

***

He drives even though he's probably still over the limit, adrenaline quickly pushing out any lingering wooziness but that doesn't mean it's smart.

Dangerous driving is becoming a thing with Stiles nowadays.

He can hear the noises before he and Lydia have even opened the front door, metal crashing, Scott crying out, the dogs barking.

Inside it's like a bomb went off.

There's equipment covering the floor, smashed glass and two broken ceiling lights. Scott pinned down on a steel table in the middle of it all by Derek and Deaton, Allison and Mrs. McCall stood well back, both of them grim.

Stiles goes straight to Scott's mom and she reaches out and grips his arm but can't take her eyes off her son. He's violently struggling, so fucking strong even half unconscious and attempting to claw Derek's arms to shreds with his still human fingernails. Stiles is struck with the disconcerting knowledge that if Scott wolfs out now, they're all completely fucked.

"What the hell is going on?" Lydia shouts over the noise.

Allison replies, "He just woke up like this."

Lydia turns to Deaton. "Can't you drug him?"

Both Derek and Deaton shout back in tandem, "He is drugged!" and it'd be comical if it wasn't so frightening, Derek's blood coating Scott's hands, deep gouges all across Derek's skin, healing and tearing open again and again like a nauseating film clip on repeat.

"I have to do something," Derek says to Deaton but Deaton's adamant.

"It's not safe."

"He's scared and he's in pain and he's not gonna stop fighting us until it stops."

"Derek, it might kill you even if you don't go too far," Deaton warns very seriously and Stiles' already pounding heart starts to go erratic because Derek's gonna do it anyway, Stiles can see it in his eyes, and he thinks, really, that he should have some say in this, even though that makes very little sense.

Whatever, it's never stopped him before.

"Derek," Stiles says softly and Derek catches his eye whiplash-quick. It's like en electric crack in the air, the intensity of it like a lightning bolt. "Just. Just be careful, okay? Scott's not gonna be happy when he wakes up and you're dead."

Derek mutters, "Okay," and Stiles feels angry all of a sudden.

"No, not okay," he snaps and steps forward, stopping half a foot away from the epic clusterfuck that is going on because he needs Derek to just hear him. "Remember what happened the last time Scott thought you were dead?" Stiles asks, furious, and then much quieter because he's so scared his voice is cracking, "You're not allowed to leave us now, not again."

He feels very much like he's won the battle but lost the war when Derek doesn't break eye contact for the longest time, when he nods slowly and turns to Scott, gripping one hand around his wrist.

The pressure starts, Derek's veins turning sickly gray-black and Scott gasping out for breath, convulsing where Derek's still got one bloodied forearm laid across his chest to pin him down.

It goes on like someone got hold of a time machine and cranked the speed down to extra slow, just one long, drawn-out moment of amplified unpleasantness while Stiles watches with one knuckle bit hard between his teeth.

He can see Derek draining, going pale, and in turn, Scott calming down. It's gone on long enough, Deaton calls out a warning but Derek's shaking like he's lost control, like he's stuck, and Stiles doesn't know if it's safe or he doesn't care, either way, but he reaches out, gets one arm tight around Derek's waist and a hand solid on his shoulder and yanks him back against his chest.

Derek wobbles on unsteady legs and Stiles holds him, finds the skin of Derek's stomach under his shirt with both hands and at the back of Derek's neck with his lips and wraps him up, murmurs against him, "Hey, I gotcha."

And it's good, better than alcohol, Derek leans into him and sighs and it's a beautiful sound. Then, like the perfect cherry on top of the ice cream sundae, Scott's hoarse voice in a groan: "What the hell?"

Derek creases in Stiles' arms just a little with a breathless laugh and it pushes into Stiles' own body, up through his lungs and out of his mouth. A completely shocked sounding half laugh, half sob.

Scott, alive. Scott, awake. Scott, groggy and confused and he looks a wreck and he smells bad but it doesn't even matter because his best friend is gonna be okay.

"It worked, oh my God, can you even believe—" Stiles sputters, a little awestruck because nobody died and that is a good day at the office as far as he's concerned.

Mrs. McCall's checking Scott over with tears in her eyes and Allison's got one of Scott's hands pressed between both of hers and held up to her mouth and Lydia's fetching things on Deaton's request and Stiles—Stiles is still holding Derek right on the periphery of all of this and he honestly can't, won't, plain old doesn't wanna let go.

And he doesn't have to, because Derek turns in his grip and slips an arm over his shoulder to steady himself. Derek tips their foreheads together and actually smiles. Derek lets Stiles hold him up like it's okay. Stiles' entire world consists of the sound of Scott complaining at being fussed over and Derek's mouth right there and he could happily drown himself in it.

"I'm a little woozy right now but I'm pretty accurate in assuming everyone's still alive, right?" Derek says softly and Stiles feels like his face is about to split in two with how wide he grins.

"Yep."

"Including me?"

"Oh yeah."

"Good, that's good."

"Definitely, it's definitely good. The best, even."

"Derek?"

Stiles flinches out of their little bubble, Deaton's voice like a bubble-bursting pin. Derek seems to be able to stand on his own but he still doesn't take his hand off that spot on Stiles' shoulder, thumb pressed into Stiles' neck, and Stiles touches him right back, one hand spread up the back of his shirt.

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to check you over so don't run off anywhere."

Derek's face is the perfect picture of mock would I? offence and he shares the joke with Stiles, this private, sweet little thing that gets Stiles smirking and feeling warm all over. "Guess I'm staying after class."

"Well, that's what you get for being naughty."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Naughty?"

"Misbehaving, ignoring good advice, doing your own crazy thing. Your usual kinda stuff."

"Saving people's lives?"

Stiles literally cannot stop smiling. "Yeah, that too."

Seems Derek can't either. "Damn right, that too."

"When you two have finished blatantly flirting with each other," Lydia abruptly says, like, right in their space all of a sudden with armfuls of trashed medical equipment. Even Derek hadn't noticed her sneaking up on them. "There's cleaning up to do and I am nobody's maid."

By the time Stiles gets his wits about him past we're and not and flirting, Derek's already giving Scott a once-over werewolf style, sneaked off when Stiles was distracted and left him all flustered and it doesn't help that Lydia winks at him for good measure.

So he tidies, he jokes with Scott, he pretends he's not secretly peeking when Allison plants one on him but in all fairness, Lydia's doing that, too, so he doesn't feel that guilty about it. Little things but they feel big, seeds growing into something stronger, something like hope. Stiles hasn't had hope in a long time and he's a pessimist by nature; it's almost an alien concept to him.

Mrs. McCall gets ready to take Scott home and Stiles is going with them, no arguing that, no point in even trying.

He says he'll meet them there because he's got the Jeep outside and bids Allison and Lydia a goodbye. He's pretty sure Lydia's pointedly nodding at Derek and mouthing filthy words at him but he's trying not to notice.

Deaton makes himself suspiciously scarce.

Derek leans against one of the steel tables. Not defensive, arms crossed and broody like he normally leans. It's the lean he keeps doing when it's just the two of them, loose and open and hands on the surface at his back. It's sad, really, how Stiles is cataloguing Derek's leans at this point.

Stiles fiddles with a pair of scissors, a spatula-type thing, something that looks like a horrible torture device with pointy bits and a spring. "Quite a day, huh?"

Derek hums and nods, blinks slowly. He's tired, Stiles can tell.

"You ready for the big night tomorrow?"

"Probably not," Derek says dryly.

Stiles looks down at the counter, at his fingers running over and over a plastic binder, just something to touch. "Shouldn't joke."

"Little ironic coming from you."

"Yeah, well, I'm a hypocrite."

"You're something."

Stiles turns to look at him and Derek's smirking. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Means." He pauses to take a breath. "Thanks. For pulling me back. You, ugh, kind of have a gift for being able to do that. And I never really thank you for it and I should, 'cause. Well. I know it's not exactly easy."

Stiles' mouth goes dry, his stomach flutters. All he can come up with is sarcasm and he cringes as he says, "That's very reflective of you, Derek," because he's just not good at accepting meaningful compliments.

Except Derek doesn't get mad. "How about that, huh."

"If you're trying to get me into bed with you again, no can do tonight, buddy." And where is Mrs. McCall with that stapler again? "The sheriff's home."

Derek gets that positively wolfish glint in his eye again for the second time today, head cocked and that crooked smile but Deaton coughs, slams the door to make a big show of entering the room, and generally ruins the moment.

"Derek," Deaton says, looking everywhere but Derek. "I don't mean to interrupt but I have a six o'clock coming in very shortly."

Stiles gestures to the reception and proceeds to back out into it slowly. "I'm gonna go see Scott, so. Leave you two crazy guys to your thing."

He gets as far as the front doors when a hand comes out of nowhere and closes one of them right out of Stiles' grip. He flinches and turns quickly, palms coming up in defense and landing flat on Derek's chest.

"Holy crap, you trying to give me a heart attack?" he snaps. "I'm already jumpy as hell here!"

Derek's all intense, crowding him back against the door, hand pressed above Stiles' shoulder and boxing him in. "If you need me, you call, okay?"

"Call call or like, yell in my sleep call?

"Either, it doesn't matter. I'll come. Trust me."

Stiles tips his head back against the door, slips his hand up Derek's t-shirt like they're not in the doorway of an animal clinic, smooth slide of warm skin. Derek's heart under his fingertips, the flow of his blood like a habit-forming drug. It's like Stiles goes into a trance when they're like this, inside this private little space, and he gets reckless and forgets that this isn't exactly how they used to act.

"I do trust you."

Derek swallows thickly and shuts his eyes just for a second but it's enough for Stiles to get it, how much it means to him. It's heavy stuff, on an ordinary day it'd be enough to send Stiles into a fit of awkward babble.

But today isn't an ordinary day.

Today is apparently the day where he's lost his mind, because he's cupping the back of Derek's neck and leaning close and pressing his face into Derek's throat while his brain scrabbles to catch up.

He breathes a slow in-and-out in rhythm with the rise and fall of Derek's chest. The faintest scratch of Derek's stubble against his face feels permanently etched there. When he pulls back, he physically can't look any higher than Derek's chin. Stiles is fairly certain he's about to burst into flames.

Derek doesn't move away, though, so that's something.

"Something for the road," Stiles says breathlessly.

He watches Derek's throat dip as he swallows again and he braces for the what the fuck that never comes.

He thinks Derek's soft, "Umm, yeah," might be worse, actually. Derek stepping away while Stiles uses every bit of his regret and embarrassment to lock down the terrifying urge to grab Derek's shirt and pull him back in and show him what Stiles really wants to do to him.

He turns, opens the door and staggers out to his Jeep.

Stiles is totally gonna go hug the crap out of Scott for the next several hours and take as much comfort as possible from the fact Derek's already passed off several awkward situations using this stupid touch thing as an excuse.

***

He tries to scream but it won't let him.

It keeps a cold, bony hand over his mouth.

The man—the man he can't see, hidden in the shadows—speaks for them, now.

"How bad do you want him, Stiles?"

He sobs. This, this is worse than anything they've done to him so far.

"If I asked you, would you go to him?"

He shakes his head but it's all futile.

"If you did, would he let you close to him?"

He shuts his eyes tight. He wants to remember this, he wants to burn this into his brain but they take his memories now, he can feel the gaps where they gouge and tear into his head.

"Stiles. This is very important. Answer me. Just a nod of your head will suffice."

He doesn't want to, he doesn't—

"When Derek is weak, does he trust you?"

***

T-minus four hours and counting until zero hour and the last bell ringing is like a power drill going straight through his eardrums.

It's been one long day of growing dread, his heart rate steadily increasing with every passing hour.

Cora getting quieter and quieter, less and less angry sarcastic defense mechanism and more scared little sister and Stiles wants to do something for her, give her an encouraging word, a shoulder pat, anything, but he feels stiff all over. Unyielding and jerky like a robot.

Lydia's had her eyes buried in Slavic mythology all day, under desks, at her locker, walking the halls, all through lunch. Isaac's been a hyper-vigilant menace, jumping at shadows and with damn good reason and he half wishes Isaac had taken one more day to recover from his ordeal just so he'd stop startling Stiles half to death.

Every time he catches any of their eyes, Allison, Cora, Isaac, Lydia, he immediately looks away like it burns. Too much knowledge there that tonight they might have to really face the thing that very nearly killed Scott. That maimed Aiden. That according to Mrs. McCall, Isaac's spent every night this week screaming in his sleep about until he wakes up with his own blood caked thick underneath his claws.

The thing that scared Derek into an eighteen-hour coma.

He's packing up to finally leave when his chemistry teacher calls him out.

"Stiles, can I see you a minute?"

He waves Lydia away, he'll see her and the others later at the clinic anyway.

Mr. Karen, Karlin, whatever his name is, smiles at him serenely and Stiles has a sneaky suspicion this might be due to his complete brain phase-out every time the guy so much as opens his mouth.

Christ knows what excuses he's going to pull out of his ass, a complicated relationship status maybe, a sexuality crisis. None of that is exactly lies.

"Do you know what we were learning about today, Stiles?"

"Umm, course I do. Chemistry. Obviously."

Karlin smiles wider, eyes starburst-bright over the top of his lemon-lime glasses.

"You don't remember?"

"Sure I do," Stiles says with a flippant shrug. "I just don't like to brag. I have one of those eidetic memories and people get jealous, y'know? It doesn't feel fair to flaunt it too much."

"You forgot, that's okay. In fact, that's quite expected. I hate the thought of you falling behind, though, Stiles."

A chill spreads over Stiles' skin and he doesn't know why, the creepy smile or the voice—he's got a headache blooming behind his eyes, it's weird.

"I came up with a little extra curricular work you could take home and complete to make up your grade."

It takes all his self-control not to roll his eyes. "Awesome, I love doing extra work, I have so much free time."

Karlin hands him a package, something rectangular and wrapped in brown paper.

"I want you to put this in your bag and take it home."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. Wow. He suspected the guy might be smoking something funky but this is a little surprising. "Are you like, asking me to peddle drugs or something right now?"

"Just put it in your bag, Stiles."

Karlin's voice is suddenly like steel and Stiles just does it, just like that, like he can't resist. Then Karlin grips his shoulder tight, cold shiver skipping up Stiles' spine. He presses a thumb into Stiles' neck and he feels himself go weak.

"What—what are you—"

"Now, Stiles. Now, I want you to forget we ever had this discussion."

Stiles feels something against his top lip. He reaches up and touches and brings his fingers away red.

***

"So, let me get this straight."

His dad paces the kitchen, mug of coffee in one hand and wearing his best detective face.

Stiles has one of the very few completely untouched meals of his entire lifetime pushed away from him at the kitchen table and he hasn't eaten since Allison force-fed him a dry bagel at lunch. He just doesn't have the stomach for anything right now and he's shaky as hell, his blood sugar all over the place. The sheriff's pacing is making him twitchy and nauseous.

"Derek Hale might know who's doing this to the werewolves but he doesn't remember, so Deaton's gonna freeze him to death in a bathtub full of ice?"

"Half to death, Dad," Stiles corrects flatly. "Just half."

"And this is magic?"

He says that word like he still thinks all this might just be some long-ass, expensive prank everyone’s pulling on him and one day he hopes Stiles might just spring the joke.

"I guess."

"And Derek Hale definitely didn't kill anyone?"

"No, Dad, he—oh, wait, yeah he did, he killed Peter Hale. But everyone kinda got over it 'cause Peter's crazy and he totally deserved it."

"But, Peter Hale's alive."

"Yeah, this was like a year ago, he came back."

The sheriff turns silently to the fridge, pops the cap off the pen that Stiles tied to a piece of green string and attached to their little notepad fridge magnet and scrawls Peter Hale brought back from the dead and underlines it three times.

Stiles looks at him, baffled.

"It's so I remember to ask you about it later, it's hard to keep track and that one sounds like a good story," his dad says by way of explanation. "Okay, so, why is it you're on a hunger strike again?"

"Don't feel like eating."

"Well, that was a total non-answer."

"These things are just messy, they make me nervous. I did something like that, remember?" Stiles shivers, all through his body and right down to his soul, to that thick black shadow around his heart. It's enough of the truth to sound genuine. "It was pretty awful."

"I know you did, Stiles," his dad says seriously. He carries it around with him on Stiles' behalf and in a similar way, like a permanent open wound.

"If I'm really honest," Stiles sighs, because he owes his dad something. "I'm a little scared of what Derek might know."

He'd said the same to Scott last night, both of them sprawled across Scott's bed while Scott stuffed his face with Doritos like he'd spent all four days he was unconscious dreaming about them, which he assured Stiles he hadn't, because he'd actually spent the entire time dreaming about Allison.

"Dude, she kissed me," he'd said, wearing the biggest, stupidest smile and Stiles had said, "Yeah, I know, I was right there, now can we focus," and it'd been perfect, Scott reassuring him that everything was gonna be fine, they'd have all the info, they'd come up with a plan, nobody was gonna die. It was everything Stiles had needed so badly to hear.

But Scott's got a sick note and Stiles has had the pleasure of Allison, Isaac, Cora and Lydia all day, collectively painting quite the vivid picture of hopeless doom.

The sheriff's in full wisdom mode tonight, though. "Isn't it better to know, though? No matter how bad it is?"

"That's logic, Dad. Logic has nothing to do with how I'm feeling right now."

He pulls out the chair opposite Stiles and takes a seat, folds his arms over the table-top and looks at Stiles with the most perfect expression of patient concern. "Then tell me. Please."

It's not always easy talking to his dad about stuff. He got so used to not talking to his dad, first after his mom died and then second after Scott got bitten, that sometimes the concept feels alien to him and he's stuck on how to begin; every starting point just feels ridiculous.

It's hard not to look at his dad like an obstruction, sometimes, and he loathes himself for feeling like this, he works constantly at making it better.

"I feel like it's a bad idea. Like something's gonna go wrong," he says eventually. "Or that we've got something wrong, missed something, y'know? A huge detail."

"Okay, so what makes you think that?"

"My gut? I dunno. It's kinda—" He makes a scratching gesture with his hands against his head. "At the back of my mind. Nagging. But I can't put my finger on it. I feel crazy anxious, like I'm right at the edge of having a panic attack."

"You know as a cop, they always tell you trust your gut instinct."

"Yeah, but what if you've got squat to back it up with?"

"Tell them, the, y'know."

It gives Stiles a small measure of amusement in his darkest hour that his dad still can't say the word pack.

"Derek's gonna do this no matter what anyone says," Stiles tells his dad softly, staring down at his hands on the table and if he concentrates hard enough he can almost feel the warm current of Derek's skin against his fingers. "That thing almost killed Scott. It attacked Isaac. He cares too much about them, it's like his biggest—"

Weakness.

How is he weak?

Scott, Isaac, the people he loves. The people he'd die for.

"Stiles!" He jerks back at his dad's voice, pain lancing through his head, bright and sharp. "Hey, you were miles away, are you okay?"

Stiles rubs his eyes, tries to wipe away the stars exploding across his vision. "Yeah, headache."

A second later there's two Tylenol and a glass of water in front of him and he downs both gratefully.

"Just say we go with your gut, and Derek doesn't go through with it, what happens?" his dad asks, laying it down like any other mystery, and Stiles considers the question and dreads the one that comes after it.

"We have no other leads on who it is and we have no way of knowing how to stop it. That thing comes back and has free rein to kill a bunch of my friends. My best friend."

"Okay, and that's obviously bad, one worst case scenario right there. So, say we ignore your gut, is the worst case scenario better or worse? What do you think is gonna happen? What's that nagging in the back of your head telling you?"

Stiles' hands shake on the table-top. His throat constricts. He takes a deep, steadying breath and when he speaks his voice cracks. "That Derek's gonna die tonight."

He feels his dad's eyes on him, like being raked over hot coals. "Sometimes, you can't save everyone, Stiles. No matter how hard you try. Acknowledging that, all by itself, can be one hell of a gut-wrencher."

Stiles recoils at it and snaps back, "What is this, Sophie's Choice?"

"No," his dad says calmly. "This is you deciding whether your gut instinct weighs as much as the facts you do have."

"It doesn't, obviously."

"Then you can't beat yourself up over a choice that's not really a choice at all. It's futile, Stiles. All that anxiety is a waste of your energy. What you can do is talk to Derek, talk to Deaton, tell them what you’re thinking and hope they respect your opinion enough to find a way to take it on board." Then he adds, much lighter but Stiles knows he's just as serious, "and if they don't, I'll kick their asses."

Stiles huffs a laugh. "You know, one day you're gonna have to stop trying to kick people's asses for me."

"Nah, I'll just get a lot sneakier at it. I am a cop. I can be pretty sneaky."

"I can be sneaky," Stiles declares like that even needed a declaration. "You said I'd make a lousy cop."

"Technically lousy cop. You lack patience."

"Oh, get you. Next you'll be calling me Young Grasshopper."

His dad stands, it's sharing time over for sure, even his dad can't go at it for long periods of time, and Stiles definitely feels better coming out than he did going in so he guesses that's mission accomplished. The sheriff reaches out a hand and ruffles it through Stiles' hair.

"No, son, you're more like a noisy cricket."

"Ha ha," he drawls. Checks his watch. It's almost six-thirty. "I'm gonna set off a little earlier. Hope Derek's already there so I can talk to him."

Stiles grabs his keys from the bowl and then his dad grabs him and pulls him into a bear huge, manly pats on the back and everything.

"You're gonna be fine, okay? You can do this," he says into Stiles' hair and then lets him go. "And, I want you to eat this."

He shoves a chocolate chip cookie into Stiles' mouth and Stiles splutters around it and then he hums because wow, it's a good cookie. He takes a bite and examines it. "That's delicious."

"Right? Paul at work made them. He brought in a tray full so I snatched some. Lord knows what that kid's doing in police work when he's that good."

Stiles stuffs the whole thing into his mouth. "Dude should be a baker."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, it's disgusting." His dad hands him another one wrapped in shrink wrap. He shrugs sheepishly. "Take one for Derek too, sounds like he might need it."

Oh. He really doesn't know how to take that, Stiles is vaguely mortified at whatever his dad's implying here. He's really not ready for any kind of conversation of this description at the moment.

"Right, thanks," he croaks and tries out a manly throat-clearing cough. "I'm gonna go give this to him. Like right now."

"Keep me updated, okay? I mean it," the sheriff says firmly. "I wanna text every hour so I know you're alive, I don't care how late it is. Promise me."

"I promise, Dad."

"And I'd like you home at some point tonight, because I'm probably not gonna be able to sleep until you are. So if you can, please do."

He's not gonna lie, Stiles is disappointed. He'd actually foreseen himself staying with Derek tonight and passing it off as a necessity in the morning but it's not worth the thought of his dad tossing and turning all night, worrying any more than he has to.

"I will."

"I'm proud of you, son."

It means the world, if he's really honest, his dad saying that when he has all the information for once. It's real pride, pride at the things Stiles is actually doing. Honest pride.

He leaves the house a little lighter and drives to the clinic with the wrapped-up cookie in the passenger seat, laughs about it almost all the way there like a crazy person, which is probably a touch of hysteria creeping in.

Derek's Camaro is already in the lot and his stomach bottoms out.

It's gonna be a long night.

 

***

Chapter Text

Derek's sat on one of the steel tables when Stiles walks in.

He's already watching the door, could probably hear and smell Stiles coming from the parking lot.

Cora's there, too. Sat on the same table with her back to Derek and leaning against him, her head tipped back on his shoulder and her legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them. She almost looks like she's sleeping and it's quite sweet, one word he's never associated with Cora before. He kind of wants to pull out his phone and take a photo but given the situation, it'd be inappropriate at best. At worse it could get him actually, physically killed.

"You're early."

"Yeah, I umm. I wanted to talk to you about something," he tells Derek, emphasis on the something.

Derek tips his head back to nudge Cora gently. "Cora?"

"Mmm."

"Move."

She glares daggers at Stiles through nothing more than one half cracked-open eye, it's impressive, but she sits up and allows Derek to stand.

Stiles points at her and says as stern as he can manage, "No eavesdropping, okay?" and she rolls her eyes and tells him to never, ever again overestimate how interesting he is.

He walks Derek into the back room, the room where Deaton's filling the steel tub with water. Just looking at it is enough to hurt, a twinge in his chest and goosebumps breaking out over his skin.

"Stiles, what is it?" Deaton asks with terrifying clairvoyance, or maybe it's the look on Stiles' face giving him away.

He starts to ramble. "I don't even know what I'm doing here, there's no way you guys are gonna take me seriously, and I don't exactly blame you, I have nothing to back this up, nothing concrete anyway—"

"Stiles," Derek interrupts. "Slow down."

"I feel like something's wrong."

"Something like what?"

"I don't know, that's just the thing." Stiles looks at Derek like he's imploring him, desperately. To try to express how freaked out he is in some way that makes sense. "I've got this feeling like the worst kinda dread, and it's not just because I—"

He literally stops talking with his mouth open in horror. All his breath dries up and his throat seals shut. His heart tries to burst out of his chest and Derek's concerned or confused, maybe a little irritated; all the things that make him Derek.

"What?"

Not just because I love you.

He almost said it, he almost looked Derek in the eye and said it. It's bad enough looking Derek in the eye and just thinking it.

Deaton saves him, glorious Deaton who Stiles is seriously beginning to think is psychic. "This dread your feeling, describe it to me, please."

So he does, he tries to put into words the persistent push of it against his brain, how it feels like he knows something when he doesn't. Like the night is leading up to something terrible.

"And there's been nothing in your nightmares that's led you to this?"

"I don't think so, it's hard to figure out what the hell's going on in there."

"Either way, I can't ignore it."

Derek speaks up. "Wait, I have to do this."

"Yes, you do," Deaton says. "But I'm going to make a few changes."

"Like what?"

"Like your anchor."

Derek frowns and Stiles is about to askbut the front door opens, the voices of Scott and the rest echoing through the clinic and Deaton excuses himself. It's like a bomb went off out there, sudden noise and commotion and Stiles just wants another minute alone with Derek to not say how he's feeling and not acknowledge any of this is happening. One minute before it all goes to Hell.

Derek stares down at the water-filled tub, chewing on the inside of his lip, and Stiles aches for him, an awful, brutal yearning.

"Umm, here, before everything gets crazy and I forget."

He hands Derek the cookie, pulling him out of his reverie, and Derek holds it up like he's only ever seen one on paper before. "It's a cookie."

"Genius. Nothing gets past you, does it?"

Derek pulls what Stiles is starting to refer to in his head as his bitch-face, eyebrows up, eyes wide, major sarcasm. "What, have I been a good boy? Is this my treat?"

"My dad wanted you to have it."

"Your—your dad?" Stiles nods. "The sheriff, the guy who set two attack dogs on me, chased me halfway across the city with a gun, that guy wanted me to have a cookie?"

"I was worried, he sympathized. Just eat your damn cookie," Stiles snaps and Derek grudgingly brings it to his mouth.

"It's not poisoned?"

"I ate one and despite the crippling nausea and intense overwhelming fear that something bad is gonna happen, I'm feelin' pretty okay." Derek takes a bite. "Good, right?"

Derek nods, looking actually pretty impressed. "You really feel like that?"

"Yeah, maybe. I dunno. I'm kind worried anyway. Cora was right, one little nothing knocked you flat on your ass for an entire night.” Derek throws out his hands in offence but Stiles ignores him. “I know it's gotta be done but we're throwing you into the lion's den here, man, I hate it."

"You don't have to worry about me."

Stiles laughs, dry and bitter, hard. "Are you serious?" He's so done all of a sudden, ever simmering emotions approaching boiling point. "Because it's not like I care about you or anything. I mean why would I? You're only one of the most important people in my whole life. You're only Derek Hale, why the fuck would anyone care about what happens to you? I mean, fuck—"

Derek shushes him and crowds him back, back into the wall next to the door, hands on his hips and Stiles reaches him for like an impulse, hands burying in Derek's hair.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Derek murmurs and then Stiles is just tired, weary right to his bones.

"No, you don't. You don't get it," he says hoarsely. "Just. Don't die. I'm serious, if you die I'm gonna resuscitate you and then I'm gonna kill you myself, painfully. Evisceration. Slow."

Derek tips their foreheads together, 'cause that is just what they do now apparently, and gives Stiles a tiny smile that could melt the heart of a Cyber Man. "I'm not gonna die."

Stiles shuts his eyes because the sad thing is, Derek really doesn't get it. People care and it's just words to Derek, he doesn't hear them and it's hopeless. Derek's all about actions and Stiles has saved his life, protected him from the police, trusted Derek with his own life. He only knows one other way to make his point and as much as Stiles hates to abide by clichés, this right here feels like a serious now or never moment.

If Derek did die, Stiles would never forgive himself for not showing him this one thing.

So he tightens his fingers in Derek's hair and presses forward blindly, feels their noses bump together and Derek's stubble on his skin and breath on his face, all these tiny details firing off his synapses. He pulls Derek where he wants him and angles it right and kisses him. A quick, dry touch and then he goes in again, sucks Derek's bottom lip between both of his with this glorious, wet little sound when he pulls back. It feels like he's free-falling, mid-air and surrounded by nothing on every side, his brain a blanket of rushing white.

Derek grips his hips tighter, tilts his head ever so slightly, mouth still touching Stiles' and the soft drag of his lips and Stiles hits the ground running, jolt of fuck, oh God, yes punching through him.

Then, Derek murmurs, "They're coming," and steps back slowly like Stiles is a spooked horse and he's scared of making sudden moves. Which isn't entirely irrational, given the way he's still pinned, shaking, to the wall.

"I just ki—" I just kissed you, is what Stiles was about to say but Derek shushes him and Stiles is crazy grateful, he can hear voices coming towards the door and there's a bunch of eager-eared werewolves out there and he doesn't know why he was about to say that out loud but he needs to quantify his actions somehow, make them real.

He fumbles his unsteady fingers across his forearm and takes a bit of skin between his finger and thumb and pinches really fucking hard.

"Holy shit."

Derek just stares at him, helpless little frown on his face. Great, Stiles has broken him or something. Good timing, as ever.

Doesn't matter, though, because there's suddenly a room full of people, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Cora, Isaac, Deaton and Stiles and Derek are the only silent points in the middle of a small tornado.

Scott and Isaac pour bags of ice into the basin while Deaton talks over the rules. Lydia browses Deaton's bookshelf and picks up the Mastery of Dream Walking. Derek tucks Cora's hair behind her ear with his fingers gently. Stiles sees all these things, all at once. Every minute detail in vivid, over-saturated color. It's an assault on every nerve, like bombarding radiation. His hyper-vigilance dialed up to a thousand until he's even aware of the air molecules bouncing off his skin.

He grits his teeth together hard.

Deaton asks if everyone's ready and the Stiles that lives inside his own head jumps up and yells I object, courtroom style. It's as tense as court, that's for sure. Allison and Lydia take a seat on the counter and Derek strips off his t-shirt and Stiles doesn't know what to do with himself, it's all happening too fast, everyone setting up their battle positions like pieces on a chess board. Like they're preparing for a war.

And then Deaton looks at Stiles, momentarily hesitant and unsure and seriously unhappy about being both of those things, before turning away. "Cora, Scott, I want you two to hold him down."

Derek's eyes catch straight on Stiles but Stiles just can't manage the contact. He was expecting it, sure, but it doesn't feel any less like Deaton's cut off his right hand then punched him in the face with it for good measure.

Derek climbs into the water and pulls in a sharp hiss between his teeth; Stiles can feel the collective wince of sympathy like a Mexican wave around the room.

"Now, remember, nobody talks to him except me," Deaton instructs. "And Stiles? You don't touch him, okay?” Stiles nods and tries not to notice everyone's eyes on him. “Derek, are you ready?"

He's shivering, voice hitching. "Yeah."

A pause for breath. Stiles pulls one in and then holds it for Derek's sake, saving this one for you, buddy.

Then he's under and Stiles exhales sharply like a frozen punch to the chest, cold seeping out through his heart.

Derek's still for the longest time, but Stiles sees the second it starts: the suffocating, the panicking. He fights Scott and Cora, drenches them both and tries not to let the water in, fights off the instinct until his lungs are burning and his head's about to explode and Stiles knows these things. He feels the shadow of it all, a faint reflection of Derek's pain and fear. He's fuzzy at the edges, blacking out.

He hears, faintly, Deaton saying his name and suddenly Allison's there with her hands on his shoulders, shaking him roughly but he hardly feels it, can't catch his breath, light-headed and—

—and then calm.

"Stiles?" Allison whispers in the echoing silence.

He can't speak, stares straight past her at Derek's pale face, his fingers gripping the edges of the basin. Allison keeps one hand on Stiles' shoulder and turns to watch Deaton crouch down next to the tub and Stiles is grateful for her, like he needs an anchor of his own right now.

It's so quiet, like eight people all holding their collective breath. Just the steady drip, drip, drip of water onto stone and the low, intense buzz of sodium lights reacting to Derek.

"Derek, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Derek, I'm going to ask you to remember something and it's very important, do you understand that?" Derek says nothing, just takes a hard, shuddering breath. "I need to know whether you understand me, Derek. I need to ask you some questions."

"I understand."

"I want to talk about something that happened a lot of years ago. Do you think you can do that for me, Derek? Can you take me back into your past?"

Derek shakes his head but he doesn't struggle. "I don't—how far?"

"To a time when something tried to hurt you."

He shakes his head again, Cora and Scott sharing a look and holding onto him tighter. "I don't. I don't wanna talk about Kate."

Allison shuts her eyes. Stiles has never heard Derek sound so desperate, it digs under his skin, it bothers him in a fundamental level.

"Not Kate, Derek. I don't want to talk about her. This thing that hurt you wouldn't have looked like a human being. It was another shapeshifter but it wasn't a werewolf. It may have been nothing but a dark mass. Do you remember anything like that?"

Derek's silent for a long time. Deaton holds up a hand as a clear warning, wait. The tension stretches like a rubber band and Stiles’ nerves scream, he wishes it'd just.

Snap.

The lights flare, Derek screams, awful ungodly sound. Scott and Cora push him down but Derek's too strong or too hysterical, eyes open and vivid blue and it's so unstable, the connection, it's not right; Stiles can feel Derek rejecting Deaton, even Scott and Cora, they're not enough to keep him tethered and Stiles steps forward without thinking.

"Derek!"

Derek makes a noise like he's in pain. Deaton, Scott, they look horrified, but it doesn't stop him. Stiles doesn't have the words or the time to explain himself, he's running on pure instinct and emotion.

"Derek, can you hear me?"

Derek catches his breath and then mutters a very soft, "Yeah."

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Okay."

"It's about the thing that attacked you."

"I can't remember."

"What if I said pretty please?"

Deaton whispers, "Stiles," furiously and yeah, his nerves are getting the better of him, he's shaking, his heart's battering in his chest.

"Please try to remember, Derek. I need you to remember. I need you to tell me what happened," Stiles says clearly. "What attacked you?"

Derek blinks and the blue fades back to pale green. Stiles feels the connection lock into something solid, real like he could touch it, something slotting into his chest like a key.

"Not what. Who."

Stiles looks at Deaton and Deaton nods slowly. "Who, then? Who attacked you?"

"A man. She called him Charles."

"Who called him that?"

"My mother."

"How did she know him?"

"He made medicine. He was a healer."

Deaton waves Stiles attention and mouths a word that Stiles says out loud, "Magic?"

Derek hums. "Old and powerful."

"What did he do?"

"He loved her, we all knew it."

Woah, sudden room full of shocked faces. "What? Umm, what do you mean, Derek?"

"He used to get so angry. Laura—" Derek stutters. "Laura and I heard them fighting. He called us vermin, said our souls were rotten but not hers, not my mother's, she deserved better. He wanted her to leave with him but she wouldn't, she loved us, she wouldn't let him talk about her family that way. We didn't know what he could do, what he could turn into, none of us did."

"What, Derek?"

Derek's shifting, getting edgy and restless, uncomfortable, Stiles can feel it. "Everything. Anything. N-nothing."

"Then what happened?"

"Later. It was dark. I was walking and—and he followed me—"

He cries out again, one arm moving to cover his stomach just like before. Stiles gets the picture, this sorcerer, this healer, he tried to cut Talia Hale's ties for her and he started with Derek. He feels, acute and terrifying, like Derek's slipping away from him. Connection wavering, thinning out, Stiles is losing his hold and if he does, they might not be able to bring Derek back.

Derek reaches out, physically, with the hand not holding himself and Stiles doesn't even think about it, just shoves Scott aside and falls to his knees, Deaton yelling at him not to, Scott lurching forward to grab him but it's too late.

Derek's frozen cold hand grips the back of his neck, pulls Stiles over him, and Stiles touches him back, one palm over his heart in the water and he can't feel the cold anymore, just Derek flooding every sense, Derek everywhere.

He sinks, everything fizzes out, dissolves to black and reforms in the shape of something new.

Some kind of short tunnel with corrugated metal walls and a high, arched roof. It's dark, smell of damp and a howling wind carrying lashes of rain inside. A far-off street lamp casting an eerie orange glow at one end and Talia Hale stood against it like a monolith, a dark shape cutting through the light, so beautiful and so terrible.

Her voice is like thunder in the storm. "Take your hands off my son."

And Stiles, seeing through Derek's eyes, curled in agony on the concrete and bleeding and towering over him a black shape—no, not black, just the complete absence of light, a thing so powerful light can't even penetrate it.

It turns to Talia, shifting like smoke.

It listens.

"Kill him and I won't stop until I've found a way to kill you, too. I don't care how powerful you are, Charles, even if it takes a thousand years, you'll still be dead by my hand."

The thing shakes, sucks in atmosphere like a black hole and forms itself out of air and leaves and rain. A small hurricane twisting itself into the shape of a man, shrouded in darkness and so familiar but Derek's woozy with blood loss and pain, fading out and Stiles is fading with him.

"Talia, can't you understand? I love you."

Wind whips her dark hair across her face; she's like the weather incarnate, the center of the storm. Her voice shakes with emotion but it's no less dominating. "Then leave, or I swear—" Talia breaks, her eyes turning red and she screams the rest, "I swear I will never stop hunting you!"

He can feel the strength of her promise like lightning charging up the air, static all against his skin—Derek's skin.

The man brings his hands to his face. Stiles knows objectively that Derek survives this but it doesn't stop him being afraid. Then, he's gone, vanished like mist, deafening whoosh of sound over where Stiles—Derek, so hard to tell the difference—is laid like the air filling the gap he left behind.

Talia's footsteps echo in the tunnel, splashing through the water.

She kneels over him, pulls him half up and against her with an incredible strength and shushes him, the heart-wrenchingly familiar sound of a mother's calming voice like that one sound is universal and Stiles feels himself ache for his own mother, the feeling amplified by Derek reaching out for his.

"It's okay, baby, he's gone. He won't hurt you again."

Derek's voice is shattered, high and afraid. "No, no, Mom, he's gonna kill me."

"No, he won't, Derek. I promise you."

He clutches at her, blood spreading through her soaked clothes like ink. "He's too strong, you can't stop him."

"Look at me," she commands and he does. "I can protect you. I can make you invisible. He'll never be able to find you, not any of you. I promise."

"You don't understand, I felt it, he'll come back, he's not gonna stop—"

Stiles knows exactly what's happening to Derek in this moment, the pressure in his chest, the overwhelming attack of panic. Talia knows it, too, and Stiles sees the second when she makes the decision to take Derek's memories, right there in her eyes.

And then it's over.

In a flash of blinding white, Stiles is reeling back, pulled out of Derek's memory with Allison's hands on him, gasping for air and soaking wet against the front of his t-shirt. Derek sat up in the tub and trying to catch his breath.

"What the hell was that?" Scott asks Deaton furiously over the commotion and Deaton attempts to calm him down, calm everyone down maybe, everything's muffled against Stiles' ringing ears.

Cora tries to pull Derek up out of the water but he stumbles and goes down to his knees on the floor. Isaac quickly drapes a towel over his shoulders and Stiles shakes Allison loose, crawls across the stone until he can grip the towel edges and pull them closed, wrapping Derek up to dry. He cups the back of Derek's neck and pressed their foreheads together and Stiles doesn't care that they have an audience for this.

Literally nothing else matters right now, the background fades to white noise and blurry shapes and Stiles breathes Derek's air and grips him tight.

"You saw her," Derek whispers, shivering so much the words hiss together.

Stiles nods against him, tears in his eyes. "Yeah, I saw her."

He's so overwhelmed, it feels like his mind is still lodged firmly inside Derek's head, like Derek's under his skin. All he can focus on right now is every warm place they're touching. Almost total sensory blackout like a defense mechanism.

He doesn't know how long they kneel on the floor like a couple of half-drowned shipwreck victims but he hears Deaton say sharply, "Don't touch either of them, nobody touch them," at some point, and then much softer, "Stiles? Derek?" and that's Scott's voice, it gets both their attention.

Stiles is ready to face the music.

Someone hands him a towel and Scott helps him off the floor. He wobbles over to the counter and shuffles up onto it, every bit of him aching, every muscle in his body used and abused. Lydia hands him a soda, already open, and he drinks half of it in one go; Deaton must have bought in a supply.

"Does someone wanna explain what the hell just happened?" Isaac desperately entreats. "Was that a success? I really can't tell."

Derek's sat on the table with his head in his hands, Cora rubbing a palm up and down his back, watching him closely like a trained hawk, but Deaton doesn't turn to Derek for answers, he turns to Stiles.

"Do you have any idea how stupid that was? You could have gotten both of you killed! I said Cora and Scott, not you, Stiles, it was your own concerns that prompted that decision."

"I'm sorry, I didn't. I couldn't. I felt, like—" Stiles is babbling, can't find a way to express any kind of sense because it doesn't really make any sense. "It worked, didn't it? We're both okay."

Well, Derek's as pale as a sheet of white paper and clearly violently shaken up, torn wide open and scattered to the wind and Stiles feels like Derek's snatched away a small piece of his already dwindling soul so maybe okay isn't the correct word, but they're alive, alive is good enough.

Although, Deaton looks like he'd like to rectify exactly one half of that. It's fine, Stiles is used to people looking at him like that. Thick skin and all that.

"What did you see?"

"I saw the dude, the actual dude," he explains off quickly. He's all jittery and twitching with leftover adrenaline, gesturing madly with his hands. "He turned from like, a black shape like the one that attacked you guys, into a man. It was definitely him. He cut Derek half open and Talia came and literally just, just, it was awesome, she was awesome. She told him to get the hell away and he did, just like that."

Lydia asks, "Why didn't she kill him?" and Stiles sees that she's got her notepad out, propped on her lap against the book she pulled out earlier, the Dream Mastery one.

"She didn't know how, he was too powerful. She warned him, if he killed Derek then she'd find a way and that guy seriously believed her, I believed her, she would've torn him to pieces."

"That's bad, that means we still don't know how to stop him."

"No, but Talia did do something else," Stiles tells her. "Something to take her family off his radar, make them invisible or something, protected."

"That's why none of you guys have been attacked yet," Allison says to Cora, pieces finally falling into place. "What did he look like, Stiles?"

He focuses, tries to focus so damn hard but he can't, the face is blurry every time like the creepy, face-warping camera thing from The Ring. "Familiar, really familiar. I just can't. I can't remember."

"Average," Derek speaks up, voice rough. "Average height, average build, fair hair. I'd know him if I saw him but there's nothing distinctive at all about him. And he's not gonna stop until I'm dead, and then once he's found me he's gonna go after Cora. I knew when he attacked me, I knew he wasn't ever gonna give up and I tried to tell her. He's gonna find me and what better way to get my attention than by attacking my pack?"

"Two birds, one stone," Lydia says grimly. "Rids the world of his so-called dark shapeshifters and draws Derek and what's left of his family out of whatever protections Talia managed to leave behind."

"D'you think you could do what Talia did?" Isaac asks Deaton. Deaton, who's watching the conversation back and forth with one hand cupping his chin. "Protect the rest of us like that?"

"I'd need to know what she did first, and even then I don't know. Talia was incredibly powerful."

"It was a spell," Derek says. "But you know there's way more to magic than the spells. He respected my mother, that's probably why the protection's so strong."

"Do you know it?"

"I think I can find it for you. No guarantee it's gonna work, though."

"Okay, that's the next step. Find me that spell and I'll see what I can do with it. Cora can bring it, I want you to rest. You're going to be weak for a few days, Derek, weaker than you know." Surprisingly, Derek just nods, no argument. "Scott, Isaac, until then I'd like you two here with me any time you don't absolutely have to be somewhere else. It's the only place I can guarantee your safety."

"What about the twins?" Scott asks.

"If you can persuade them, they're more than welcome to stay here as well."

"Slumber party, guys," Stiles quips. "Don't forget your pajamas."

"You're just jealous 'cause you're not invited," Scott fires back.

"It hurts me, Scott, I'm not gonna lie."

"I'll be sure to save you some ice cream, dude."

"You'd better."

Scott stretches out with a groan—some of his deepest wounds are still bandaged and healing. It's funny, the wolves are at a disadvantage again. Derek, Isaac and Scott confined to sitting back, helpless and completely vulnerable to this thing and waiting to get their asses saved by the humans. Or it would be funny, if Stiles weren't one of those humans. If there wasn't this huge responsibility on his shoulders. He doesn't envy Scott as an alpha, that's for sure.

Scott comes to stand by him so they can talk quietly, room full of werewolves and it seems a little pointless but everyone seems busy enough and it's the thought that counts. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really."

"You don't look fine. You look kinda like death warmed up."

"Hey, there are eight people still breathing in this room right now, I am seriously good," Stiles assures him and Scott huffs a laugh. "You gonna stay here tonight?"

"Yeah, you wanna stay with us?"

"Nah, I promised my dad I'd be home. I think I scared him half to death before I left the house earlier."

"Yeah, you were a real pain in the ass about this and I've been in a coma for most of the week, so that's saying something," Scott jokes with a gentle nudge to Stiles' shoulder. "Wanna tell me what that was all about or do I have to point out the obvious?"

Stiles kicks him, maybe not as gently as he could have. "How about none of the above!"

"Fine, I get it, we'll talk later."

"Or never?"

"No, definitely later."

Scott stares him down all meaningfully until Stiles rolls his eyes. "Whatever, dude. Worry about your own love life." He nods towards Allison and he's so focused on making his point, it takes him a full five seconds to realize his mistake and by that point Scott's eyebrows have climbed up to extraordinary heights. Stiles buries his head in his hands and groans. "Oh, God. Leave me alone, please. Mercy."

It gets worse, Isaac looks at him funny from across the room where it looks like he's attempting to perk up an exhausted looking Derek, of all people, and Stiles glares back and mutters quietly under his breath, "What the hell do you want?"

Isaac holds up both his hands in faux-innocence, one corner of his mouth twitching up, and Stiles wants to kick him, kind of, just a bit.

"Just call if you start to feel weird or anything, okay?" Scott makes him promise and Stiles does. "Deaton's not happy."

"Yeah, I know, he keeps glaring at me so umm, I'm gonna go, now." Stiles hops down off the counter but there's something he needs to do really bad. There's too many people in here, Cora and Isaac crowding Derek, and he looks at Scott helplessly and doesn't know how the hell to ask. "Ugh, Scott," seems like a good starting point but Scott, awesome, legendary, best friend in all the world Scott just gets it.

"It's okay, dude, I got it," he says with a smirk and a pat to Stiles' arm.

He gestures Cora and Isaac over for some kind of wolfy board meeting and Stiles makes a beeline straight for Derek. He looks up before Stiles stops, head bowed, skin pale and dark circles under his eyes. He looks wrecked. Wrecked and so fucking beautiful Stiles has to swallow down the sudden flood of spit in his mouth.

"Hey," he goes with, understatement of the century but once you've been in someone's head it's hard to know what the hell to say.

"Hey."

"So that was, umm." Stiles clears his throat awkwardly. "Lotta blood."

Derek snorts humorlessly. "Yeah."

"Look, I'm sorry, or something. I dunno. Was that bad, what I did? Did I do bad?"

"Deaton seems to think so."

"I don't care what Deaton thinks, I don't mean Deaton-thinks-it's-bad bad. I mean what do you think? Are you upset? I was inside your memory, Derek, I feel like I've—" he pauses, shapes his mouth around the word like it tastes bad, "violated you."

Derek looks away with a tiny wince. "You didn't know."

"Okay, but that's not what I'm asking," Stiles insists. He feels a little frantic now, he really wishes they were alone. "Are we gonna be okay? I can't—I can't have us not be okay, okay? I need us to be okay. And that's a lot of okays, I know, but I'm serious, I can't fuck up that bad twice in one night." Derek knows he means the kiss and Stiles cringes but barrels on anyway, might as well get it all out in the open. "Not with you. Not when I don't know what you're thinking, when I gotta go home and I don't know when I'm gonna see you again."

Awkward silence, at least twenty seconds of it, and Stiles would really like to cut out his own tongue or bang his head against a wall or something.

"You'll probably see me pretty soon. There is a killer to hunt down, after all."

Stiles' irritation manages to override the fact Derek said nothing at all meaningful.

"Derek! Really? Deaton said sit your ass down and rest, not run around after sorcerers. You wanna take yourself straight to him? Huh? Do you wanna end up with your insides on the outside?" But Derek's smirking up at him, sly and amused, and kudos for Derek on knowing just how to derail Stiles' very serious train of thought. "You're not funny. You think you're funny, but you're not. I am so one-hundred percent unamused by you—"

"You didn't fuck up," Derek interrupts softly and Stiles blinks, mouth hanging open mid-word.

"Oh. Right. Well, that's. That's good. Umm, which time? Like the second time or, y'know, both?"

"Stiles, look—"

"No, nuh-uh," Stiles stops him and shakes his head. "No way. In my entire life, no good sentence has ever started with the phrase Stiles, look."

Derek perks up with a familiar look of annoyance that's actually a relief to see. "How about, Stiles, shut up, I'm talking? How's that sound?"

"Sounds a little rude."

"I'm gonna strangle you."

"In your sorry state? I don't think so, dude."

Derek seems unsure for a second. “You gotta go home?” And how much Stiles loves that question, he just can't find a way to accurately process.

“Yeah.”

“Right, well.” Derek reaches out, two fingers brushing against the inside of Stiles' wrist, slipping up to wrap a loose hand around and the touch chasing away Stiles' headache like a fast-acting pain reliever. Stiles watches, trance-like. He turns his hand up slowly and strokes his fingertips against Derek's pulse. Derek says softly, “something for the road, huh?”

Stiles huffs a laugh. “Yeah.”

Derek looks up, blinking slowly, tip of his tongue wetting his bottom lip. He looks like he wants to say something and whatever it is, Stiles desperately wants to hear it.

“Cora.”

Okay, now he just feels slow. “Huh?”

Derek lets him go and then he gets it but damn if he's not frustrated as hell.

"Are you finished aggravating my brother?" Cora asks, swooping in like some giant over-protective mother eagle. "Because I'm taking him home now."

Derek looks at her, affronted. “What am I, groceries?”

“Groceries don't stress me out nearly as much.” She throws his shirt at him. “Get dressed.”

Stiles scoffs and Derek glares at him. He does, however, put on his shirt. Stiles kind of wants to call him a good boy but he has a suspicion it's not gonna sound nearly as innocently funny if he says it out loud, more like incredibly perverted and therefore awkward.

“Can you stand?” Cora asks, skittish skip of her eyes across Derek's body giving away how clearly worried she is.

“Yes, I can stand, Christ, Cora, I'm fine.”

“I'm just asking.”

“No, you're trying to weasel your way into driving my car. It's not gonna happen.”

She whines, actually whines, “Derek!”

“What is it with you people and driving my car?”

Cora huffs and rolls her eyes and Stiles just feels—warm, amused, comfortable. He wishes he was going with them, aches for it even. Because his dad will be in bed when Stiles gets home and there's a streak of cold emptiness starting to work its way up his spine as Derek gets up to leave, some awful by-product of what he just did.

It's too familiar to the nematon, an old wound torn back open. His heart throbs brutally like a bruise, he's all sensitive and on edge. Cora and Derek walk out and Stiles feels disturbingly alone in a room filled with his friends.

Scott throws an arm around his shoulders that feels like sympathy. "Come on, dude, it's been a long night."

"Scott, I'm so screwed."

"You will be if you don't get outta here before Deaton gets a hold of you."

He's talking with Lydia for now. She's still got that damn book in her hand, asking him if she can take it home since Deaton will be busy with the wolves for the next few days. Stiles thinks he's saying no but he's obviously way underestimating the powers of Lydia Martin's persuasion.

So Stiles says his goodbyes and leaves quickly, out into the crisp dark, white flutters of snow starting to fall and twinkling against the sky and it's so pretty, he hates it. He's miserable and it should be misty and raining, not picturesquely throwing down snowflakes.

Something has him completely unbalanced, dread still sitting heavy in his stomach.

Derek's going to die tonight, that's what he'd said to his dad. But Derek didn't die, Derek's fine, the whole thing was a success even, and Stiles should feel relieved, but he doesn't.

He's still wound up on edge and he doesn't understand why.

***

"He's ready. They both are."

Stiles is going out of his mind. There's nothing to this world anymore but pain and darkness, a hollow sense of loss.

"Ready for this to end."

He asks in a voice shattered and ripped to pieces, "How?"

"One little thing, that's all."

"Anything."

He means it, he'll do anything.

"Will you go to him?"

He wants that more than anything else in the entire world, more than sunlight or sleep.

"I couldn't do this without you, I hope you know that. You see, I said it before but I can't find Derek by myself."

Someone touches him. Hand on his shoulder. Thumb pressed against his neck, a familiar touch that makes him ache and crave.

He opens his eyes and it's the man and now Stiles knows, brown eyes and dirty blond hair and patterned glasses—

"You're ready, Stiles."

 

***

 

 

 

He pulls on his jeans and a hoodie.

He finds his backpack, opens it, pulls out the brown package and tears it open. A plastic Tupperware box filled with fine purple powder. Inside it, there's a knife. Ordinary wooden handle and a deadly looking silver point. All of it coated and soaked in wolfsbane.

He shuts the box.

Grabs his keys.

Slips outside.

It's cold, dark, and that's weird—he thinks that's weird—but it's easy to ignore when the impulse to go to Derek is this strong. Overrides every single thing.

He puts the box on the passenger seat and drives.

So close now. Time lapses, fits and starts. Feels like a dream but it's not, not this time.

His phone starts ringing in his pocket and he slips it out, a familiar name, takes him a couple of seconds—

Lydia.

"Yeah?"

"Stiles, tell me you haven't been to sleep yet."

She sounds frantic. He has to lie to her, it's important.

"No, why?"

"The book, Stiles! The book Deaton gave me, the one about dreams? You have to listen to this, are you listening?"

Couple more minutes, take a left turn at the end of this road and he'll be at Derek's.

"Yeah, I'm listening."

"I can't believe this, I don't know how this wasn't in any of the books I took from the library. It's about shifters, Stiles! It says: in dark shamanism of the old Slavic shifters, the hunter or huntress shamans search out their enemies in the dreamtime, in the in-between worlds, and go slay them where they're vulnerable."

"Okay."

"They're connected! Your nightmares and the shaman, they're connected. I think he's using you to find Derek."

"Then I won't go to sleep."

"No, you need to come get me and we need to take this to the clinic, now."

"Lydia, you're breaking up, I can't hear you."

He cuts her off and throws his phone into the passenger seat. She's not important, nothing is.

It rings and rings, a low buzzing that registers to some part of him that feels trapped and hysterical, a spark somewhere in the mess and mire of darkness in his chest, bright and trying to go nuclear. He should answer it, it wants his attention.

But then he's here.

Finally.

He slips the knife into the waistband of his jeans, climbs the steps quickly, eagerly, a driving compulsion so strong. Derek's so close—

The girl—Cora, her name's Cora, she's important but not right now, soon—slides the door open, bleary-eyed and unamused. She's angry, it vaguely registers to him. The spark shocks; he rubs a hand over his ribs. He should warn her, something, something bad is happening but he can't—he doesn't—

He shakes his head and it's gone.

She mutters a stream of, "What the hell," and "Like rabbits," and "I'm putting in ear plugs, if you wake me up again so help me I will murder you both, I swear," before she falls back into bed.

So easy to get into Derek's space, to walk straight through Cora, no effort whatsoever. The magnitude of trust on display, he's never known it from the Hale family—no, not him, not Stiles, someone else—

"You're a very lucky boy, Stiles. You have no idea how lucky."

He climbs up the winding staircase slowly.

He walks the length of the room.

He stands and looks down and watches Derek, peaceful in sleep.

"He looks like his mother, doesn't he? Out of all of them, he was the one who did the most."

"That why you decided to kill him first?"

"Maybe."

"Why doesn't he wake up?"

"Because even in sleep he can smell you, hear your heartbeat. He trusts you, Stiles. Fundamentally and with all his instincts."

"You can't make me do this."

"I'm sorry, Stiles. There's no other living thing in this world who could."

Stiles' hand shakes, he reaches for the knife. It feels like his own body's rebelling against him.

Then two things happen: Derek's phone buzzes on the night stand, and Derek's eyes open. He jerks back and makes a noise of surprise.

"Fuck, Stiles, what the hell are you doing?" Derek scrubs a hand over his face and breathes and shakes his head. "Did you just get here? What's happened?"

"Derek!"

Someone's trying to scream, he can hear it faintly inside his head.

Stiles says, "Nothing, I just wanted to see you," and grabs Derek's phone. "Lydia's calling. She just called me, too. They might have found something but it can wait until tomorrow."

Derek peers up at him blearily, leant back on his elbows. "Are you okay? Your heart's crazy."

Stiles sits. He doesn't want to sit, but he does. He doesn't dare open his mouth, there's a million things that want to tear out, caught and struggling in his throat, warnings, he's threatening to burst—

He groans, head lancing with sharp, clarifying pain, haze clearing for just a second, hand flying out to grip Derek hard on his bare shoulder, fingernails gouging deep into his skin. "No. Derek—" He can't speak, he's choking, trying to scream, trying to move, other hand closing around the wooden knife handle.

His body's not his own, he's infected with some awful, dark presence. Helpless and thrashing and he can't—he can't stop—

"Stiles, what is it?"

Derek sounds worried, so worried. There's a war happening in Stiles' head, a vicious battle, his brain all torn up into shreds.

He slumps against Derek's shoulder.

He grips the knife and thrusts it up, aiming right for Derek's heart.

 

***

 

 

Chapter Text

"Stiles." Karlin honestly sounds more bored than worried. "What are you doing?"

"You can't make me kill him!"

"You think the power of love can save you both right now, Stiles? Really? What is this, a movie?"

"Don't use sarcasm on me, asshole, I will wreck you."

Karlin rolls his eyes. "Wow, somebody's perked up. Face it, it's over. I win. You're both too weak to fight. Well done, by the way, for making this so easy. Anyone would think you two were simply gagging for an excuse to be all over each other. You did good, I'll be sure to give you an A."

Stiles says quickly, "I saw her, I saw Talia Hale."

"You saw nothing of her, you cretin, she was magnificent."

"So how does it feel to know she died hating you?"

"Give up, Stiles, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I felt it, it was there all right. I was in Derek's memory, I was Derek. The woman you loved hated you, and if she was still alive today, she'd still hate you, in fact she'd probably kill you."

Karlin doesn't look so bored now.

"Do you want to die next? Is that what you're trying to tell me? I can make you a regular Romeo and Juliet, you know."

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I hurting your feelings? I just don't know when to stop, do I? I just can't imagine what it would feel like to know someone I loved hated me so much, thought I was literally the scum of the Earth, not even good enough to be allowed to breathe air—"

"Shut up."

There it is, a chink in the armor, a flare of anger so white-hot it disrupts the vice-grip on Stiles' conscious just a fraction.

"She was so kind and so good, and she couldn't stand you—"

"Shut. Up. Or I will make you."

"She loved and saw the best in everybody, but you, my friend, you were the only exception."

Karlin's losing his hold, he's going messy and unfocused, perfect, and Stiles digs his fingers into the cracks and twists, uses everything he has left to break free because this is Derek, this is Derek's life in his hands.

"And all of those rotten little abominations of hers, Derek and Laura and Cora and even everybody's least favorite psychopath, Peter. She chose them all. All of them—"

"Stop it!"

"—over you."

 

***

He's disorientated as hell.

It's dark, he knows that much. His head aches, that's abundantly obvious. Derek's knelt over him, that one's unexpected.

On his back on Derek's bed, both arms pinned over his head and Derek's hands around his wrists, something solid and rough in one palm.

"Stiles?"

Derek sounds so tense. In the hazy, dim light streaming through the windows he looks bright-eyed and furious. That does it, it hits Stiles like bricks to the face. Karlin, the knife, the dreams, Lydia on the phone. He gasps a breath, tries to fight Derek off because he's panicking.

"How—you're alive? What—"

Derek rips the knife out of his hand and stands, steps way back, putting feet of space between them, and Stiles scrambles up to sit on the side of the bed, dizzy like the room's violently spinning.

"I need to check on Cora, stay there," Derek commands roughly, then he hisses and looks at his hand, drops the knife on the floor and kicks it across the room with a clatter. He stares at Stiles, horrified. "Wolfsbane."

"Oh, God—"

"Just stay there."

Stiles doesn't have the words to tell Derek that Cora's fine. He's shaken to his core, literally petrified still. He feels like he’s just won a wrestling match with a bear, adrenaline pumping like crazy, burning through his bloodstream.

"She didn't even wake up," Derek growls from the stairs and then suddenly he's right there, hands fisted in Stiles' hoodie. "Did you do something to her?"

Stiles shakes his head, swallows, "No, I didn't, I swear," voice a shredded whisper but at least it's his own.

Derek doesn't sense a lie but he drops Stiles quickly, puts that distance back between them all the same, his back almost at the window. Curtains drawn back and heavy snow falling outside, sky swollen and glowing faintly orange; too calm against the chaos in this room, every inch of it screaming across Stiles' tortured nerves.

"It wasn't me, it was. Just call Lydia back, she can explain it."

"I know it wasn't you," Derek snaps. "You'd be dead by now if I thought it was you."

"Then call Lydia anyway! She's probably worried to death, they'll be banging your door down soon."

Derek considers him, a crippling look on his face like he's wary of Stiles, the on-edge expression he wears almost constantly like he's sensing out threats, and that's just killing him, that Derek's suddenly seeing him as a threat, an unknown. That everything they've built has been smashed to pieces so quickly.

The phone's on the floor and Derek picks it up, dials and brings it to his ear but he doesn't take his eyes off Stiles. It gives Stiles some time to compose himself at least, rub his hands over his face, get his blood pressure back under control before he ruptures a vein somewhere and explodes in a shower of gore and isn't that just a perfectly grim mental image.

"Yeah, Lydia, everything's fine. Stiles is here with me. Told me what? What the hell is going on?"

He can hear Lydia's voice faintly, telling Derek what she told Stiles—kind of Stiles—in the car. It's all so cloudy, like a dream, ironically. He got in his Jeep, drove all the way here and talked to his friends, hardly in control of his own body. It's a little like the time he was fifteen and woke up one Sunday with a hangover from hell and his only evidence from the night before a HD video on Scott's phone of Stiles attempting to pole dance around a tree.

"I won't let him fall asleep. Right. We'll see you tomorrow."

Stiles looks up at him, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together tightly, and says flatly, "Son of a bitch has been dream-walking me."

"He was using you to kill me?" Derek asks, just as flat, but it's not really a question. Stiles nods anyway. "Breaking you down, waiting until I was weak enough."

"Waiting until you trusted me enough."

Derek looks away from him, off to the side, so visibly unsettled. Derek trusted him, after everything, after Kate and Peter and Jennifer and probably against every instinct, and Karlin has fucked it all up and proved Derek wrong yet again. Stiles wants Karlin's throat under his bare hands so badly he can almost feel it against his fingers.

He doesn't know how to fix this.

"At the clinic, you said he was familiar," Derek says, shutters coming down and if Stiles didn't know him, he'd think Derek was completely fine, back to business like always.

"Yeah, he's our chemistry teacher. Big surprise, right?"

"Seriously? Doesn't that school do background checks?"

"Sometimes makes me wish Gerard Argent was still our principal. I mean, the dude was psycho but at least our teachers weren't trying to murder us, you know?"

Derek doesn't so much as smile. "He's gonna be angry."

Oh, Karlin's definitely angry, Stiles made him angry. "Yeah."

"He's gonna have a plan B, this won't stop him."

"Yeah."

"And then he's gonna get to Cora."

"Yeah."

"Haven't you got anything else to say?" Derek demands, not quite angry but—something, frustrated, confused.

"What the hell do you want me to say?"

"Maybe you could explain what just happened?"

"Did you not just talk to Lydia?"

Derek runs his hands through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut and sways a little and Stiles jumps straight up, not so steady on his feet himself but it's fundamental now, how he reaches for Derek. Tainted, sure, because now he knows why, but he cares so little about Karlin and his mind games right now, not when all he wants is for Derek to stop looking at him like an enemy.

But Derek goes on the defensive, squares his shoulders just a fraction, and Stiles pleads, desperately, "Don't do that, Derek, please."

"Do what?"

"Don't act like I'm about to pull out another knife from somewhere."

Derek frowns, presses his mouth together. "Well, are you?" And Stiles isn't even gonna pretend that doesn't hurt.

"That's not fair. That's. That's really low, Derek. He used me, you of all people know what that feels like.”

He does know, it's written all over his face.

But Stiles goes on because he’s on a roll apparently, like a boulder down a fucking ski slope. “I mean, do you even. Do you even know?" He's stuttering, voice cracking. "Do you even remotely understand how much I care about you? Or are you that blind and stubborn and determined to hate yourself?"

"It's not real, Stiles, none of it. Whatever you think you feel, it's all him—"

"Then why didn't you attack me? Why didn't you wolf out and rip out my throat?" Stiles asks, right over him, he doesn't wanna hear what Derek was about to say. "I had a knife pointed at your heart and all you did was, what? Pin me down? Awesome defense, Derek!"

"Because it wasn't you!"

"And how did you know that?"

"Because." Derek exhales roughly, looks everywhere but Stiles. "Because I just knew. I know you." And then after a silence in which Stiles tries to process those words, he adds, snarkily, like maybe he needs to land an insult to make himself feel better, "And you've got a few screws loose but you're not exactly a cold-blooded killer."

"Wow, thank you for that extremely back-handed compliment. Now, will you sit down before you fall down. Please."

Derek snaps, "I'm fine," but he sits down all the same. Slumps back against the headboard like he's just about done with everything, one leg folded up on the bed and Stiles sits close, his thigh pressing into Derek's knee and he can't breathe until Derek settles and doesn't move away from the contact.

He doesn't say anything for a long time. He looks at Stiles through the low, orange-tinged light, a terrifying weight enough to crush him whilst Stiles fights off every urge he has to break the silence.

"You stopped," Derek eventually says and Stiles looks down into his lap, at his hands, his itchy fingers desperate to touch. "You could've killed me. But you stopped."

They'd both looked down at the knife, half an inch from Derek's bare chest. Derek's eyes going wide, Stiles' hand shaking, voice pleading Derek's name. Derek taking the window, grabbing his wrist and rolling him and pinning him down—

"Are you complaining?"

"I'm asking," Derek says, cool as a breeze.

"Technically, that wasn't a question."

Stiles isn't looking but he imagines Derek's all but praying for patience right now. "How did you do that? What made you stop?" And yeah, that was dumb, he just made this a lot harder for himself.

"I just fought him off, that's all."

Derek doesn't sound convinced. "And it was that easy?"

"Well, Derek, what more do you wanna hear? That I couldn't? I-I couldn't do it," he stutters, he's shaking again, a heart attack bubbling away. "He tried but I wouldn't—I wouldn't let him. If you died, if anything happened to you, I couldn't handle it." Confessions are just spilling out of him, he can't stop them. "Oh my God, I feel sick."

Derek breathes a sigh and leans forward, touches a hand against the back of Stiles' neck and it's just—it's incredible. Derek touching him, still reaching out to comfort him despite the absolute disaster they just barely averted and Stiles moans and tips his head back against it because he just doesn't have the strength left to fight his most basic instincts anymore.

"Derek, that's not helping," he half groans, half sighs, catching Derek's eye out of the corner of his own and watching his face turn from wary to openly fascinated.

Derek's fingers stroke tiny patterns, tiny shocks into Stiles' skin, and there's no way he's not doing that on purpose now, he knows, he knows what he's doing.

"Then what would?"

Derek's voice, low and intent, sends a violent shiver through him.

Then Stiles is moving, shoes off because he hasn't forgotten. Desperate and clumsy and crawling into Derek's lap, hands on his bare shoulders and Derek cupping his neck and definitely not pushing him away or flinching or going on the defensive. Running his fingers down Stiles' back and under his clothes and both his arms going tight around Stiles' waist, all skin on skin and it's glorious.

Nothing about this feels like comfort, it's more like a full-body response, sharp and shocking and blindingly intense.

Derek nuzzles his neck—an obsession Stiles wants to thank every God, religious, Hell-bound, Lovecraftian, whatever, there is for—and fucking hell it's like an electric shock to his dick. He moans like a frigging porn star and Derek doesn't stop, he just finds a way to make it better, fists a hand in Stiles' hair and pulls, exposing more of Stiles' throat and rasping his stubble against raw-feeling skin and Stiles arches into it, almost out of his mind.

His hands can't touch enough of Derek's skin, skipping and spreading over his back, over the triskele, little patches of static forming. In his hair, dragging him closer because he wants—even though he's still not sure because Derek's not—

Except then he is, Derek's lips open over his throat and it's the single hottest thing that's ever happened to him. "Oh my God, oh my God, ohmyGod— " He's a broken record, Derek's the only thing holding him together. Derek dragging his damp mouth over Stiles' pulse, licking at his heartbeat.

"I'm sorry, I can't," Derek groans into his skin.

"Don't apologize, don't you dare," and then, "can't what?" because he really, really wants to know .

Derek sucks kisses against his neck and he feels like he's dissolving. "Can't." Another kiss. "Help it."

"Then don't. Ever. Not ever."

"Don't say that," Derek actually whines , all wrecked and needy and it's the most stunning, unimaginable sound Stiles has ever heard. "You don't—"

"If you're about to tell me that I don't want it," Stiles starts roughly, pulls away from that ridiculous, sinfully good mouth of Derek's to look him in the eye but that was a bad idea. Derek's pupils are blown and his lips are shiny and he can feel Derek's dick really obviously through the soft pants he was sleeping in—before Stiles tried to fucking murder him, a testament to how messed up their lives are—and Stiles is just staring with his mouth hanging open and saying nothing, absolutely nothing.

"He did this," Derek says very seriously and he's got a point, maybe Derek had never given him palpitations just by touching him before all this started but that doesn't mean shit when Stiles feels like he wants to count every single one of Derek's eyelashes and make him laugh and just sit and watch his fingers turn book pages for the rest of their lives.

Not when he can't think about Derek, dead, Derek, murdered by Stiles' own hand, without his vision blacking out at the edges.

"Only some of it," Stiles corrects softly.

Derek pulls in a hard, determined breath. Slowly, ever so slowly, he takes Stiles' wrists and pulls them away from his body. Then he lets go, not one bit of their skin touching.

The throttling intensity calms, he feels a little less like he's about to go up in flames. It's just them and Stiles’ now marginally clearer head and the only way he's got to prove to Derek how serious he is because nothing's changed.

Stiles licks his lips and dips his head with clear intent and Derek's eyes follow every moment. He doesn't touch Derek anywhere else, just closes the gap and kisses him, one brush of his lips and back again and a flutter of static on contact like touching an old television screen.

He can hardly breathe, it's like waiting for a verdict in a murder trial; either way, there's no going back from this now.

Derek moves so slowly, like he thinks Stiles might change his mind. Ain't gonna happen, not a chance, not even if Ed McMahon burst into the bedroom right now holding a giant check. Derek's hands curl in his hoodie and pull gently, up and up until it's off, Stiles' arms above his head and Derek's fingers on his skin, trailing a path from Stiles' wrists back down to slip under his t-shirt. That's next, slow up and off, tossed on the floor.

He cannot believe this is happening.

Derek nudges Stiles' chin with his nose and he tips his head back, really pretty ecstatic about where this is going. Derek spreads his palms against Stiles' back and sucks soft, wet kisses down over his Adam’s apple, the dip of his throat, over his heart.

He's never felt the focus of such careful attention in all his life; he didn't know Derek was gonna be like this or what the hell he was expecting, just not this, not this concentrated worship, Derek's hands and mouth touching him like something important.

And then suddenly Stiles is looking up at Derek from his back on the mattress, the world trying to catch up and right itself. Derek between his legs and one long roll of his hips that gets Stiles arching up, hard push of Derek's dick against his own through too many layers.

He repeats, "Oh fuck," about a dozen times and Derek grinds him back into the bed and watches Stiles' face like he's just as surprised. Derek's warm skin all against Stiles' half naked— they're half naked, he's half naked with Derek Hale's half-nakedness—body.

He digs his fingers into Derek's shoulders, up into his hair and drags him in, finally, for a proper kiss, a pure going-for-gold make-out session, Derek's tongue slicking into Stiles' mouth like something obscene, all slow and wet and really, insanely, mind-blowingly good.

The noises Stiles is making are frankly embarrassing.

Derek breaks away to suck on his bottom lip, slips his knees under Stiles' thighs to support himself and fumbles with the buttons on Stiles' jeans.

"Oh, God, yes. Pants off, definitely pants off," is the basic sentiment Stiles is trying to communicate and Derek huffs a laugh right into his mouth, such a sweet thing that Stiles drags him back to look and Derek lets him, just lets Stiles manhandle him and it's that, not the promise of sex, that feels like some kind of final line been crossed .

The green of Derek's eyes are all swallowed up by pupil, his lips parted. "What?"

"You. Just. Just you."

It's about as articulate as he feels, more so when Derek sits up on his knees, eyes studying Stiles like he's a difficult math problem he can't quite get his head around as he works Stiles' zipper all the way down. He feels caught in the glare of full-beam headlights, a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny until Derek rubs a warm, heavy palm through the V of his fly and fuck.

He arches up, mutters words like, "Derek," and "come on," and he's wanted this for what feels like forever and he says that, too, somewhere in and amongst all the rest.

"I had no idea," Derek says breathlessly, this almost comically surprised look on his face. Fingers shaping around the length of Stiles' dick through his underwear and thumb rubbing absent-mindedly. "I mean, I trusted you and I thought it was that but it wasn't just that and—do you have any idea what you look like right now?" he asks like he's actually offended, wrecked, he's fucking wrecked, as wrecked as Stiles feels, rambling like Stiles rambles, solid, bluntly spoken Derek, and Stiles did that to him .

Derek gives up, just straight-up gives up trying to make sense. Instead he stretches over Stiles, muscles in his arms and shoulders shifting; he moves like a Goddamn animal. He nudges Stiles' mouth open with his lips and licks inside, slow and deep, and Stiles grips his sides, his hips, palms at the curve of his spine and he hesitates because he doesn't know what he's doing, what he's allowed to do.

"You can touch me, Stiles," Derek tells him, low and filthy, a growl over his name. Another kiss, messier this time, Derek's hands slipping under his back like Stiles weighs nothing, tucking into the waistband of his jeans. "I want you to." And that's just a kicker, Derek and his boundaries and his express permission for Stiles to trample every single one of them, one by one.

Stiles arches again, his dick actually aching , desperate for some kind of friction. Derek uses the motion to wrestle him out of his jeans and boxers and he should feel vulnerable, completely naked, Derek looking down at all of him through the low light like he could eat Stiles alive and he could, he absolutely could.

Derek's a predator. An intelligent, dangerous, inhuman monster. He can hear every beat of Stiles' heart, he can smell his blood, he can calculate in a split second the twenty most efficient ways to tear Stiles apart with his bare hands, the hands he's raking up the insides of Stiles' thighs and spreading over his hips.

It shouldn't be a power trip.

Except it is, because he understands with the kind of clarity he rarely achieves in anything, that right here in this moment, all that power, all that potential, is Stiles' to have.

And he wants. He wants literally everything, there is not one single bit of Derek he doesn't want to get his hands on, not one single thing Stiles doesn't wanna do to him.

He sits up and Derek doesn't see that coming, way too distracted—Derek, distracted —watching his own fingertips across Stiles' skin like he can't believe they belong to him or something. Stiles curls one hand around Derek's neck, the other trying to cover as much as he can realistically touch across that ridiculously nice curve at the bottom of Derek's back and Derek opens right up for the kiss without any hesitation, frantic and careless.

"Off," he demands, muffled against Derek's mouth, shoving at his pants impatiently.

Admittedly, Stiles has seen his fair share of dicks before. He plays lacrosse, after all; he gets showered and changed with over a dozen other dudes almost every week. He had some serious getting-to-know-you time with Jackson's that one time. He watches enough porn that if watching porn were an Olympic sport, Stiles' future would look pretty bright.

But he's never wrapped his hand around any dick other than his own, he's never made another guy moan before. It takes him approximately one and a half seconds to realize how much he likes it.

Derek kneels between Stiles' spread legs, back bowing, his body curling forward over Stiles. He can feel every ripple of muscle across Derek's shoulder blades, the shift of his bones. Stiles' hair catches between Derek's fingers, his tongue feels slick in Derek's mouth, his palm a rough drag over Derek's cock; Stiles' hyper-sensitivity in overdrive, a total sensory flood. And Derek, pushing noises into Stiles' lungs that make his stomach twist and pulse like a heavy baseline. Hot, this is hot. Hot and heavy, yeah, it's another cliché but it's a good one, all thick, thick air and heavy breathing and Derek's skin going damp with sweat.

He's a little lost in it all, feels like maybe his life has narrowed down to this and only this and that would be absolutely welcome, but Derek's doing his smart thing again, leaning against Stiles with his weight and pushing him back into the mattress. He kicks his way out of the rest of his pants and that's awesome too, Stiles can totally get on board with that. He rolls with it, opens his legs to let Derek in.

It's like a hazy wet dream. Just bodies and breath and heat and friction on his dick, sticking and dragging against Derek's hip, little shivers spreading out through his stomach and thighs. Derek's body pinning him down and his hips driving Stiles into the bed and his mouth brushing Stiles' lips, across his jaw, dipping in for kisses and sucking on Stiles' throat.

"You're nuzzly," Stiles comments hoarsely, head tipped back and baring his jugular to a fucking werewolf. Derek doesn't answer him, instead he scrapes his teeth across Stiles' pulse like he's trying to prove a point, grips Stiles under one knee and rocks against him. "Oh, fuck. Nuzzly and naked, I've just decided, is my favorite version of you. I mean, I like a lot of 'em—most of them, actually. Like, at least ninety percent of them."

Derek takes a small break from working a nice bruise into Stiles' collarbone to ask, "What about the other ten percent?" and then he gets right back to it.

"Stubborn, short-tempered, major attitude problem." Derek bites him and he moans. "That is not as off-putting as you think it is." Derek does it again, pressing his tongue over the sting. "The biting or the ten percent."

Derek actually does nuzzle him then, rubs his nose all the way up into the side of Stiles' jaw, right next to his ear, making Stiles shiver.

"Tell me what you want, Stiles," he murmurs and Stiles' brain short-circuits. "You've gotta tell me. I can't, if you don't."

He wants—he wants everything, he wants Derek to fuck him, he wants to fuck Derek, he wants to wrap his lips around Derek's dick and see if deep-throating is as difficult as it looks. He wants someone other than himself to make him come, to know what it feels like to lose control like that.

"Are there limits on that?"

Derek goes quiet, turns his face into Stiles' cheek like he's thinking about it. Then he pulls back enough to look Stiles in the eye when he says, "No."

He looks good enough to sink ships and derail trains right now and yeah, Stiles will admit he's being a little over-dramatic but he just got the offer of a lifetime, sue him. Swollen, spit-shiny mouth and Derek's hair all pulled up by Stiles' fingers and utterly not composed, not even a hint of guarded, detached, keeps-people-at-arm's-length Derek anymore.

"I want you to fuck me."

Derek shuts his eyes and groans. He leans forward and presses their foreheads together, then slides one hand between their bodies and spreads a palm over Stiles' heart. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm scared, but I'm absolutely, super sure. I am not leaving this bed a virgin, dude, no way, not after—you can't offer the all-you-can-eat buffet and then not stick your dick in it— me , I meant me. No, wait, you can, you totally can, that's your prerogative, that's not what I meant—" Derek half sighs, half shushes him and doesn't move at all and Stiles thinks he's gonna pull some super responsible shit like telling Stiles he's too young or something so he pre-empts it. He covers the back of Derek's hand over his chest with a hand on his own and presses down tightly. "I trust you, Derek."

Derek doesn't need any of his other senses to tell Stiles is seriously fucking serious. The most serious he's ever been. Ever. About anything.

"Okay, okay," Derek whispers and nods against him. He stays right there while he reaches over into the nightstand like he thinks Stiles is gonna freak out and bolt. Or maybe he's trying to ground himself, there's a pretty incredible thought. When he says, so softly, "Turn over," he already sounds hoarse.

Stiles does and feels Derek settle in between his legs, nerves jarring at the absence of Derek's body plastered against him but not for long. Derek leans against his back, splays one palm in the pillows beside Stiles' head and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades

He murmurs, "Gonna open you up, okay? Might feel a little weird."

Stiles nods against his folded arms and Derek's right, just him slipping a hand through the crack of Stiles' ass is really weird. Even weirder when he rubs one lube-slick finger against his hole. Good weird, though. Shivery and pleasant and then turning into a warm ache when Derek pushes in.

Derek sucks and licks kisses against Stiles' spine, across his shoulders, and fingers him smooth and steady until he can take more, two fingers all the way in and out until it stops burning and gets addictive, satisfying. He knows what's coming—no put intended. Stiles is smart on anatomy, he knows Derek's buttering him up—again, no pun intended—for the big attack on his prostate and hey, if that doesn't sound the world’s most badass title for a porn movie, he doesn't know what does.

He finds it and Stiles has a momentary second of bizarre jealousy, completely out of nowhere, at the thought that Derek's done this to someone before but it's wiped clean with the rub of Derek's fingertips, spread of heat from way deep inside him, up through his dick with a throb.

"Oh my God," Stiles says weakly, and then over and over again, Derek fingering him until he's loose and aching and pretty sure he's gonna come all over the sheets, which he tells Derek, in those actual words.

He gets a raspy, "Oh, thank fuck for that," in answer which is truly awesome.

He hears the tear of foil packaging and the roll of rubber and then Derek's off him, air rushing in to occupy the space and sharp against Stiles' sweating skin. It gives him a minute to compose himself after all the touching, the rake of Derek's presence, physical and mental, on his skin, inside him, right in his fucking head, even. He can't imagine what this would be like if Karlin hadn't decided to use Stiles as his unconscious hitman.

There's no other living thing in this world who could.

Stiles isn't giving Karlin any gratitude for this but it's an interesting concept, that there's some kind of destiny at play here. If he believed in such things. Which he doesn't. Or at least not until Derek asks, "Ready?" and Stiles tells him, "Yeah," and the blunt press of Derek's dick against him, the slow stretch—

If he's feeling a little awestruck by the universe right now, looking for patterns in the damn stars, it's in no way his fault.

It hurts. It hurts and it feels incredible and it's uncomfortable and satisfying in a way he can't even reckon with because numbers just aren't his thing and over-processing, for the first time in Stiles' life, is blissfully out of his range. Derek's gripping his hips, holding him steady and sinking in, guiding them together until he's bottomed out with a sharp exhale.

Stiles can feel him shaking and that's amazing, too—Derek's tight leash on his control slipping like that. He runs a hand up and down Stiles' back , shivers over Stiles' skin, striking flames like matches inside him. Overwhelming, is one word.

Move, that's another.

"Move, Derek, come on."

He does, embraces Stiles' demand and rocks into him, tiny little thrusts to get Stiles used to it. Then he's plastered against Stiles' back again, more sudden sensation, and Stiles unfolds his arms, palms flat on the pillow and reaching for Derek to wind his fingers through.

Derek fucks him slow and steady, forehead pressed into the back of his neck, breath against Stiles' spine. Stroking over his prostate sporadically and every time Stiles tenses, surprised because it feels so damn good, this building pressure, knocking something loose like a hammer hitting a supporting beam, like the whole house is about to come down.

It's good. It's unbearable. It's not enough. He's winding up tight but he needs more and Derek's a mind reader, or Stiles is talking out loud, whichever, he doesn't care enough to find out.

Derek wraps an arm—their hands still tangled together—around Stiles' body and hauls him upright to his knees with absolutely no effort whatsoever. He holds Stiles firm against his chest and drives into him with a force like a small bomb going off and that's exactly what it feels like, a relentless assault against the most sensitive part of him.

Stiles streams an endless litany of scrambled curses and possibly the Lord's name in serious vain. He clings to Derek's arms around him just to not fall the fuck down, completely at Derek's mercy and thrilled to be there. His dick aches, he can't remember ever being this hard, and he's not expecting it when Derek curls a fist around him, almost knocks Derek out when he flings his head back onto his shoulder.

Derek strokes him, runs his thumb around and around the tip of his dick, so much pre-come he doesn't know where it's all coming from slicking up the slide of Derek's hand. It's too good, he's too close.

"Derek," he moans in an attempt at a warning and Derek turns his mouth against the side of Stiles' neck and nods, scratching stubble and soft lips opening over Stiles' pulse and that's all it takes.

It punches through him like a fist, winds him completely, muscles spasming all over and his stomach tensing tightly and he comes hard. He's groaning, faintly aware of his fingernails buried in Derek's arm, spilling over Derek's fist for what feels like forever until he can finally feel his heart rate slowing and drag in desperate lungfuls of air.

The only thing holding him up is Derek's arms around him and Derek's quickly losing control. He says, voice cracking, "Fuck, Stiles," and it's the single hottest thing Stiles has ever heard in his life, sends a violent shiver through him that tips Derek over the edge.

His thrusts go erratic, his mouth latches on to Stiles' shoulder. He comes with a series of ragged breaths that sound forced out of him, hands curling weakly into Stiles' sides and his arms shaking and Stiles is acutely aware that Derek is out of his mind right now and he's not afraid, not one bit.

Turns out Derek might have literally fucked his brains out. Huh.

Stiles twists awkwardly in Derek's slackening grip to get a good look at him, his hair sticking up all over the place and his mouth hanging open and the awestruck look on his face and Stiles wants, intensely, to kiss him and realizes he can. So he does, he kisses him, a slow, wet, comedown kiss that Derek seems too dazed to do anything but let Stiles attack him with.

He's dazed himself, if he's honest. Pretty sure he just had sex with Derek Hale. Not completely positive, but the sheets are gross and Stiles aches all over and Derek's tongue is in his mouth so, yeah, pretty sure it happened.

Derek gets his energy back quickly. He drags the damp comforter away and rolls it onto the floor, ties off and throws the condom somewhere haphazardly. Stiles isn't quite so lucky, or quite so werewolfy since he's willing to bet that recovering quickly after mind-blowing orgasms is another special werewolf talent that Stiles wasn't privy to before now.

He collapses face-first into the mattress.

It's surreal—he's not a virgin anymore. Virginity score: nil, on all fronts. He's just been thoroughly fucked and by a dude and not just a dude, a werewolf, and not just any werewolf, Derek Hale the werewolf. Derek Hale who people look at half in terror, half in arousal. Derek Hale who could probably sell sex to a high-class escort.

Stiles is wondering how much it might cost to get a special badge made when Derek starts to trail his fingers up and down Stiles' back, a gesture that pulls him right out of his head.

"I need to borrow your phone to text my dad, mine's still in the car. If he wakes up tomorrow and me and the Jeep are gone without a trace, he's gonna have a heart attack. Knowing our luck, he'll be banging your door down before dawn and that is not a conversation I'm ready for."

Derek nods and Stiles reaches over, takes his phone off the nightstand and thankfully remembers his dad's number from memory. Derek watches him the whole time, Stiles can feel his gaze as tangible as the touch of fingertips against his back.

"So, umm. That just happened.”

Derek hums in answer.

"Any regrets?" Stiles asks, cringing; it's one of those things that he just has to ask because he needs to know but he's also kicking himself because who even asks questions like that, really?

“Only that apparently even sex can't make you quiet.”

Stiles’ skin breaks out in shivers. "I can think of a few more things you can try. Y'know, for the sake of scientific accuracy. I don't think we've covered every base yet."

Derek's pupils dilate. He cards one hand into Stiles' hair. "I did promise Lydia I wouldn't let you fall asleep."

"Well, you shouldn't break a promise to Lydia, she'll feed you to her little dog in bite-size pieces."

"You've never had a nightmare when we've been touching,” Derek points out fairly.

"Yeah, but, like. We don't wanna risk it, right? I mean, could be bad. I did just get mind-controlled.”

Derek looks at him, torn like he's fighting some epic internal angst-battle in true Derek Hale style. "Do you have any idea what I could do to you?"

"Tell me," Stiles demands immediately, sharp as a whip cracking.

"I could ruin you."

"That doesn't sound like a bad thing."

"Stiles, I am the king of bad things. And you're a bad thing magnet."

"Okay, well I think they call that finding somebody who completes you—"

Derek talks right over him. "And there's a psychotic sorcerer trying to kill me and my family using you as a weapon."

"This how you're gonna keep me up all night? Being difficult, arbitrary, and trying to pick a fight? Or are you gonna let me suck your dick?"

The threat of dick sucking—apparently a pretty good derailer of arguments; it's awesome how well Stiles knows how to push Derek's buttons these days. He rolls Stiles over onto his back, pressed up between his legs and pinning his hands over his head.

"Is that all you want?"

Stiles arches up into him. "It's a start."

"That's not what I meant.”

Stiles has no idea what he means, and he's slowly losing the will to care what with Derek holding him down like this. It's a fantasy he's quietly harbored for a while, way before Derek even, and there Derek goes again, unknowingly giving Stiles the things he needs most.

"Derek," he groans, arches again, rapidly losing brain cells; he knows what it's like now, Derek fucking him, and once is just not enough, Stiles is starving for it. "I want—oh, God. Like this, just like this."

Derek's eyes go as round as dinner plates. "Are you kidding me? Do you even. I mean," he stutters and then repeats slowly like it's a really important question that Stiles still hasn't given him a satisfactory answer to yet, "Do you know what you look like right now?"

"Illegal?"

"Don't even remind me. Son of the sheriff, too."

"Terrible idea."

"The worst."

"So right up your alley, then, huh?"

Derek shakes his head, smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like Stiles is a clever bastard who he'd like to teach a lesson and Stiles gets the highly satisfying feeling that he might just have successfully wrapped Derek around his little finger, even if Derek would never admit it out loud.

So he does.

He pins Stiles down and fucks him.

He rubs his fingers tortuously slow over and over the head of Stiles' dick until Stiles comes so hard he actually weeps a little.

Stiles learns that Derek's hands go weak right before he orgasms, that Derek will arch right off the damn bed with his fingers curled into loose fists, in Stiles' hair or against his skin or once, in the bed sheets while Stiles fucks him, lips pressed over the triskele across his back, watching it move and ripple in the dark; a thing Stiles really isn't gonna forget any time soon.

By the time the sun rises, the room stinks of sweat and come. Stiles hurts everywhere like after a particularly rough lacrosse match. He's covered in red, blue, purple marks in the shape of Derek's mouth, and Derek's wearing a permanent flush across his skin that Stiles is ridiculously proud of.

The cold light of a snow-covered day chases away the surreal, dream-like dark, the bubble they've existed in for the past however many hours. Stiles remembers there's a world out there, a fucking harsh one filled with monsters it's their responsibility to fight and it's like a frozen spike through his heart against the warm press of Derek's hand on his stomach.

He feels physically incapable of handling the day and he gets the feeling Derek's the same, the way he buries his face into Stiles' neck and groans.

But nothing is ever simple. Stiles isn't allowed nice, lazy Saturday mornings in bed with hot guys. Stiles has a sorcerer laying siege to his brain and a wolfsbane-soaked knife somewhere on the floor of this room and Derek—well, Derek's generally got even less luck than that so between them they're way off lazy Saturday mornings in bed.

Maybe one day. Stiles hopes one day.

Derek groans again, but he's laughing this time, glorious sound that Stiles completely adores in the most embarrassingly sappy way.

"Gotta face Cora today," he says by way of explanation, rolling over onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes.

Stiles sits up and tries to locate some of his brain, clothes, anything. He needs a shower, badly. And some coffee. And for Derek to stop looking so damn edible so his heart can just calm the fuck down.

"It's okay, she already thinks we're having sex," he tells Derek vaguely and then Derek grips his wrist and pulls him around.

"What?"

"Cora. She thinks we've been having sex for like, ages. She put in some earplugs or something. Turned off her wolfy hearing. Can you guys do that, turn it off? God, I hope so."

Derek's face is the most amusing picture of unease. "That actually explains a lot."

It cheers Stiles up, he's gotta admit. Derek flinging an arm back over his eyes, Stiles having to drag him out of bed, all very domestic and terrifyingly, he could really get used to this. He can see this as a future he wants and that's a bad outlook to have right now; he's never usually this optimistic.

They leave the loft together plus one really old book of spells and a seriously grumpy Cora who's first words to him are, “You stink,” even though they've showered. Derek improves the overall atmosphere when he holds up his keys.

"We're taking my car."

And Stiles. Well, Stiles only feels the tiniest bit guilty about leaving his Jeep behind.

He'll be back for her later no doubt.

***

Chapter Text

Scott slurps milkshake and kicks his heels against the metal dumpster.

The whole thing vibrates and clangs atrociously and Stiles reaches over and hits him on the arm.

"Dude, quit it. Giving me a headache."

The clinic parking lot's a pure black island in the middle of the surrounding sea of snow-covered ground. It'd make a quirky urban Christmas card, none of that sweet little thatched cottage in the snowy woods plus a wayward, ambling reindeer stuff. Parking lot and smoke-choked, factory-dotted landscapes for the win.

"Why'd you wanna sit out here in the freezing cold anyway?" Scott asks.

"Mainly to avoid all the weird looks and uncomfortable questions."

Derek can handle the Q and A with Deaton and the rest inside. Stiles just needs fresh air and chocolate milkshake and Scott right now. The second that knives had been mentioned, he'd seen it all playing out in his head like a horror movie in which Stiles plays the psychotic killer. It's too much, he's had a weird twenty-four hours.

"So you've left Derek of all people in there, with the weird looks and uncomfortable questions?"

"He can handle it, he's a big boy," Stiles says vaguely and tries not to smirk.

"Yeah, he is, so how come you're still among the living today?"

"Oh, ye of so little faith, Scott. I'm too awesome for Derek to kill."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I can smell you guys all over each other."

"I slept over, shut up," Stiles deflects but it's half-assed, he can't actually control the smirk anymore.

"Smells more like you slept under ." Scott looks at him and shakes his head. "Oh, God, you actually did, didn't you? You slept with Derek."

His smirk is a full-blown grin when he says, "And then some."

"Do I need to remind you—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, everyone he's been with is dead, blah blah blah."

"Not exactly a blah blah blah issue, Stiles."

"Do I need to remind you that in the past year and a half about a dozen different things have also tried to kill me. My life isn't exactly a risk-free zone, dude. It is, however, a 'sex go' zone so I'm considering this a major win."

"I thought we were gonna talk about this like one of your Lydia things," Scott says awkwardly. "Where you have an unrequited crush and you need me to give you a pep talk and buy you a chocolate milkshake to drown your sorrows in."

"Okay, firstly, me and Derek bought these milkshakes."

They had. He, Derek, and Cora had driven through McDonald's on their way over to purchase seven shakes plus a coffee for Deaton, Stiles taking orders on the phone. Once they'd gotten to the clinic, Derek had taken the lid off his—strawberry, and did Stiles ever wanna kiss him to see how he tasted—and used his straw like a spoon to eat it with and Stiles had stared, fascinated, because for some reason he'd found it ridiculously endearing. It was one of those little things—those tiny, insignificant details—that Stiles didn't know about Derek but now he does; it feels so important.

"And secondly: crush , Scott? Really? You're kinda downplaying it."

"Whatever, you know what I mean."

"I don't know, man. I don't even know what we're doing," Stiles tells him honestly. He looks out across the parking lot and feels like they're in a monochrome movie, It's A Wonderful Life or something. But with less angels and more werewolves. "He just. He makes everything better. I wanna just—" It's hard to find the words, they sound too simple in his head and simple isn't a word he associates with Derek. He's not good at articulating his emotions like this, calmly and in the light of day. "Be with him."

He hears Scott huff a laugh beside him.

"Is that little laugh right there a right on, I know exactly what you mean laugh?" Stiles asks him. "Because we haven't really talked about Allison."

"Smooth subject change."

Stiles tips his head. "Thank you."

"It's been a little weird. I mean, she kissed me, but everything's been so crazy we haven't really had much chance to talk."

"When we thought you were gonna die, she hardly left your side. Not even to go to school. Full-on ditched me and Lydia for important research time. Well, getting drunk time, but whatever, Allison didn't know that."

"She was worried," Scott says but what he's actually doing is expecting Stiles to jump in and correct him.

"She was more than worried."

He's thinking about after Allison's mom died, how Allison was like a taut wire waiting to snap. It sounds like an insensitive comparison, really, but it's not Stiles’ fault if it's true. He wonders if Scott's thinking the same thing.

"There's Isaac."

"Yeah, but this isn't Isaac's decision, this is Allison's," Stiles says and then adds because it's kind of amusing, "Besides, Isaac loves you way more than he could ever love a girl, dude. Come on."

Scott shoves him gently. "Shut up."

"He's your biggest fan, he'll follow you until you love him."

"You're just jealous. And don't quote Gaga at me, sleeping with a dude is not an excuse for that crap, not for anyone."

"Gaga is a queen, Scott, just because you don't appreciate her doesn't make her word any less law." Scott laughs and shakes his head and Stiles feels so completely normal for a second it makes him a little emotional. "Anyway, I'm not jealous. I got my own wolf to play with, now."

Scott pulls a face, faux-wounded. "You already had a wolf to play with."

Stiles scratches him behind his ear. "You'll always be my favorite, you know that."

They sit in a companionable silence for a while. Stiles is running on very little sleep and since leaving the loft this morning, every time Derek isn't touching him he aches like he's been thrown down a flight of stairs.

"When all this is over, I'm gonna sleep for a month,” he sighs.

"When this is over, I'm going for a walk in the woods all by myself . "

"Wow, look at us, living life in the fast lane. Jesus. We're like two old men," Stiles scoffs and Scott holds out his milkshake in a toast. "You ever think about being an old man werewolf?"

"Huh?"

"Y'know, running round the woods at seventy? Do you guys get arthritis, for instance. Or bladder trouble. You'll have to think about these things one day."

"Do you think we'll even last that long?"

" We ?" Stiles asks, because he's fairly certain there's no way he's gonna be fit for running around the woods in ten years, let alone fifty.

"Okay, me, Isaac, Cora, Derek. Do you think we'll even make it to seventy?"

"Dude, don't even say that. That's not—" It's too raw; it's tempting fate is what it is. "That's not what I meant. You guys survived this past week, of course you'll make it to seventy."

"Seventy, sat on my porch with my grandkids?

"Maybe, who knows."

"Okay, so, would my kids be werewolves or human?"

"I presume you're talking about your hypothetical kids with Allison?" Stiles asks, slanting a sly look across at him. "I don't know, ask Derek, he's the one who was Born This Way ."

Scott groans. "Oh my God, dude, shut up."

"I'm not planning these," Stiles laughs. "They're setting themselves up, I'm knockin' 'em down." He mimics bowling and bangs his wrist on the edge of the dumpster with a crack. "Ow."

"Your taste in music is terrible.” Scott sniffs the air. “And Deaton's coming.”

He hops down gracefully, Stiles hits the ground with a hell of a lot less balance. The back door opens and Deaton gestures them inside.

It's a a full house again, the place crammed with people, but the second Stiles enters the room he can feel the pull of Derek like a chord around his neck, tightening the noose every time he gets too far.

Leant against the counter with his arms folded, eyes on Stiles and it's ridiculous. He doesn't know how to act around Derek in front of them. He hardly knows how to act around Derek full stop. Sure, they've fucked six ways until sunrise, literally, but it's not like Derek's offered him his class ring or anything. They haven't actually talked about it past discussing what a terrible idea it is and then doing it anyway.

He feels awkward and unsure of himself, unruly limbs and uncoordinated feet. Everyone watches him like he's a ticking time bomb. He walks across the room like frigging Moses and the parting of all of his boggle-eyed friends and pulls himself up onto the counter at Derek's side.

"So what are we yacking about?"

A ripple of awkward silence goes around the room and trust Isaac to be the one to break it. "You almost murdering Derek was a pretty entertaining topic of conversation."

It actually eases some of the tension, except in the corner where Stiles watches Cora fold her arms tightly. He hadn't even considered she might feel guilty for letting him in last night because he's clearly an insensitive dick, but she's pretty unamused right now; Stiles understands the sentiment.

Derek, however, seems willing to let that one slide. "Lydia was talking us through something."

"You're really not gonna like this," Lydia tells Stiles, specifically, an instant shiver going up his spine.

"Hit me, come on."

"It might be a way to stop Karlin."

"So far, so good."

"Yeah, that's the good part. I've read the dream-walking book back to front and it talks about shamans a lot but it talks about them like they're not even of this world. Like they're almost incorporeal, beyond this reality, y'know? Invincible." She pauses and presses her lips together. "Except. Except when they're inside someone else's dream. They leave their earthly bodies behind and travel with their spirits and that's the only instance I can find where they're vulnerable."

"Okay, so destroy the body, then what?" Stiles asks and doesn't think too much about the other part, buries his hands in his armpits because they're starting to shake.

Deaton takes over the explanation. "Then the spirit has no anchor. It would normally move on without a physical body but it doesn't always. Perhaps it'll linger in this world in its anger. If it does then it's merely a ghost and those are easily taken care of."

"Ghosts. Ghosts are—you've taken care of ghosts ?"

Deaton gives him a wry smile. "A few, yes. They're not a quarter as common as those tacky TV shows would have you believe, though."

"The after isn't the hard part," Lydia pipes up. "You need to draw him back in, Stiles. And we need to find wherever he leaves his body when he goes out dancing at night."

" And, we need to protect Scott, Isaac, and the twins before anybody goes out sorcerer hunting," Allison adds.

"For which I need the spell," Deaton directs at Derek.

Derek turns to Stiles and nods across the counter beside him for Stiles to pass him the book. It's heavy in his hands and he touches Derek's fingers on the exchange, a sweet little shiver spreading up through Stiles' arm. It feels almost indecent, like they're having a hugely intimate moment right here in front of everyone.

Derek flicks through the pages lovingly. Stiles watched him hold it earlier like it was something precious, an important family heirloom.

"Here and here," he says, flipping the book to show the room. "She combined two different spells, protection and invisibility. Problem is, she did it on herself using her own blood as a spark and that way it covered anybody blood related to her."

"You were present, yes?"

"Yeah, I helped. Right before she took my memories."

"Then perhaps you could help me with this? Maybe even provide the spark I need. The spell is in your blood, Derek, and this is your pack, your family. The full moon is on Monday. It might all add up to equal just enough."

Derek considers Deaton. "Maybe with Scott and Isaac but I'm not gonna be much help with the twins."

Which roughly translates to what Stiles has known all along, Karlin too. Derek and how much he considers these people, these dumb kids he acts like he needs to keep in line, family. Isaac can't hide the tiny smile he's wearing but he tries.

"I don't think they're going to be a problem," Lydia tells Deaton. "I called Aiden earlier to warn him about Karlin and he said he and Ethan were getting out of Beacon Hills until all this is over."

"Okay, good. Derek, write out the spells together for me. Lydia, I need a list of all the ingredients required. Quickly." Lydia nods curtly, searches in her bag for a pen and notebook and goes straight to Derek's side. "Allison, Stiles. I'm going to need one other thing from both of you."

She goes instantly alert. Stiles less so.

"Your fathers and their respective talents."

"You need my dad to help us track where he leaves his body?" Allison asks and Deaton nods.

"Okay, Chris Argent the monster hunter, that's awesome. So why the hell do we need the sheriff?" Stiles asks.

"Police records, everything you can dig up on Mr. Karlin. People don't become teachers without some kind of paper trail," Deaton says and then adds wryly, "not even at Beacon Hills High School."

"So you don't actually need him out with his gun or anything?"

"No, Stiles, don't worry."

"I think we should test out how well this protection works," Derek says distractedly, leant over the book on the counter with Lydia. "I wanna get near him."

"No way, it's too dangerous," Scott argues but Derek turns and talks right over him.

"You guys already have his scent, I need it. Plus, if we're going to kill him, we're gonna need to know if we can get close to his body without him sensing us."

"Cora's been in the school and he hasn't sensed her."

"We don't know that for sure. She doesn't take his class so he'd have to single her out of the hundreds of people in that building.”

"Okay, so what if you push the limits of the spell and it doesn't work anymore or something?"

"Well, wouldn't it be better if we knew about limits before we went in getting ourselves killed?"

Scott gawps and narrows his eyes. "Caution? You wanna do caution? And prep work? You ?"

"Yes, me. I wanna do caution and prep work," Derek drawls with a dramatic eye roll.

Stiles has a suspicion he knows why: Cora, Scott, and Isaac are direct targets this time, Derek can't throw himself to the wolves—pardon the pun—if it's not just his own life at risk.

"Dude, you've obviously been replaced with a pod person," Scott jokes and Derek shakes his head like he has no idea why he puts up with this crap. "Okay, but I'm going with you, I'm your—"

"If you say I'm your alpha I am going to cut you."

Scott's stifled grin looks about ready to burst off his face. "Nu-uh, true alpha, Derek. I'm your true alpha."

"I hate you."

"I know, my young Padawan."

Derek's eyes go wide, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hair. "Are you kidding me?"

"Children, please!" Stiles interrupts. As much as he'd love for that conversation to carry on because, seriously? Hilarious. But Deaton's arms are folded over his chest, he already looks about 110% done with this entire day and Stiles can totally sympathize. "Scott, you can't go. Karlin wants to, and can , kill you. You can't even go near the school, okay? Not until you’re properly protected."

Scott sighs. "Fine. Me and Isaac can sit on our asses here doing absolutely nothing while everyone else puts themselves and their parents in danger. Again. I love this plan."

"Actually," Deaton chimes in, a sly look in his eyes. "There is something you can do for me, boys. Something Important."

Stiles watches their little wolfy ears prick up.

"I have a Yorkshire Terrier coming in this afternoon for eye surgery. My equipment needs disinfecting."

 

***

It's around 10PM when he gets Derek's text.

Until then he'd been borderline on the verge of a meltdown.

Sleeping Derek-less isn't safe. Staying up again all night again isn't even an option. He'd entertained the notion of just hopping in his Jeep and driving over to Derek's but he's not sure his hands are steady enough to make the trip without ending up in a roadside ditch.

But it becomes a moot point after the text.

Is your dad working?

No, why?

Make sure your window is open around 12.

Stiles is bleary-eyed and sluggish but his heart still kicks up at a quarter-past midnight when he opens his latch, leans against the window ledge and watches Derek jump up to grip the edge of the garage roof. He uses the wall as leverage to jump and catch the ledge and Stiles' mouth goes dry.

He hasn't seen Derek since this morning at the clinic. Stiles spent most of the day procuring ingredients with Allison from places in town that Stiles hadn't even known existed—Allan's Apothecary, really?— and Derek makes one hell of an entrance, all that graceful strength scaling Stiles' house like it's a freaking kids’ climbing frame.

Derek hauls himself over the sill and stands and Stiles feels awkward all of a sudden. Awkward and frustrated and desperate to touch.

"Hey," he whispers.

Derek blinks slowly, guarded expression falling away into something softer and Stiles realizes what's happening. Derek's mask is slipping off, Stiles is watching the transition from defensive alertness to calmer, more at ease. Watching Derek shake off the outside world in a place he feels safe.

Karlin's words play over and over in his head. Stiles is so affected by how much Derek trusts him: guilt, fear, protectiveness, crazy, unbridled joy that makes him wanna skip on the spot. It's giving him a headache.

Finally, Derek says, "Hey." He follows it up with, "The spell's good to go for Monday," and Stiles just doesn't, not right now, he's got to let Karlin back in his head and he can't—

"Can we not talk about any of that? Just tonight?"

Derek smiles, then. He breathes out one long breath and visibly loosens, shoulders dropping. He steps into Stiles' space like a fresh breeze, fingers slipping under Stiles' t-shirt and curling around his sides, ripples and ripples of shivers dancing over Stiles' skin and spreading out, sinking right into his bones.

Derek smells like ozone and pine and leans in to push his face against Stiles' throat, inhaling him right back and when the hell did Stiles get so wolfy anyway?

"This is a thousand, million times better," Stiles murmurs right by Derek's ear and walks them back towards his bed.

"I hope you know I'm not having any kind of sex with you when your dad's just down the hall."

Stiles lands on his ass with a bounce, Derek leaning over him, one knee pressing into the mattress by Stiles' hip and both his hands angling Stiles' face up. Stiles makes a whining noise in protest and Derek shakes his head like he is so super serious.

"I know I can heal but that doesn't mean I enjoy getting shot. It hurts. A lot."

"Fine."

"Quit pouting," Derek smirks, soft and sly with one thumb swiping across Stiles' bottom lip, and Stiles groans low in his throat.

He pulls Derek down by the front of his shirt, one hard clash of their mouths together and then Derek goes pliant and leans Stiles back into the bed, crawling over him and kissing him stupid until Stiles doesn't know where the ceiling is or if it's even still December.

They kiss until Stiles is sloppy and exhausted and his mouth is thoroughly used and then he rolls onto his stomach, arms pushing into the cool place under his pillow and his head turned towards Derek.

Derek lies on his side, one hand pushing up under Stiles' t-shirt and spreading out over the middle of his back.

"Sleep, I'll listen."

To Stiles' breathing, to Stiles' heartbeat, to pre-empt any remote chance of Karlin breaking back into Stiles' nightmares while he gets some rest even though the touching should be enough, that's what Derek means and it's—wow, it's insane, it's completely mind-boggling that Derek is here, doing this.

"What about you?"

Derek huffs a laugh. "No offence but I'm not actually gonna be able to sleep unless you're fully conscious, not until Karlin's dead."

Fair point, he's too tired to argue it.

"That mean that when all this is done, we can sleep at the same time? Maybe in the same place?"

Derek doesn't give him an answer. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

"I don't wanna let him back in," he mumbles softly. It's is a bit of a non sequitur but Stiles feels loosening and—and, yeah, safe. Safe enough to admit something that makes him feel so vulnerable. First time he's even dared think about it since this morning at the clinic and he's saying it out loud because it's Derek .

"You'll be fine, nobody's gonna let anything happen to you."

"Can't protect me inside my head."

He doesn't specify who can't but Derek flinches all the same. "We can kill the son of a bitch, though," he says stubbornly and Stiles sighs a laugh. "Go to sleep."

So he does. Gladly. Derek watching over him the last thing he sees before he shuts his eyes.

***

He tells his dad about his almost-stabbing escapades when he fills him in on Deaton's request.

Then he gets brutally chewed out for waiting two days to say anything, which is understandable but to be fair, he didn't see his dad hardly at all yesterday and there's no good way to say, "Hey, Dad, by the way, last night I attempted a little murder, we cool?" through a bedroom door when his dad's just crawled home from work, exhausted.

He doesn't leave out as many details as he wants to, every tiny fiber of him screaming against the truth and it's sad really, that lying to his dad has become so much like second nature to him that telling the truth feels like pulling out teeth.

Well, okay, not the whole truth.

He leaves some pretty important stuff out. Like the sleepovers with Derek, but in his defense, that's for other reasons entirely. And the touching. He really aggressively leaves that part out.

It's partly because he doesn't want his dad to worry about him any more than he already is and partly because he's not one-hundred percent sure his dad won't arrest Derek for sex with a minor, even if Stiles leaves out the sex part.

They drive to the station after breakfast. Breakfast coming after Derek shaking him awake with a roughly whispered, "Your dad's coming," before de-tangling their bodies, diving for the window, pausing, coming back to lean over Stiles for a lingering, sweet kiss goodbye that Stiles really wasn't expecting and that would've totally knocked him on his ass from swoon if he hadn't already been horizontal, and then making a hasty exit.

So Stiles spends the first hour of his morning with a sappy smile on his face and a dumb, glazed look in his eyes, if the bathroom mirror is any judge. It doesn't last, though. By the time they set off for the station, Stiles feels like he's had no sleep whatsoever. Slightly sick, weird bugging-out vision, his limbs stiff and sore.

On the other hand, it's kind of cool being here with his dad: team Stilinski working on a supernatural case together. They act way sneakier than they need to because Stiles has always loved this secret agent crap and he gets that from his dad; the sheriff's clearly having a ball right now.

They're both stifling grins after a few well-placed—if a little over-exuberant—lies to the front desk—the Stilinskis’ neighbor is now a potential neighborhood kitty thief and they desperately need to look into any missing cat reports from his previous address—and safely shut in his dad's office.

"His first name is Gregory," his dad tells him from behind the computer screen, Stiles hovering around the door in case someone manages to sneak up on them with the good-natured intention to help them out with their cat-burglar.

Everybody loves cats, it was a stupid story to go with in hindsight.

"Not Charles?"

"Nope. Gregory Karlin, born in South Tuscon, Arizona. Age: thirty-seven. I'm guessing this is all fake since he's pretty much immortal?"

"He probably brain-violated some poor cop into doctoring his records.” Stiles shudders. “Or maybe he went all Invasion of the Bodysnatchers on some poor guy."

"His listed address is Wayburn Terrace, that's a good twenty-minute car ride from the school."

"I doubt he's gonna leave himself vulnerable at his home, that's way too obvious," Stiles surmises.

"Wait a sec, he has two employment addresses here. Did you know he only teaches chemistry part time?"

"No, what's his other job?"

"Research assistant," his dad says, looking up at him with a weight in his eyes. "At the Beacon Hills chemical factory."

Stiles' stomach bottoms out. "The place Meredith worked. The place her body was found."

"Yup. That company's where your school batch-purchases all its chemicals."

Stiles rubs his hands over his face. "That's how he knew she was as shifter. He'd probably been watching her at work, probably didn't even plan it, she just fell into his lap like a frigging offering from the Gods or whatever."

"Makes you wonder just how many omegas there actually are out there, huh?"

It does, actually. But it's an issue for another day.

"So we've got two locations to check out, that's something. Anything else?"

"His registered car and number plate. Maybe you can use it to track him to wherever he goes."

"Worth a shot."

The printer whirs to life in the corner.

"I'll make a few copies, one for Deaton and whoever else you wanna give them to. Derek maybe?"

Stiles almost gets whiplash he turns to look at his dad so fast. "What. Why? Why would you think I'd wanna give anything to Derek?"

Smooth, Stilinski, real smooth.

"Because he has the most experience tracking things?" his dad asks slowly, somewhat alarmed by Stiles' vehemence.

"Actually, Chris Argent has the most experience tracking things and he's gonna help us so I don't actually need to give anything to Derek, thanks, thank you very much," Stiles says so force-casually he sounds fucking high and he wants to wince and then punch himself in the face.

"Okay, son. That's fine."

He sounds placating and a little pitying. For fuck's sake, his dad—like Scott did—thinks he has some pathetic, unrequited crush on Derek Hale and he'd be offended if he wasn't so surprised himself that Derek actually wanted to bone him. Even now he doesn't really believe it.

"I feel better knowing about Chris, actually," his dad says with a dry and deprecating laugh. "I know you've got inhumanly strong, super-fast werewolves out there with you but somehow I've still got way more faith in cold, hard bullets, myself."

"You're such a cop," Stiles scoffs.

"That's what your mother always used to say."

Stiles smiles, he remembers. "Yeah, I know."

"I think she'd get a kick out of all this, y'know. I mean, not our son putting himself in the firing line every week but the other stuff. The supernatural stuff.”

"I think so too. You remember how she used to let me stay up and watch Tales from the Crypt and Twilight Zone whenever you worked the night shift?"

His dad laughs and stands, snatches the prints and gets ready for them to leave. "Oh yeah. I used to tell her she was warping your poor little fragile brain." He slants his eyes across at Stiles. "And I was right."

"Ha ha," Stiles deadpans. "Maybe, but if you think about it, she actually prepared me. I was practically raised for this stuff."

"I doubt she woulda looked at it quite so optimistically but uh, good for you, Stiles."

It's the longest conversation they've had about Stiles' mom in, like, ever. The drive to Deaton's involves his dad telling him a story about how, newly married, she once bought an old stained glass lamp at a market because the man selling it had told her it was haunted.

They're heading across the clinic's parking lot with the printings folded in the sheriff's jacket pocket when he gets to the part where he accidentally tripped over the wiring and sent the thing toppling into a conveniently placed bucket of mop water.

"Damn thing wasn't even haunted," he says like it actually offends him and Stiles cracks up laughing. "She paid fifty bucks for a butt-ugly, not-haunted lamp."

Deaton shakes his dad's hand inside. Scott welcomes him with a big, puppy grin and a, "Hey, Mr. Stilinski," and Isaac looks wary but it's par for the course, his mistrust of law enforcement; authority figures in general, actually.

"Are you guys getting cabin fever, yet?" Stiles asks them while Deaton and his dad talk and Scott looks like he's about to vibrate out of his skin where he's sat on one of the counters.

"God, yes! I swear the quicker the full moon rolls around the better and it's not often I say that."

"Deaton's got all his herbs and powders and crap but his wi-fi is sketchy as hell," Isaac adds and yeah, Stiles thinks that alone would be enough to send him crazy. "And he's had us taking care of Fluffy."

"Who's fluffy?"

Scott answers dryly. "Fluffy is Mrs. Macmannus' two-hundred-pound Great Dane who had a hip replacement and likes to lean on people." He adds with amusement, "Mainly Isaac."

"Great Danes aren't even fluffy," Isaac mutters bitterly.

"No naked pillow fights or making cookie dough and staying up all night braiding each other's hair then?" Stiles asks.

"No, it sucks," Scott exclaims theatrically.

"Plus, I'm not here so that makes it worse, right?"

"No, you're too busy doing whatever it is you do that makes you stink so much like Derek," Isaac chimes in, little smirk around his mouth.

"Naked pillow fights, obviously."

Isaac laughs and Scott hits both of them with the backs of his hands. "Dude, really? I can already smell it, I didn't need the visual."

"Well if you guys could totally not rile Derek up with this, that would be awesome. I'm already worried he's gonna snap and freak the hell out at some point, I don't need you two jokers being the catalyst for his imminent emotional meltdown."

It's unsurprising but still pretty dis-heartening that they both nod solemnly in agreement at that.

Wonderful. He doesn't know if it's a statement on Stiles himself or on Derek's blatant issues with all forms of human-resembling relationships. He hands Scott a copy of Karlin's information because he hasn't got the energy to ask.

There's a steady ache throbbing behind his eyes. His skin feels sensitive all over like he's got the flu. Deaton's probably got some herb of a rhino's foreskin that relieves flu symptoms around here somewhere, at least. Or maybe rhinos don't have foreskin, unfortunately Stiles doesn't carry that knowledge.

He was right, both of them were, it's getting worse. The more they feed it, the stronger it gets. Stiles feels it swell and surge, he desperately wants to indulge it; it begs for gratification and he's afraid of it, afraid for it, what he and Derek might become when Karlin's dead and the connection is dissolved. It's so much a part of him now, it keeps Derek and him close, keeps them needing each other—

He realizes the room's gone completely silent, all eyes on Stiles. He didn't even realize his dad and Deaton were stood right in front of him.

"What?" he asks blankly and Scott slants his eyes over to the sheriff, then to Deaton and they're freaking him out. "Seriously, what?"

"I don't know if rhinos have foreskins, dude, why'd you ask?" Scott tells him, baffled.

"Oh." Yeah, he really doesn't remember saying that out loud. "I was just. Umm. Curious. You know me."

"We were talking about the security at the chemical factory," his dad says, looking mildly concerned. "Cops have been trying to figure out how there was no footage of Meredith being attacked from the CCTV in the parking lot for weeks now, but it makes sense if we presume that Karlin has access to the security systems."

"Then, umm. Yeah. He probably did that," Stiles supplies unhelpfully.

His dad puts a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay? I can take you home if you're not."

"I'm fine, just tired, I'm used to it." But that just deepens his dad's frown, turns it sad and Stiles can feel the looming press of panic against all his better senses.

"I'm gonna get some fresh air," he says and cuts Scott off before he can offer his company. "I'm fine, dude, seriously. Headache, y'know? Big things goin' on up in there. I just need some air, that's all. I'll scream or whimper or stamp my feet or something if there's a problem."

He walks away from them and falls out of the front doors before anyone can try argue with him.

It's cold and crisp, breeze sharp enough to confuse his nerves a little, smother some of his impulses. Stiles thumbs his phone in his pocket but doesn't get it out. It's gonna be fine, this is just a side effect and it won't be forever. Karlin will get what he deserves for doing this to them and Scott and Isaac can stop living like fugitives and Stiles can stop feeling like there's a disease running through his veins and Derek—

It'll be over and Derek will make his decision, keep on doing what they're doing or end it.

Fuck it.

What are you doing right this second?

Picking up mountain ash with Lydia. Why?

He should have seen it coming, Derek and Lydia making such a great team. They've got a lot in common: attractive, stubborn, crazy knowledgeable, a pain in the ass to love. Stiles is just predictable in his affections, really.

How about when you're done with that?

You didn't answer why.

Even over texts, Derek manages to be droll and purposefully infuriating.

You know why.

Either you need my help or you want something. Emphasis on the something.

You know me so well. It's actually the first one but I'm obviously not opposed to the something.

And flirty, apparently. Flirting over texts. Derek Hale. He's turning out like one long surprise birthday present wound in miles of wrapping paper, Stiles keeps discovering all these little details and quirks and traits the more he unwraps.

I'll be done in a couple of hours. Come over.

I'll be there.

Sounds like they're planning a booty call.

Oh, God, is that what this is? Did Stiles just hit Derek up for a booty call? He's pretty sure booty calls don't stay awake most of the night watching over each other for signs of danger, though. Then again, Derek's never exactly done things like a normal dude.

Stiles walks a couple rounds of the parking lot to clear his head. He can't go back inside ranting about rhinos’ dicks again, his dad'll lock him down in the house with armed guards at his bedroom door.

By the time he does, though, he feels weak and shaky. Drained. Like something's syphoning energy out of him. He sprawls in a hard plastic chair, head tipped back against the wall behind him, while Scott kicks him every five minutes to make sure he's still awake.

Deaton catches his attention, some indeterminable length of time later. “Stiles, can I talk to you a minute?”

He means in private and takes Stiles into the back room while his dad watches, visibly itching to follow.

“When we track him down, you know what the next step is.”

“Yeah, I didn't forget,” Stiles says roughly.

“I'd like you to start reading up on it. Keeping Karlin inside your head while the others deal with him isn't going to be easy but there's something more difficult, something I'm concerned about,” Deaton says carefully. “Karlin is a skilful shaman and a master manipulator. He has a certain—power over you.”

Stiles swallows to wet his dry throat. “And what does that mean exactly?”

“Being inside your head has given him access to your weaknesses.”

“Yeah, I'm aware of that, thanks,” he snaps, temper flaring, no reason other than Deaton is hitting him where it hurts.

“Keeping him in your head is a matter of holding onto him tightly, even as he dies. I won't lie, Stiles, it's going to hurt, but I have faith that you can do it. Letting go of him, however.” Deaton pauses, uncertain. “He'll cling on with every bit of strength he possesses.”

That's—bad. Stiles has never, once, been able to wake up from his nightmares on his own before. He has no idea how to push out an all-powerful sorcerer with such a terrible hold over him.

“So how do I shake him off?”

“Having an anchor would help,” Deaton offers. “Something to pull you back, to focus on so you don't lose yourself.”

“Lose—myself,” he parrots back vaguely. “Lose myself? As in, goodbye Stiles, thanks for playing?” His head swims, he feels panic press in from all sides, compressing him, muffling his hearing. “Look, I don't really get how this whole anchor thing works, okay? I'm not a werewolf, I'm not some supernatural entity from the bestiary. People seem to constantly and consistently forget those small facts!”

Deaton sighs and levels a glare. He picks up the big, leather-bound book, The Mastery of Dream Walking, and shoves it into Stiles' arms.

“Start with what's important to you. And read the damn book.”

***

"Hey."

And that's all Derek gets to say before Stiles buckles to his knees in the doorway.

He's swept with a sudden sensation of vertigo, like standing up way too fast. He makes a noise like a strangled cat, an explosion of pain in his head like a sonic boom, fuck, it hurts so bad he can't stand it.

Derek's crouching on the floor with him when he opens his eyes, vision dark and spotty but he can see Derek like the clearest star in a cloudy sky. First thing he notices is how pale Derek is, how green his eyes look against reddened rims.

"Stiles, can you hear me?" He nods and feels Derek pull one of his arms over broad, broad shoulders. Nice shoulders. Stiles really likes those shoulders, they seem like a good focal point. "Get up, come on."

The floor lurches under him. Derek's a steady, solid support at his side, pulling him into the room and lowering him down onto the sofa. He kneels between Stiles' splayed legs and gets his hands on Stiles' skin, one curled around his waist, one cupping his neck, taking Stiles' sagging weight and tipping their foreheads together.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," Stiles breathes, overwhelmed, Derek's hands on him like an opiate, sensations of swirling light and color. "Only my dignity."

"Any reason you're passing out, then?"

It sounds casual, it would to anyone else, but it's not. There's a crease between Derek's eyebrows, his mouth is pinched. In his relief-haze, Stiles lifts a hand, slow and heavy, and strokes his knuckles against Derek's cheek. He watches Derek shiver and lose some of the tension across his back.

"Falling for you," Stiles says, slow and thick, then laughs because that's the lamest thing he's ever said.

Derek rolls his eyes and leans into Stiles' touch, drags his lips across Stiles' knuckles like he can't help himself and it's a magnificent thing, to watch Derek helplessly following his own impulses like this. Stiles wishes he knew how much of it is desperate relief and how much is just because Derek wants to.

"I'm just tired, m'always tired."

Stiles spreads a hand over Derek's jaw and closes his eyes and just feels. That's all he wants, fill up on happy juice and forget about Karlin and how good he is at exploiting people's weak spots. Forget about lose yourself and how he already feels at least half handed over to other people.

But Derek murmurs, “Stiles, come on," and yeah, Derek can hear his heart, it's not an easy thing to forget.

"It's getting pretty unbearable," he admits. "Please tell me you think so too. I felt a lot better when this was happening to both of us, dude, no offence."

Derek's eyes fall to somewhere around Stiles' lap, he looks exhausted . “Feels like getting hit by a speeding truck.”

"So how come I'm the only one sending the desperate texts, huh?" Stiles asks a little hysterically, whacking Derek on the shoulder.

"Because your pain threshold is way lower than mine," Derek tells him and then adds a little dryly, "No offence."

"Well, it's not exactly a secret that I don't hold up well under torture."

"Nobody holds up well under torture." Derek pulls away but only to throw himself down onto the sofa. He curls a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and pulls. "C'mere."

Stiles sighs like he's annoyed at the manhandling, but he isn't, it's really for propriety's sake more than anything else. Recapture some of that bygone-days magic when they used to irritate the hell out of each other and kinda, sorta, maybe wanted each other to die. He settles across the sofa, head pillowed in Derek's lap while Derek cards fingers through his hair.

"It's scary how much you know about that subject," Stiles drawls, very quickly no more solid than a puddle of syrup on the cushions, ridiculously content and comfortable because holy shit , Derek's hands in his hair and he feels like an oversized cat.

He crooks the arm closest to Derek and presses the backs of his fingers up Derek's shirt, against the skin of his stomach, muscles jumping at the touch. Derek blows out a shaky sigh and tips his head back against the sofa back and Stiles watches his throat move when he talks, his own feeling thick.

"Little more experience on the painful end of it."

"You're way too calm about stuff like that."

"No point getting upset about it," Derek says simply, lightly, even. "Wouldn't help."

It makes Stiles inexplicably frustrated. It just—it doesn't seem fair. You don't get to be so blasé about pain and mortal peril in your mere twenties. And that's basically gonna be Stiles' future, isn't it? He's looking up into his own reflection six years from now.

"No, you'd rather bottle it all up and let it out in short, violent bursts."

"You don't get it."

"That you're strong, silent and threatening? Yeah, I get it."

"You're so obnoxious sometimes, did you know that?"

Stiles pokes his fingers into Derek's ribs and grins up at him lazily when he peers down with one eye cracked open. "Come on, of course I know that. I'm impressively self-aware for my age."

"And yet you possess absolutely no self-preservation instincts, how about that," Derek remarks sarcastically.

"I'll have you know, I've left many a man behind to save my own ass."

"Never left me behind." Stiles—does not have an answer for that. That's pretty mortifying. Derek looks smug as fuck, too, all smirky raised eyebrows, which makes it so much worse. "You're all talk, Stilinski. You just think everyone's too distracted to notice."

"Oh and you notice, do you? Oh, King of deciphering subtle human behaviors."

"Wolf, remember? Extra senses? Highly observant apex predator?"

Stiles' skin prickles and he can't tell whether he's uncomfortable or—flattered or thrilled or something. He's spent so long watching, deciphering, judging Derek that he'd never really considered that Derek might be taking a vested interest right back beyond occasionally helpful if extremely annoying human. Not until Karlin forced them together like this, anyway.

Plus, Derek's right, people rarely pay attention to Stiles because he's good at deflecting attention. Comes with the territory of being a trouble maker with a cop dad. Of losing a parent and being asked, constantly, if he's fucking okay.

"And I thought I was self-aware."

Derek doesn't reply. Just goes back to lounging and dragging his fingers through Stiles' hair, a slow, pleasant unravelling of tension passing between them.

"It's still really not cool, though."

Derek sighs. "You're gonna tell me what isn't cool whether I ask or not, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"What isn't cool?"

Stiles steels himself to get unceremoniously dumped on the floor and maybe even kicked out and it's just another occasion of Derek being right about him, about Stiles' non-existent self-preservation instincts. Except what Derek doesn't seem to understand is that Stiles mostly forgets about all of those instincts around him .

"The crap that happened to you."

Derek's hand freezes against his scalp but there's no claws which is a good sign. He can feel Derek's breath stutter where he's touching Derek's stomach. Stiles watches his throat dip when he swallows and braces for the emotional wound of Derek telling him it's absolutely none of Stiles' business or to back the fuck off or any number of things Stiles really doesn't wanna hear.

But Derek just says, "Do you ever stop talking?" and renews his petting and breathes like normal and yeah, woah, Stiles is dizzy because Derek just—Derek just let Stiles touch a raw nerve and he didn't so much as growl.

He tries to get his heart under control, there's no way Derek can't hear it going mad under Stiles' ribs, and goes for more sarcasm, his first, middle, and last defense. It's for Derek's sake, as much as his own right now.

"Only on days that don't end in a Y."

Derek's sneaky other hand comes out of nowhere to cover Stiles' mouth and he instantly licks it because that's what he used to do to Scott when they were kids. Except Scott used to remove the offending appendage and call him gross and Derek just scoffs derisively like Stiles is disappointing.

"I grew up with sisters, a million cousins and Peter , you'll have to do better than that." And if Derek doesn't just sound so damn pleased with himself. So Stiles bites him, hard. And it works, shockingly. "Wha—"

He looks down at Stiles completely offended and Stiles grips his hand before he can pull it all the way off. He laughs and slides their fingers together very fast, like he thinks Derek won't notice if he's super efficient about it and doesn't make a huge fuss.

Derek doesn't pull away. Just grumbles like the grump he is and tells Stiles he needs to be put down and their linked hands rest heavy over Stiles' lurching, looping stomach. It's crazy, they've had sex, Stiles has watched Derek's lips drag up and down his cock, and somehow this still feels intimate as hell.

"What was Peter like as a kid, anyway?" he asks, anything to distract Derek from thinking too much about the hands .

"A twisted, manipulative, attention-seeking sociopath."

"Wow, I can't imagine that," Stiles deadpans and Derek smirks.

"To his credit, he never openly murdered anybody back then."

"Well that's something. He told me and Cora he was your best friend and closest confidant. Those exact words."

"He would put it like that."

"No offence but I think being over-dramatic kinda runs in your family."

Derek flicks his ear and goes on. "But yeah, we were close. You couldn't not be close in our family. They were so many of us and we were pack."

"That sounds simultaneously cool and also irritating. I mean, it's just me and my dad in the house and sometimes I feel like I can't breathe."

"Oh, it was plenty irritating. But then, when it's all there, the people you love, you take it for granted. Then suddenly, they're not—" Derek pauses. "Which I guess you'd know all about."

"General consensus is that it sucks, yeah."

He's so surprised when Derek laughs. Not a scoff or a smirk or a little exhale. No, a proper peal of genuine laughter. It's gotta be coming up to a handful of times Stiles has heard it now and it never fails to knock the sense out of him.

"God, I love it when you do that," he says stupidly, stupid brain, stupid mouth, and Derek's smile abruptly vanishes and the guy looks like he'd like to bolt straight for the door. Stiles is just. He needs his vocal chords removing before he throws around the L word anymore.

"But I love a lot of things."

No, too late, here he goes.

"I love donuts, y'know, the ones with the jelly in the middle? And I love that store at the mall that sells the stupid gadgets. You know the one? There's a singing robot Elvis in the window and I've always wanted a remote control helicopter but they're so damn expensive and my dad thinks I'll accidentally commit murder by driving one into a small child—"

"Stiles," Derek interrupts softly, sadly, actually. "You sound like you're having a cardiac arrest, would you calm down? I'm not gonna bite your head off."

Oh, that is so not what Stiles is afraid of.

Derek biting his head off isn't actually a real possibility. Derek never being able to look him in the eye again, Derek having every reason to avoid him when all this is over, Derek not being comfortable in his company anymore—those are all possibilities. Dreadful, awful, end-of-the-freaking-world level of bad possibilities.

So he calms the fuck down.

"Despite what you like to believe, you actually scare very few people nowadays. Lost your touch, buddy."

"I don't like to believe that."

Stiles scoffs. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. I'd hate for you to be scared of me."

Oh.

"Oh. Well. I'm not. Not even a little bit. So, y'know. It's okay."

He wants to laugh because it's Derek that's made it awkward this time, not Stiles, and that has got to be some kind of world record achievement. If he slides his thumb down a little where their hands are linked, Stiles can feel Derek's pulse, perfectly steady but quickening and he wants so bad to know what it means.

"I know what you're doing," Derek says flatly and Stiles jumps like a startled rabbit, caught out.

"Goddamn, is there anything you don't know? Fuck, can you tell what I had for breakfast? Is it gonna snow later? Are we all gonna be dead by the end of this week?"

"No, bacon, probably, and I hope not." Stiles stares up at him, mouth gaping open and his eyes narrowed. Derek smirks. "And right now you're thinking that you'd like to kiss me."

Stiles is—delighted isn't even the word. Delighted shock.

Jokey, laughing, flirty Derek. He just can't believe he couldn't see the potential all along. Stiles, who credits himself on being an exceptional judge of character and Derek was the one person he wrote off immediately, blinders firmly in place even after Derek said run and Stiles spent two hours holding him up in a pool without even examining why the hell he didn't just do what Derek told him to do.

Remarkably self-aware, yup.

He stifles a stupid grin and turns his head away a little. "You're awfully cocky, y'know."

"It's not cocky when you're right."

"No, that's just smug and insufferable." Derek jerks his knee and Stiles sits up and grumbles. "You're such an ass."

"And here I was about to ask if you wanted some dinner," Derek drawls and stands up, stretching out, his back cracking.

"Woah, woah, I take that back, you're not an ass, you are my favorite person in the whole world, you're like a modern day Jesus."

Derek peers down at him, unimpressed, and Stiles thinks fast and hooks two fingers in the belt loops of Derek's jeans. He tugs and Derek staggers forward onto his knees on the sofa, straddling Stiles' thighs with his hands against the back cushions. Stiles grins up at him, probably looks so dumb right now.

He asks, "Too much?" and Derek levels a glare.

"Definitely too much."

And then he swoops down for a kiss that Stiles opens straight up into, slow and soft and wet, God, he loves kissing Derek so much—

There's a heart-stopping crash against the door that nearly earns them both chipped teeth and Derek jerks back, his eyes going vivid blue for a split-second, fascinating this close, before he blows out a sigh.

"Cora."

A laugh tears up Stiles' throat and he hits Derek's stomach with the back of his hand. “You didn't even hear her coming, damn I'm good.”

Derek palms Stiles' head and shoves him away. “Shut up.”

"Oh my God,” Cora's voice echoes through the door. “Yes it's Cora and I'm not coming in until you promise me that you're both wearing pants."

Derek shuts his eyes like he's praying for strength. He throws himself down on the sofa next to Stiles and calls out, "Pants are on. Pants have been on the whole time."

She rolls the door open and Stiles can see from her face she isn't the least bit convinced. She gives Stiles a calculating look before throwing her bag down vaguely into a corner and folding her arms across her chest, a regular mini Derek.

Thankfully, the only thing she asks is exactly what Stiles is wondering.

"So what are we having for dinner?"

***

Chapter Text

It goes like this:

"I just need to get close enough to him to get his scent, that's all."

"Nu-uh, you said—"

"That doesn't mean—"

"You said ! You said you wanted to test out the spell but you're gonna go parading yourself around looking for a fight, aren't you?"

"Stiles—"

"Like usual, might I add?"

"Stiles."

"And then what? You go too far, he sees you, he chases you into the woods and fucking kills you, Derek, okay? Because that's what he's gonna do."

"Are you done?"

Stiles silently fumes a bit more, paces across Derek's loft because the repetitive motion is calming. Eventually he says, "Not really but you can talk now."

"I'm not gonna do anything stupid. I'm gonna wait in the parking lot when he's going for his car, I'm gonna get his scent, and I'm gonna see if he shows any signs of being able to sense me. Okay?"

Stiles pinches his bottom lip. His legs feel jerky. He both appreciates and hates how calm Derek can be in these situations. "I don't trust you."

Derek's eyes go a fraction wider. It's subtle and well hidden, well covered, but Stiles feels the blow like a physical thing.

Shit.

"Shit, shit, no. No. That's not what I meant. Goddammit." Stiles pulls his twitchy hands through his hair. "I trust you , okay? I trust you with my life, I trust you with Scott's life. I don't trust you with your own. I don't trust you not to be completely reckless with yourself. And I have precedence for this!" he yells, pointing at Derek a little hysterically. "This is not me being irrational! As much as I sound kind of irrational right now."

Derek's wounded expression softens into something sweet and fond, exasperated, for the smallest split-second and then he just looks very annoyed. Wonderful.

"Well you're gonna have to trust me, because there's no other way I'm gonna be able to help track him if I can't get near him. You want your friends up against this thing, trapped in some lair, when we don't know how solid this spell even is?"

So Stiles finally concedes it, with several stipulations.

It's how he comes to be 'casually' leaning—as casual as Stiles has been able to do anything that is—against the top of Derek's Camaro in a far corner of the school parking lot, waiting for Karlin to come through the front doors. Under a swollen, overcast sky—Derek's right, it probably is gonna snow tonight—and watching streams of his breath curl white from between his lips.

Derek's waiting somewhere around the building with Allison and Lydia. Allison and her tiny, collapsible crossbow and Lydia and her powerful lungs.

Team Human for the win.

That's actually what Lydia texts him saying while he's waiting.

He checks the time and then messages her back: what does the grumpy one have to say about that?

Couple minutes later he gets his reply.

He said shut up Stiles. Think he loves you really though.

He really wishes she hadn't said that. Whatever. Bigger fish.

Stiles taps his fingers against the Camaro roof, breathes a steady in and out and keeps an eye out for crazy hair and patterned glasses. It's exhilarating, channeling all his impotence and frustration into something productive like this, something hands-on. Taking control back from Karlin little by little. Reclaiming some of what's been taken from him. He's high enough on adrenaline that the incessant, deranging tug of Derek is dimmed to a faint itch he can mostly ignore.

Five minutes pass until Stiles is getting way too edgy for all this waiting around when he finally sees Karlin making an exit from the school.

He freezes like a deer caught in headlights for an agonizing second, chest constricting, but his higher functions kick in and he ducks down behind the Camaro with his thumb over the send button of a pre-written text.

He's here.

Stiles watches where he's crouched, good view through both the car windows. Karlin walks slowly, briefcase in one hand and his head turned down, attention mostly buried in his phone. That's when Derek falls casually into step with him. Couple of feet between them and Derek with his jacket zipped right up, the bottom of his face buried in his collar and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Karlin doesn't even flinch.

They branch off, Derek jogging the length of the parking lot quickly and Stiles realizes he's been holding his breath. He stands and goes dizzy with both a severe lack of oxygen and a punch of actual elation that makes him throw himself, bodily, onto Derek, hands on his shoulders and jumping up like an excitable dog, Derek half catching him on his way down.

"Do you think people in the afterlife receive thank you cards? Because I totally owe your mother one, the woman is a magical genius, " Stiles babbles but Derek shushes him, eyes still fixed on Karlin.

Almost unconsciously, he backs Stiles against the car door, hands on his hips, and turns his face into Stiles' jaw. "He's about to make a phone call. I'm listening." It's probably not necessary for them to be this close or for Derek's words to be smeared right into Stiles' skin, but Derek's focused intently and clearly moving on some instinct and that's fine with Stiles.

He unzips Derek's jacket and pushes his fingers against Derek's back.

“What's he talking about?”

“Work. He can't go somewhere because he's working until—“ Derek pauses. “Until nine. Must be the factory.”

“Nothing sorcery-ish then?”

“That's not even a word,” Derek points out vaguely. “Shush.”

"Umm, Stiles?"

Stiles jumps but doesn't quite let go, just wriggles out from against the car as much as Derek's weight pressing forward will allow him . Stiles turns into the full glare of Danny's wary face, one arm still trapped around Derek's waist.

"Oh. Hey, Danny."

Derek doesn't even acknowledge him and nope, that's not weird or anti-social or excessively PDA looking at all. Not at all.

Danny cocks his head, eyes on Derek. "Umm. It's—Miguel, right?"

Stiles stares at him for like five whole seconds before it hits him. A jolt of actual hysteria, a bizarre combination of horror and hilarity. Only this could happen to them right now. Staking out a serial-killing, super-powered, shapeshifting sorcerer with his most desired victim within murdering range. Only them . He is absolutely sure at this point that the universe is Stiles' and Derek's playground bully.

He grits his teeth in a forced smile. "Yeah, you remembered. That's. Yeah. Well done, you. Way to go, Danny."

Never mind that Danny never saw Derek on the news or anything. Apparently the guy had more important things going on while everyone else was getting brutally murdered. Stiles tries to detangle from Derek a little, just a little, anything, anything to make this less awkward. Except Derek just stays right where he is and actually swats him, which is apparently the sign for stop it, I'm doing important eavesdropping here so Stiles gives up and sighs, resigned to his lot in life.

"We're. Umm. A really close family."

Danny's eyes go even wider. "Right. Well. I just needed to pass on a message."

"Yeah, what is it?" Stiles asks impatiently, so ready for this moment to be over.

"You get one more chance and you should really think about taking this one because he won't offer again."

"I get—what?"

"That's all he said, that you get one more chance and you should take it because it's the last one he's gonna offer."

Danny's voice, it's gone slurred and strange. Cold leeches through Stiles, even Derek's hands on his skin aren't enough to block it out. Derek turns his head sharply, tension pulling his spine perfectly straight.

"Wh-who, Danny, who said that?"

Danny looks at him blankly. "Mr. Karlin. He said you'd know what it meant."

"Yeah," Stiles breathes. "Yeah, umm. Thanks, Danny."

Danny's already turning away when he says, "No problem,” and Stiles wants to call after him, ask him if he's okay, but he can't, he's frozen and the sharp, pin-prick edges of panic are pushing into him, shattering all the way down.

"Derek—"

"I know."

Stiles trembles, feels violated all over again, sick and crawling with wrongwrong wrong . Derek looks around, presumably for Karlin, presumably because Karlin disappeared the very second Derek took his eyes off him, but he wraps Stiles up tight, one hand spreading protectively against the back of Stiles' head and pulling him close.

He can’t get a solid grip on Derek's back. His hands curl weakly in Derek's shirt. These are things he can feel, peripherally, swimming on the surface of crashing anxiety. Small boats tossed about by violent waves. He can't grasp any sense, any meaning, it slips away like water through his fingers.

Big things, people dying, protection spells, icy rituals. Small things, Derek's bed, Scott's smile, Lydia's little vodka flask. He can't remember how a single one of those things is supposed to make him feel because he's lost in a sea of fear intense enough to drown him.

The black hole around his heart sucks up his final breaths and he falls and falls—

***

A cold hand creeping around his throat.

Holding him still.

Black, black eyes.

No, he can't do this, not again.

"Stiles, I've missed you."

"You can go to hell, Karlin, you son of a bitch. You can't make me do shit."

"It's funny, you know. I'm right here, not even two hundred feet away, and your friends are too busy fussing over you to realize that I'm in your head."

"Well, you have fun entertaining yourself, buddy."

"I presume Derek's with them? It's a strange thing, Talia's protections. He's not invisible and yet I can't see him. I can't focus on him with any of my senses. It's like seeing something out of the corner of your eye and when you look, it's simply gone."

"That's real interesting—"

"I'm only telling you this because I'm assuming you're trying to replicate the effect on your little mutant brood, am I correct?"

Stiles says nothing.

"Thought so. I just thought you might like to know how it worked, considering how very curious you are."

"Well, that's awfully kind of you."

"Oh, I can be very kind, Stiles. Especially to those who've earned it."

He tries not to look into the face of the creature holding him and asks, "So these guys, then? What kindness did you see fit to dispense there?"

Karlin smiles. A sickly, horrible thing.

"Call them incentive."

"Incentive for what?"

"I don't murder humans, Stiles. They are valued. They have the capacity to be vessels for great power. You, in particular, caught my attention."

"I'm honored, really."

"You should be. You're pretty special. A powerful human, torn apart by the ancient magic of memories and the stench of that wolf all over you from the minute you stepped into my lab. You were perfect. I couldn't have asked for a more precious gift. A more obvious sign that my actions are just."

"You're starting to sound more like a stalker-with-a-crush than an evil genius. And for your info, I hadn't seen Derek in months at that point."

Karlin shrugs.

"Of little note, he'd left his mark. I didn't think I'd ever find him again. Any of them. I came here hoping, that sister of his at the high school even, but nothing, no sign of them. Nothing, until I saw you. Can you envision what that's like? My life's greatest regret and now I have one final chance to rectify it."

"No, you don't, 'cause you couldn't make me do it the first time and I gotta tell you, the element of surprise is kinda lost."

"There are many ways to make a man do another man's bidding, Stiles."

"So, what? That where your incentive comes in? Do what you want or your ugly heavies'll take care of me? They kill so you don't have to? So you can keep up your twisted bullshit illusion that you're not really a murderer?"

The fingers around his throat tighten. He looks, a quick glance. The thing looks like it’s made of wax, expressionless, a mindless zombie staring into Stiles' face, spit glistening in its gums, its lipless mouth—

He jerks away desperately, scrabbles at the wall at his back.

Karlin's voice is calm, kind, almost hurt.

"You mistake my meaning, Stiles. These are not my soldiers. They don't kill."

Karlin's hand strokes across the thing's hairless head.

"I told you, humans are valued. These are my vessels, removed of their souls and brimming with magical energy. My children. Well, the disobedient ones, anyway. They fight me and lose themselves in the battle."

Stiles’ throat sticks shut.

He can't process what Karlin's telling him. He shakes violently, air frozen cold and trapped in his lungs, steel terror like a sword through his gut.

"See? Incentive."

"No, you can't—"

Karlin pulls his creature, his fucking human, his tortured, soulless, dead-eyed sub-person, away gently and replaces the cold hand on Stiles' throat with a warmer one, fingers on Stiles' face and jaw, loving and so wrong.

"Don't worry, I hope it won't come to that."

Stiles shakes his head. He's too weak to speak.

"You'll help me, in the end. I can almost guarantee it.”

***

Deaton's strained voice is the first thing Stiles hears.

"—we can't include him in the spell. Karlin needs to be able to see Stiles, if he can't the whole plan falls apart."

"I don't care, look at what he's doing to him!"

Stiles' head throbs.

"Derek, calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down like I'm being unreasonable, we can make another plan."

"Not fast enough; we can't risk Karlin disappearing."

"But we can risk Stiles' life, right?"

"You know that's not what I'm saying, stop twisting my words."

The mattress he's laid on dips somewhere by his knees. He inhales the smell of his own room. Home, then, his own bed. It's lurching about under him like a toy boat on water. He feels sea sick.

“I've warded the house the best I can, Derek. It's strong enough to give even Karlin pause if he tries to enter these walls.”

“Pause.”

“Long enough for us to get here if we have to. He's never directly injured a human before, Derek. Killers rarely change their methods.”

There's a silence that Derek eventually breaks, voice resigned. "When's his dad home?"

"Late. But Lydia and Allison are going to stay. I need you to come with me now, Derek. We have a lot of preparation to do. I'll be downstairs when you're ready."

Stiles fights his headache and drags his eyes open at the sound of the bedroom door closing. Derek, sat hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He's jacket-less and Stiles wonders how long they've been here.

"How long was I out?" he asks hoarsely.

When Derek speaks, it's muffled in his palms. "About an hour."

"How did I get home?"

He asks because he doesn't wanna imagine himself wandering around town puppet-style while Karlin pulled the strings.

"We brought you. Deaton came straight from a house call."

"What'd I miss?"

Derek rounds on him and Stiles reels, everything catching up, limbs, breath, brain functions. Derek looking at him, hollow and haunted. Pale. His hair pulled up into stressed-out tufts. Then the shutters slam down and Derek stands like he can't bear to be sat down anymore. He paces redundantly, walking short lengths of Stiles' room.

"He knows we're trying to protect the others," Stiles says and sits up, head spinning, splitting, sharp tears in his eyes from the effort. He doesn't know what else to say, doesn't have a clue how to handle Derek when he's acting like a caged animal.

"He was in your—" Derek stops wearing a groove in Stiles' carpet and looks at him. "Of course he was. Of course he was, because you just had to take yourself straight to him, didn't you? You couldn't resist." Stiles doesn't actually have an answer to that except to call Derek a fucking dirty hypocrite and Derek's a long line of tension and barely restrained something and Stiles just doesn't have it in him for a real mud-slinging match right now, no matter how satisfying it might be. "What else did he say?"

"He said it wasn't like invisibility. More like trying to see something out of the corner of your eye. He can't sense you at all."

"Yeah, we figured it might be something like that."

"He's got a plan B, Derek."

"Obviously."

"That it? Just— obviously ?"

"He'll be dead before he gets a chance to pull it off."

"He is two steps ahead of us," Stiles grinds out, voice a wreck. "He's got something big and bad up his sleeve and he's gonna blindside us with it."

"Yeah, well, so do we."

"Would you quit the grim stoicism crap? You can't hide shit from me, Derek. You're terrified."

Derek doesn't look like he wants to deny it. He looks—resigned. It's a terrible thing, all wrong on him. "I gotta go."

Stiles' mouth twists into an ugly shape completely against his will, two fucking tears spilling over and clinging to his chin. "Yeah, I know. Just. Be careful, okay?"

"You too. Lydia and Allison are downstairs so you won't be alone. Deaton's warded the house with mountain ash, so don't break it."

Derek steps forward, silence pressing in on Stiles' eardrums like pressure, and stands at the side of the bed. He reaches down slowly and grips Stiles' shoulder, thumb pressing against his neck and Stiles touches him back, fingers around Derek's wrist.

The pain in his head and the tension in his muscles recede. The wound, though, that throbbing blackness in his chest, it just gets worse. He feels—sad. Such a small sounding thing but it feels enormous. A misery threatening to crush him.

Derek feels immovable, unyielding like concrete. Stiles doesn't know how to get close to him like this; he doesn't even know if Derek wants him to. So close to the end and Stiles has never felt more hopeless.

"I'm scared, Derek."

Derek's face just does not change. He blinks and stares for all the seconds it takes Stiles to consider regretting the words but he realizes, elatedly, almost hysterically, that he doesn't. Not one bit.

"It's gonna be fine," Derek says eventually.

"Nice vague, hollow sentiment, thanks."

"Stiles, I have to go."

"Yeah, well I don't want you to," Stiles snaps, all sense of self-restraint clearly flying out the window. "Okay? Do you get that? Am I making myself clear enough?" Derek tries to step back but Stiles is still holding his wrist. He lets Derek's momentum drag him upright and damn it if Stiles doesn't grip on for dear life. "I'm scared, Derek, and not just about letting that psycho back in my head, not just about my friends potentially getting ripped apart—"

"Stiles, let me go," Derek warns, a low threat that Stiles doesn't give two shits about.

"I'm scared that once this is all over, you're not gonna need me anymore."

Derek tenses like Stiles has punched him, somehow landed a real blow and Stiles is vaguely aware that Derek's got a million advantages over him but he never uses any of them. Derek's face cycles through a complicated catalogue of emotions that Stiles can't follow because there's too much else going on: Derek still in the circle of his fingers and Stiles still reeling from the admission.

Derek presses his mouth together and looks away. It's gonna be bad, oh it is gonna be bad.

"When this is over, nothing is going to be the same. You don't know how you're gonna feel," he says carefully, choosing his words but Stiles hears I don't know how I'm gonna feel about you and yeah, he was right, it was bad. "But I promise you." Derek looks him in the eye. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, okay? Trust me."

Stiles lets him go, then. Feeling bitter and a little vindictive even though that's not fair, but whatever, none of this is fair. "Sure, it's not like you've never fucked up before, right?"

It's a low blow and Derek scoffs and shakes his head like Stiles' behavior is just typical, really Goddamn typical. He backs up towards the bedroom door and says derisively, "Just don't fall asleep, okay."

"Sure thing, wouldn't mess up the important plan. Can't wait to wrap all this up so we can file it away like it never happened."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I meant," Derek throws back, his voice hard, so fucking hard. It's rhetoric at its worst, Stiles knows that's not what Derek meant but he's just not sure how they got so bad so quickly and it's messing with his head. Then Derek mutters under his breath, "You're so fucking stupid sometimes," and then it doesn't matter what Derek did or didn't mean.

"Well your epic list of sketchy-ass behavior has definitely put you in a good position to judge stupid people."

"Like you know me so well."

"I do actually!" Stiles actually yells, throwing his arms out. "Or maybe that's what pisses you off? Because you don't get to be broody lone wolf anymore. Because I saw you smile a couple times and apparently that's off limits."

"Or maybe what pisses me off is the fact that you don't get it , you don't even. You don't know." Derek fists his hands, looks at the ceiling; Stiles can see all the things Derek won't or can't say trying to bypass his usual control and tumble out and it looks like it's hurting him. "You think this is easy for me?"

"You're not the one he's torturing." It's not what Stiles meant to say, not even close. His voice is off, too, thready and all the wrong pitch. Derek's eyes go wide, he looks positively horrified and then something else and then just calm. Calm and decisive.

"But I am the reason why he's torturing you."

"Derek—" Derek, Derek what? Derek, don't? Derek, tell your guilt to fuck off, I'm not interested? Derek, we're both the biggest assholes in the world so maybe we can work on that together or something?

"I'll call when it's done, okay?"

Derek, don't go , is what he realizes he would have said. Would have if Derek hadn't already left by the time Stiles’ mouth starts working again. He doesn't know how long he sits there feeling pissed off and maudlin as hell, the futility of everything up to and including existing a grueling chore. Really he's just sat feeling ridiculously overdramatic but fuck it, he's earned overdramatic. If anyone in this situation has earned the right to some internal dramatics, it's Stiles.

Because this is the first time Derek's really walked out on him since all this started and Stiles predicts a bleak future of just this, all the time; Derek walking out on him, a distinctly Derek-sparse future. He's not used to it and even though the rational part of his brain knows he sounds like a spoiled ten-year-old brat, knowing Derek's got his back, knowing Derek would come out to a fucking park at 4AM in November just because he asked, is the most addictive feeling Stiles has ever known.

It's not like Stiles wouldn't do the same. He's long since been afflicted with the apparent proclivity to drop everything and help Derek out whenever he demands it, even when it puts his life or his dad's career in danger. He knows why he does—why he did— those things now, though, a painful self-awareness, and Derek's not nearly naïve enough to be blind to his own feelings, he's just stubborn enough to excuse them. He can explain away both their behaviors on Karlin's sorcery or his own guilt all he wants but there's a reason Karlin chose Stiles specifically for this, he said as much himself: he'd left his mark.

But it's all hyperbole, Stiles is as in the dark as he ever is and he's sick of it and it won't get better because Derek wears inevitable pessimistic doom like his absurdly fitting and actually really soft t-shirts; Stiles can't even imagine what he'd look like in say, a button-down shirt. Okay, that's not entirely true, he can and he really, really has, it's a bad analogy, he's just. He's exhausted.

At some point, Allison and Lydia clearly become concerned about him, appearing in his bedroom door after some indeterminate length of uncomfortable self-reflection time. Lydia pulls up the spinny chair and Allison climbs into the bed beside him and they look set to bother him into talking so he tries to shake off his despondency.

"Thought you'd wanna be at the clinic to watch the magic happen tonight," he says to Lydia.

"I did." She kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles. "But it looked like you needed some company."

That's truly one of the sweetest things he's ever heard Lydia say.

"Actually, you looked dead," Allison adds emphatically. "So don't do that again, okay?"

"Can't promise anything."

"Can you at least promise not to faint again?"

"I didn't faint," he corrects defensively. "Karlin used Danny to do something to me. Or, Karlin did something to me because he was close enough to work his mojo, I don't know.”

He bucks up, determined to ride the next few hours out without dwelling, stewing or whining, and explains the fairly one-sided conversation that occurred in his head. They look appalled at the appropriate moments, Karlin's human monsters and the explicit threat against Stiles' person should he choose to not murder Derek. Overall, it's quite cathartic.

"Nothing bad is going to happen to you," Lydia says with some confidence.

"Yeah, so Derek keeps saying."

"Aww."

"Don't say aww, don't do the aww thing—"

Allison interrupts. "Dating a werewolf is hard, I get it."

"Me and Derek are not dating. Me and Derek are a train wreck waiting to happen." Stiles turns the full glare of his desire not to talk about this on her. "And as far as I know, you're not dating any werewolves—of the kinda uneven jawline or the curly golden cherub hair variety—right now, either, right?"

"Low blow, Stilisnki," she says dryly and yeah, he's dealing a lot of those out today. He looks at her, appropriately apologetic. "I'll forgive you if you've got ice cream."

"We do."

"And cookies?"

He likes where this appears to be going. "Fresh baked right from my dad's work."

"The police station?" Lydia asks, frowning.

"Yeah, it's a boring story. They're good cookies though."

"Then I say we eat them and forget about whatever's going on outside this house for a little while, huh?"

"Allison, I could kiss you," Stiles tells her very seriously. The three of them start making a move to head downstairs and he adds quietly, for Allison's ears only, "But I won't, 'cause Scott would kill me," and tries not to feel completely smug when she can't hide her grin all the way to the kitchen.

***

He's full up on chocolate cookies and caramel ice cream and Lydia found a two-liter bottle of Coke in a cupboard that Stiles wasn't aware they even owned.

Every time he so much as shifts on the sofa, his stomach sloshes and fizzles and it's dark through the whole house, none of them have moved in hours and at some point the sun went down. It's satisfying in a completely normal, mundane, downright cozy way. Pigging out with his friends, watching a movie and talking idly about stupid stuff, school and their families—okay, maybe Allison's family is only mundane by their standards but it's still nice. The only tension in the room coming from three silent phones laid in a bulky triangle on the coffee table.

It's almost enough to settle the craving that creeps back in an hour after Derek's been gone.

One movie turns into two, turns into really old reruns of Kenan & Kel on Nickelodeon which Stiles appreciates the hell out of because that show was awesome when he was a kid but it's a thousand times more awesome now.

"We're out of Coke," Lydia says, or more like muffles from the pile of blankets she's cocooned herself and Allison in on the other sofa.

"Then go find some, oh Coke magician. I don't know where you found the last bottle." She grumbles a little but stands up all the same. Stiles laughs, he's never seen her look quite so disheveled before. "Find a hairbrush while you're out there, huh?" he cracks and she picks up a cushion and throws it directly at his face before leaving the room.

Maybe half a minute passes before Allison speaks. "Tell me you're getting freaked out that nobody's called yet."

"I was already at freaked out about an hour ago."

"No news is good news, right?"

"Normally I'd say yeah, but with werewolves it's hard to tell."

"Maybe it didn't work?"

"We don't have a plan B," Stiles says flatly. "So it better."

"God, I feel like we've been benched. I hate sitting on the sidelines waiting for news."

"Hey, you're talking to a guy who has literally spent his life on the bench. It's not so bad. Don't you ever get tired of being stuck in the middle of everything all the time?"

Allison considers it. "I'd rather be in the middle of everything than passively waiting for things to kill me. At least then you have some control over when you die."

Stiles snorts. "What a beautiful sentiment."

She grins. "I'm serious. I spent years not being in control. Herded from place to place with no explanation, kept out of the loop, manipulated by my family. When you're in the thick of it, right there with the people you trust." She looks down at her hands in her lap. "It's better."

"You're getting as annoyingly optimistic as Scott."

"Maybe he's rubbing off on me," Allison says slyly and it takes Stiles' tired brain a—shameful, because when has he ever passed the opportunity to indulge in a dirty joke—second to click. He snorts a laugh. "Anyway, I thought you'd be feeling pretty good right now. Karlin out of your head, a good night's sleep on the horizon?"

"Never does well to get too cheerful," he replies as blithely as he can manage. "I remember on my sixth birthday I wanted a Hot Wheels Mega Loop Mayhem track. Woke up that morning, Mom's best pancakes for breakfast, cartoons on the TV, feelin' pretty good about the whole thing, pretty idealistic. Sat down to open my present and it was Lego. Freaking Lego. Talk about learning disappointment early."

Allison pulls a face. "You didn't like Lego?"

"Have you ever stood on Lego, Allison?"

"What kinda kid doesn't like Lego?"

"The kind with ADHD that likes to run around without looking where he's going."

"Ah, good point—" Allison's voice fades out and she goes silent, turns to the door with a frown on her face. "Hey, how long has Lydia been gone?"

"I actually don't know."

"Stiles," she says, just the tone of her voice enough to send a sharp stab of dread through him. "The lights in the hall are still off."

He jumps up, Allison too, and throws his hand against the light switch on the wall with a crack . Nothing. "I—I don't get it, the TV's still—"

"Try the hall." Allison's already halfway out the living room door. He hears the frantic flicking of the switch. " Fuck! Stiles, it's not—Lydia? Lydia! "

Nothing. Absolutely no reply.

"Okay, okay, calm down," he grinds out, forcing his breathing back under control. He reaches out for Allison, grabs her arm and pulls her back into the room, back close to him where he can see her by the faint TV light. "I think we're safe inside the house, okay? The fuse box is in the kitchen. There's a couple flashlights in there too. Call Scott."

He picks up his phone too and angles the screen out, sweeps the weak light left and right down the hall to check for any kind of movement although what the fuck he's looking for at this point is a seriously worrying issue. "Looks clear."

"Stiles.” There's that terrible tone of voice again. “I've got no signal and neither has Lydia."

Stiles' stomach bottoms out, lurches sickeningly. His hand shakes so fucking much, it's amazing he manages to get his phone anywhere close to within his eye line. His voice is flat and reedy when he manages, "Uh. Same."

"What could do that?" Allison whispers, hand already gripped around the blade of a wicked-sharp looking knife from—somewhere.

"AT&T?"

She hits him. "Where's your landline?"

"Kitchen."

"Then we go for it."

It's surreal, Kenan & Kel playing quietly on the TV and Allison stood armed and deadly in his completely mundane looking living room. Stiles doesn't know why he thinks he has any right to be surprised.

They edge out together, shoulder to shoulder, phones lighting the way. Two sets of weak, washed-out circles of light criss-crossing over the carpet and walls and illuminating his home in the— just typical really— flickering black-and-white tones reminiscent of an old horror movie. Or maybe a new one, a shaky-cam, found-footage type of thing. They're all the rage these days. Werewolfield or The Full Moon Tapes or The Beacon Hills Project and now really isn't the time for him to be thinking up names for a found-footage horror film about his life.

Allison keeps the knife held up against her chest, point facing outwards, and Stiles’ imagination supplies him with his worst nightmares, mind playing tricks on him in the dark. Those creatures, white skin and lipless mouths and hollow eyes, made real and invading his home. Or Karlin himself, a shifting pile of black smoke, completely indestructible—

Allison nearly cuts him when there's a loud, frantic bangbangbang on his front door. Stiles swears he nearly has a full-blown cardiac arrest right where he's standing and they both startle-jump-turn to face it, frozen in place.

"Stiles? Allison? Lydia?"

It's Scott, it's fucking—

"Scott!" Allison calls out. "We're okay, hold on."

Stiles throws his violently trembling hand across the surface of the hall table in a flail-tastic attempt to locate his keys. Adrenaline spikes through him, messes up his blood, he's finding it hard to co-ordinate himself around it. When he finally gets the mountain ash line broken and the door unlocked, he's thrown backwards by the force it swinging straight into his body.

His not-all-that-wide hallway is suddenly crammed with two extra people and Scott's too-loud ranting.

"We've been calling for forty five minutes, what the hell?"

Allison's words come out low and rushed and Stiles hears them like they're passing through a wall. "Our phones, none of them have signal, and Lydia. Lydia's gone, we don't know where the hell she is, she just walked out of the living room and vanished—"

Cora stands beside Stiles, off-light from the phones making her eyes brilliantly dark.

He asks, "Where's Derek?"

"Checking outside."

"And Isaac?" Allison asks.

"Him and your dad are out trying to track Karlin," Scott tells her. "The sheriff called Deaton and said he had a lead on some CCTV footage from the chemical factory. Something about Karlin's car being there almost every night for months. Someone on the security staff said everyone thought he was just dedicated, sleeping in his office, y'know? His secure, passcode-locked office, in his secure, well-guarded building."

"That's where he's leaving his body?"

"It's a pretty good working theory."

"Then maybe that's where Lydia's gone," Allison says. "Maybe he did something to her like Stiles? Got her to come to him?"

"And what, Lydia's somehow his plan B for killing Derek?" Stiles asks but he knows, he knows it isn't that, knows it down to his bones. "How would that even work?"

"Is my dad there now?" Allison asks Scott.

"Heading there. Lydia's car's still right outside on the road, though.” Scott points over his shoulder with his thumb. “And I swear, I can still smell her here. Cora?" Cora nods. "But if she was just here, maybe it's that. I don't know."

"Nothing weird outside.” Derek appears in Stiles' front doorway, claws and blue eyes and sharp teeth. He's otherworldly and dangerous and Stiles is struck in that way he gets when he doesn't see Derek for a while. It's like he forgets, or maybe Derek's just that good at arresting him. “No cut electrical wires or anything. No sign of Lydia either, I heard you say she's missing?"

“Yeah, just before you guys got here,” Allison tells him.

"She couldn't have gotten far. Search the house?"

Scott starts, "Yeah, split up. Allison, Stiles—" But Allison doesn't let him finish.

"Don't even think about telling us to go somewhere safe."

"I wasn't going to!" Scott protests and she narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Are you kidding me, like you'd even listen if I did." Stiles thinks they're having a moment, it's really not the time. "I was gonna say you guys search down here with me and Derek and Cora take upstairs."

"Did the spell work?" Stiles asks, because nobody has yet, and he directs the question at Derek, because Derek's giving him a thorough and obvious once-over like he's searching for injuries but there's still six feet of space between them that Stiles is trying to figure out how to bridge.

"Felt like it worked." Now that the eyes and teeth and claws have gone, Stiles thinks Derek looks—drained. Drained like Stiles feels. "Have you tried the fuses yet?"

"Not yet."

Stiles covers the doorway with a fresh line of mountain ash and then Scott leads them to the kitchen, a bizarre mass migration through Stiles' house. He knows they're not gonna get the electricity back on in that same way he knows they're in mortal danger right now. Just like he knows the only reason they're even trying is because this feels like a siege and maybe if the fuses do work, Lydia might pop out from behind the kitchen table and tell them they've been Punk'd or something.

Stiles juggles his phone and the awkward, stiff fuse box cover in the kitchen corner while the others search for flashlights and candles, anything that emits light, his old freaking mini-torch key ring he once got out in Christmas cracker about four years ago; it's still hooked onto the keys to the outside shed.

"Here," Derek says softly, appearing from nowhere and slipping the phone out of Stiles' hand, leaning against the wall and holding it up so Stiles can see.

Their fingers brush and Stiles shivers. He nods his thanks and pries the cover open and cringes at the obnoxious, rusted sound of its hinges. Derek shines the light down the set of fuses and not one of them is tripped but Stiles flicks the switches anyway, every single one of them, off and back on again. Nothing happens, not that he expected it to, and Stiles slumps forward with one forearm against the wall because he knows what that means.

"He's doing—whatever the fuck is happening right now."

"Be one hell of a coincidence if something else was doing it.” Derek's voice is dry, tired.

"It wasn't supposed to go down like this."

“I know.”

“And what does he want with Lydia? None of this makes any sense.”

Derek pushes a warm hand up Stiles' t-shirt, spreading over the bare skin of his back, and Stiles gives up on words. He leans into Stiles' space just slightly, lips grazing against Stiles' temple. Stiles curls a desperate hand in Derek's belt, the backs of his knuckles pressing against Derek's hip, and feels the jump of muscles against his fingers and he can't, he just cannot live without this.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks on a breath.

"Yeah. You?"

"Better. We thought. When none of your phones were connecting—"

"Yeah, I know.”

He feels Derek nod and they stay like that for maybe ten seconds, long enough for Stiles to regain some focus. Long enough that he can envision Karlin's monsters and Lydia alone in the dark and it's just not happening, Stiles isn't gonna let it.

He's suddenly almost blinded by Scott shining a flashlight directly into his eyeballs. “Dude.”

Scott looks sheepish and kind of awkward. “Sorry. Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Stiles calls across the kitchen. Then he turns to Derek and says quietly, “Be careful.” Derek looks for just a moment like he's got something to say but Stiles knows, in a resigned sort of way, that he's not gonna get to hear it.

“You too.”

Derek and Cora disappear upstairs with one flashlight and Stiles suggests he, Scott, and Allison start in the dining room because really, it's the least used room in the house; Stiles can't actually remember the last time he was in there. Allison hands him the sharpest knife she can find in his kitchen, not that it'll do either of them any good to be armed if Karlin wants them out of the way but it feels conceptually better than facing him with nothing more than two bare hands and a prayer.

“I don't get it,” he mutters, shining the flashlight beam underneath the dining table like there's even a chance of Lydia just hanging out under there. “He's been breaking me down for weeks and weeks, it can't be that easy to just pick another human. It isn't.”

They sweep the hall, the living room—again, just to make sure—and his dad's office. He can hear Derek and Cora above them, footsteps and muttering and creaking doors.

“Maybe it's still about you? Kill Derek or he'll kill—“ Allison's voice stutters. “He'll kill Lydia?”

“He wouldn't kill her.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I just know,” he snaps and tries not to shudder. “It's not how he operates.”

“We haven't checked the basement yet,” Scott says tentatively.

“There's reasons we shout at horror movie characters on the TV, Scott, and going into the basement is like, ninety percent of those reasons.”

“It is usually where the threat hangs out.”

Stiles grips both the flashlight and the knife tightly and takes a breath.

Scott's all claws and teeth, not fully alpha'd yet but if Stiles were a supernatural nasty, he wouldn't wanna mess with Scott right now regardless. He kicks open the basement door and calls out, “Lydia?” but there's no answer. Stiles follows the wooden stairs down into the dark with his light, looks like they go on for miles, all swallowed up in pitch blackness.

“She's not here, he's taken her away somewhere,” Allison whispers flatly, eyes shining in the dark.

“We have to check,” Scott says softly and Stiles sees his hand wrap around hers between them. “For her, for signs, for something, okay?”

Stiles shares a look with Scott, another with Allison; feels like a silent good luck. Stiles hands Scott the flashlight and watches him slip down into the dark first, Allison following close behind. He takes a breath and—

—and then, several things happen at once.

Stiles turns for just a second because he sees something out the corner of his eye. The basement door slams shut hard enough to shake the floorboards. And a shape passes by his kitchen window, only just visible from where he's stood in the hall trying to process all of these things happening at once.

Time catches up quick, he turns back to the basement door so quick he gets whiplash and slams both hands flat against it.

Scott shouts, “Stiles?”

“I didn't close it!”

“It closed itself!?”

“Pretty sure that's what just happened. Fuck!” He can already hear Derek and Cora running down the stairs. “Scott, can't you open it?”

“I'm trying!”

He is, he's trying, Stiles can see the handle twisting, can hear the fucking hinges groaning. Scott's throwing all his strength into it and nothing is happening, it's like—it's like—

“He's trying to separate us,” Cora says roughly, appearing at Stiles' side again and trying the outside handle herself. “Is there another way into the basement?”

“Through the garden but I doubt—“

Derek puts a palm on Stiles' back. “We've gotta try, come on.”

Stiles moves with a purpose that's so familiar with high-stress situations it's actually kind of encouraging. That is until Stiles gets one step over the threshold to his kitchen and the door slams shut behind him with the same floor-shaking brutality as the basement one.

It clips his hip on its arc and sends him doubling over, muttering curses with his heart kicking up into painful, seizing spasms.

“Stiles!”

“Yeah,” he wheezes, the throb in his hip burning a path all through his pelvis stealing his breath. “I live, don't worry,” and then he mutters, “just about,” bitterly under his breath before he realizes they probably heard that too.

“Move out of the way of the door,” Derek tells him and Stiles does, for what good it'll do. Scott couldn't break down the basement door, this won't be any different. But there's an edge to Derek's voice that Stiles recognizes as cold fury mixed up with fear and it appeals to him on every single level that he trusts Derek.

But the door hinges rattle, the wood cracks, nothing Derek or Cora does shifts it.

“Stiles, don't move, okay? We're gonna try the back—what?”

“What?” Stiles asks; Derek can't stop mid-sentence like that, not when the situation is this fucking dire and Stiles is on his own, which he's starting to suspect might just be the whole point of this endeavor.

It's Scott's voice that replies through two doors, muffled but clear enough to catch the words, and Stiles' stomach clenches painfully, sound of his heartbeat rushing, clamoring through his ears because— because —

“The APB out on the car, it's here, it's in the next street!”

Stiles hears, immediately, Derek shouting, “Stiles, just stay there, we're coming,” and Cora arguing, “He's strong enough to get through mountain ash if he really wants to, Derek,” and something else, Scott shouting, doors banging, but it's like the whole thing is happening through a filter. He turns numbly, one hand still clutching his hip, and frowns.

“Lydia?”

Lydia. Lydia outside. Outside in his garden, just the shape of her stood against the tall fence separating his yard from the neighbor's. He moves on autopilot, relief like a shot of adrenaline at seeing her alive and feeling a little like he's suffering an information overload and rolling with his instincts rather than the full capacity of his mental faculties.

The back door isn't locked and he flings it open and runs to her, doesn't give a shit that it's about forty-five degrees out here and he's only wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt.

“Lydia? Hey.” Her face is an odd blend of confused and annoyed and Stiles thinks she's seriously fucking under-reacting to this situation; there's something so, so very wrong. He grips her shoulder with one hand. “Lydia?”

“Stiles?”

“Lydia, come on, we have to get back inside the house,” he says, slowly like he's talking to a three-year-old.

She blinks, squeezes her eyes shut, blinks some more. She looks—she looks like she's trying to clear her head. Stiles starts to back away, a cold, creeping-ivy dread climbing up his spine.

Lydia catches his hand quickly before he gets even a foot away. There's movement through the frozen-solid grass and dead leaves at their feet, something small like a squirrel winding around Lydia's shoes. It grabs Stiles' attention and he can't look away, like a car crash on the freeway or someone falling over in a public place. Same kind of destructive compulsion to watch.

The tiny shape is made from shadows and then the shadows start unfurling and it's too late to run, it's already rooted him. Derek shouts his name from the garden gate, the metal groaning sound of the padlock wrenching apart, but Stiles barely hears it, far-off and faint.

Karlin's dark, shapeless mass grows as tall as the fence and Lydia squeezes Stiles' hand.

“I have a message to pass on,” she says blankly and the words are familiar enough that he knows exactly what's about to happen. “Now's your final chance.”

He feels the hideous, all-too-familiar throb around his heart. The suffocating call of blackness. It grips cold fingers around his tenuous grasp on consciousness and pulls—

***

Chapter Text

First thing.

He's freezing.

Second thing.

His head aches atrociously.

Third thing? He's moving.

It's a smooth, rolling kind of movement. A drift. Thinks he might be in a car. Smells like a car, pine air-freshener that's a poor substitute for the real thing. The smell that reminds him off—

“Derek.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He's buckled—fucking buckled —safely into the passenger seat of a moving vehicle and Stiles doesn't even need to look over to know whose. “Fucking. Awesome.”

“I think so,” Karlin says and Stiles can hear the grin in his voice. “I never got enough opportunities to speak with you face to face, one on one.”

He locates all his various bits and pieces, arms, legs, hands, fingers, everything heavy and lethargy-steeped. His eyes feel filmy, gritty; he rubs at them with a clumsy fist and feels about five years old.

“This your big plan B? Kidnapping me?” Stiles asks through gritted teeth; fuck, he hurts everywhere, what is it with Karlin and his mojo kicking the crap out of him like this?

“You're wondering why my magic makes you feel so terrible?”

“What, you're a mind reader now?”

“In a sense. Once I grow familiar with a mind, Stiles, I develop a connection to it, a bond.”

“That is so creepy I don't even know where to start.” Although it explains some stuff, Karlin's stalker-like obsession with Talia Hale for one.

“Eh, po-tay-to, po-tah-to.” Karlin waves vaguely with one hand. “And to answer the question that you didn't ask, it's because my magic drains you. Specifically, all that energy I told you you're just brimming with.” Stiles does look then, crazed dirty-blond hair and patterned glasses and it's terrifying really, how deceptively non-menacing he looks and Stiles can already feel his guard instinctively going down even though he knows how dangerous Karlin is. “Don't look so surprised. You've studied physics, haven't you? Energy can't just appear out of nowhere, it can only be converted. Magic is just another form of energy. I have to take something that already exists and shape it into something else. The question you should be asking is: why does Derek make it better.”

“I'm sure you're dying to tell me.”

Karlin gives him an eager, child-like grin and Stiles admits, the sentiment is infectious; Karlin's about to divulge the thing, the thing that's twisted and shaped Stiles' life for the past month and a half. He's all tensed up waiting for the words.

“I almost wish I had a drumroll,” Karlin chuckles. “The big secret is—I have no idea.”

Stiles does a spit-take. “Excuse me?”

“Yup. It's true. I'd initially planned to test out the possibility of using you to drain Derek until he was weak enough that I could sense and kill him, y'know, make you crave to touch him and when you did, it would slowly reveal him. But it didn't work. I created the connection but it didn't function the way it was supposed to. I think it's more like a feed-back loop, a closed circuit cycling energy rather than siphoning it. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

Stiles has no idea what to say to that. As much as it makes sense, it's also blowing his mind.

“So technically, this right here is my plan C. Plan B was having you get close enough to Derek to kill him in his sleep and we both know how well that worked out. You're lucky that I have a lot of contingencies.” Karlin laughs again, a goofy guffaw that's the furthest thing away from super villain Stiles has ever heard. “Or not so lucky, I guess. Sorry. I'm being a little insensitive.” It's the opposite of funny how completely the opposite ofsorry he sounds.

“And plan C is?” Stiles asks and Karlin taps the side of his nose with his finger and smirks. “You're not a very good villain, they've usually monologued their big endgame by now.”

“I learned my lesson underestimating you once, Stiles.”

“Okay, so where are we going?”

“Far enough away that Derek and his little brood can't smell you. They've put me at a disadvantage with that spell, you see. I underestimated, again. I thought I'd have wiped them out by now, but I wasn't counting on a bunch of pathetic teenagers and Hales being such a strong pack.” He spits the word pack like it's something dirty.

The urgency of Stiles' situation is starting to catch up with him, the frustration and pain getting pushed out in favor of the bitter taste of fear on his tongue. There's nothing out here but the whumph-whump-whumph of trees blurring past the windows, it's too dark to see anything else except the glow of the full moon covered by gray clouds. There's no feasible way out of this occurring to him in that great, light bulb-pinging way they so often do when he's stuck in a tight spot. Well, one, but it consists of opening the car door and flinging himself out onto the road at 40mph so it's not really an option.

“If you wanted to take me out, all you had to do was ask,” Stiles says, mainly to see how steady his voice is—pretty steady, he's proud—and partly to tamp down the rising panic with something familiar like humor.

“You're not an easy man to get hold of lately, Stiles. Always sleeping with the wolf or locked away by that emissary and his powers.”

“So you used my friends to get to me, Danny and Lydia?”

“They're both fine, I only needed them temporarily when I couldn't get straight to the source. Lydia Martin is back at your house with the rest.” That's one relief anyway. “It's your fault I had to use them at all.”

“Wow, talk about victim blaming.”

“You're not a victim here, Stiles.”

“You tortured me!”

“I tried to keep it from your waking self,” Karlin says softly, like he actually fucking means it, like an apology. “I told you, you're very powerful. It's like you don't believe me.”

They pass a sign—Little Lake, 2 Miles. Stiles' dad took him there as a kid and Stiles had read off the map all by himself for the first time. It's a good memory and he clings to it, even as Karlin brings them into a drift at the side of the road, slowing to a smooth stop.

Stiles finds his voice. “Not taking me to the lake to drown me then.”

“I'm not going to hurt you, Stiles.”

“Then what?” he asks, faded and cracking and wet, the strain finally taking its toll. He's terrified, cold and completely alone here and this man has spent so long violating him, hurting him, making him do things against his will.

Karlin puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and Stiles shakes him off but he grips tighter, turns it into a warning. “Hold out your hands.” Stiles considers disagreeing but there's no logic to it and logic needs to be his anchor right now. Karlin slips a ziptie around Stiles' wrists and pulls it tight.

Then he starts to fade, skin going dark and transparent, the whole thing happens slowly like watching water curl into steam. Stiles scrambles back against the car door, stomach violently dropping somewhere around his shoes, and he can't not look as Karlin turns to smoke before his eyes, just like the creature he saw in Derek's memory.

“Get out,” the black shape whispers.

Stiles reaches for the handle, forgets that he's leaning against the fucking door—slightly bigger things to worry about—and goes tumbling out of the car, back against the ground and his limbs in a sprawl. He laughs, actually laughs , like the sound's been knocked loose from his fall; either the sound or his sanity.

The black shape seems to peer down at him and Stiles actually gets the crazy notion that it's judging him, like if it had eyes it might roll them.

They're at the side of a barely visible, overgrown footpath that's seen better days and Stiles is dragged forcibly to his feet and marched along it with the bizarre sensation of solid nothing gripped tight around one forearm. He doesn't speak, doesn't want to hear the terrible whisper of that thing's intangible voice like something from the beyond. They move in silence instead and Stiles fills his head with white noise, makes it scream so there's no room for anything else, his old defense mechanism dialed up to eleven.

Where they're headed, where Karlin is taking him, is a cabin quite literally in the woods.

It's the kind of place families come on vacation, the great American outdoors; RVs and picnics on roadside lookout spots and the largest ball of twine in all the southern states. There's an empty fireplace and comfortable looking couches. A little kitchenette that reminds him of Derek's loft and he pushes that out straight away, doesn't wanna think about Derek when Karlin's got unrestricted access to Stiles' brain and especially not when the absence of Derek's touch feels like it's draining him this brutally.

Once the door slams shut, Karlin takes shape.

“Maybe you'd like to warm up?”

The fire sparks and spits and then grows into dancing flames right in front of Stiles' slack-jawed face. Karlin shuffles around him, pulling a pouch of something from his pocket and emptying its contents over the fire. It looks like—

“Wolfsbane?”

“A form of, yes. To mask your scent and keep your friends away. Sit.” Stiles does, drops into a wooden chair that Karlin's pulled up from somewhere. He winds a thin, cutting rope around Stiles' body over and over again until he's seriously fucking strapped down.

“You haven't tried to run,” Karlin comments nonchalantly.

“What would be the point?”

“Oh, Stiles. Resignation? It doesn't suit you.”

That irks him but it also gives him an idea, a hazy notion that he doesn't focus on too hard, pulling at the ties on his wrists instead to make them cut into his skin as a reminder of how much rides on convincing Karlin he's helpless.

“It's not resignation, it's being smart. If I ran, you'd catch me.”

Karlin shrugs. “Probably.”

“Definitely. It'd be suicide.”

“I told you—“

“That you're not gonna hurt me, yeah, I know,” Stiles snaps. “Forgive me if I'm dubious.”

Karlin lowers himself to Stiles' level, resting on one knee in front of him and holding unblinking eye contact like he has no concept of awkward. “Then we should talk about why we're here.”

“Please do.”

“I don't like admitting defeat, Stiles, but I'm not a proud man. I mean—“ Karlin chuckles. “If I was, I certainly wouldn't have chosen a job as a chemistry teacher at that sorry excuse for high school of yours. No, what I am, Stiles, is a man who likes to finish what he started. I like to see a job completed. Your chemistry homework, quite frankly, gives me headaches.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and gawps—he's doing a lot of that today—and Karlin waves a distracted hand.

“Anyway, not important.” He levels his gaze, the quirky twist of his mouth falling away. “You can keep your little friends.”

“I can—what?”

“Scott and Isaac and those beastly twins, even Cora. You can keep them all. You can save them.”

“I don't understand.”

“Those filthy hybrids can have their pathetic existence, they've made their bed, they can lie in it. They've proven themselves surprisingly difficult and I have better things to do, more worthy places to be than loitering around Beacon Hills for the rest of my days.” Every trace of that once amicable looking chemistry professor is gone; Karlin's still and serious, cold right down to his soul. “But there's a condition, and that condition is Derek. I want him, that one's personal. He's the reason I came back here in the first place and I just can't leave until that business is finished.”

Stiles shakes his head silently, struggles in his bonds, all his body rejecting the idea before his brain's even had a chance to process it properly; Karlin goes on regardless.

“And you're going to bring him here. Alone.”

“No. No way.”

“We're going to give him a little call and make him an offer.”

“I don't understand—“

Karlin lays one cool palm across Stiles' forehead and he instantly droops, eyes going heavy, limbs sinking into the wood at his back.

“You will.”

***

 

“Derek.”

Something feels solid and tangible under his ribs.

It threads out of him, a physical thing, warping the air around it like heat rising off tarmac.

It's drawn slack and he knows where it leads. If he just tugs it, he can pull Derek closer.

It seems like a bad idea for some reason.

“Come alone. Tell no one.”

Derek's confused, angry; no, not angry—furious. Stiles feels it like a sharp slap and wonders for a split-second what the fuck he's doing right now. But Karlin is here, Karlin is always here. Touching Stiles' shoulder and whispering coaxing words.

“He has an offer for you.”

Derek's listening now, softer, willing. It unnerves Stiles in a vague, offhand way. Derek shouldn't be willing, he shouldn't even consider it, they can find another way—

Karlin presses his thumb into Stiles' neck.

“Your life for all of theirs.”

Derek's mind is white noise and desperation.

“Break the spell. Show yourself and he'll let them go.”

He knows Derek will come. Derek always comes.

“He'll let me go.”

Derek will come.

***

It's dark.

It's dark, he can't breathe, something really fucking terrible just happened and Stiles just can't move his arms, his hands—

Tied. Tied to a chair in a cabin in the woods and where's Leatherface? That's all that's fucking missing from this picture.

“Stiles, you're bleeding, calm down.”

He is, he's bleeding; his wrists are slippery and there's warm, sticky wetness in the palms of his hands and he aches like fuck, God, just everywhere and he thinks someone would just stick a bullet in him, take him out to the stables and put him down because he's done.

Karlin hits him hard across the face and Stiles feels his brain rattle inside his skull, feels a furious cry tear out of his throat instead of words because he's got none, they're all caught and cracked up, pieces of broken glass in his windpipe.

“I know your grief, Stiles,” Karlin says loudly, it penetrates the cacophony of Stiles' internal hysterics, the sheer panic threatening to drag him into the mire. “I've felt it too. Losing the ones we love, they take a piece of our soul with them.”

Stiles drags in streams of air that freeze his throat and lungs, Derek and lost and grief and he shudders violently, thinks no way, no fucking way and tries to claw back his composure, what's left of his brain cells, anything.

Karlin doesn't believe he'll run. It's the most important thing in the world right now.

“For what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

“You're insane,” Stiles chokes, finding the words rising right up like his heartbeat and the bile burning the back of his throat. “Completely. Nuts.”

“I only ever wanted one thing from you, Stiles. One thing.” Karlin's voice is rising too, everything's just—rising. “This could all be over now if you'd just cooperated from the start. You are going to do a world a service in playing your part here—“ He stops suddenly mid-tirade, face dropping almost comically. “Wait, you're not going to be sick, are you? You look like you're going to be sick.”

Karlin doesn't think he's gonna run.

“Ugh, yeah, I'm gonna be sick.”

He is, he's going to be seriously sick in like, four seconds. Too little food for too long and then an extreme cookie and ice cream and Coke binge—thank you, Lydia—and Derek's coming, Derek's coming here like some damn martyr and Stiles' stomach twists in painful knots and he's never been more grateful for his weak disposition—well, relatively, anyway, considering the company he keeps.

Karlin rears back and it's funny, really; torture and murder, fine and dandy, but someone puking and he's suddenly squeamish. Karlin knows he isn't lying and Stiles focuses on that and that alone, fixes it in his head like a goal. He's gonna be sick, he's gonna be very sick, it's gonna be so gross, puke everywhere—

Karlin tugs on the knots until they're loose and it's not a decision Stiles has got time to think through; he shakes them off, kicks out as hard as he can at Karlin's face and runs.

He awkwardly throws himself down the cabin steps, falls and tumbles over twice because of his forward motion and it cracks his bruised hip and jostles his shoulder but he gets straight up on a vicious adrenaline rush that feels more like an assault. He swallows down the taste of vomit in his throat and runs like every second of his lacrosse training has prepared him for.

Running, Stiles is good at; awesome in fact. Catching, throwing, he can do, sure, but running is where Stiles has always had pretty much everyone human beat. He can't risk the wide openness of the road so he weaves in and out of the trees and low bushes, hops over roots, puts one foot in front of the other and does. Not. Stop.

Karlin's taken his phone and he's really putting all his trust in the full moon to light his way tonight, which is an ironic thought, or a comforting one, he can't decide. It eases out from behind cloud cover, washing the forest in eerie grays and silvers, and Stiles remembers Little Lake's cabins and his dad trying to teach him how to fish, Stiles sat with the map unfolded in his lap and shouting, “It's a right turn here, Dad! The lake is west!”

He glances up and remembers Cora talking about Sirius— brightest star in the sky, always East— and picks it out from all the rest, low on the horizon. Stiles veers a sharp left, skidding in the dirt and picking up speed, keeping the star in his eye-line like a beacon and running until his lungs start to burn, every breath like needles through his raw throat. All he's got to do is get far enough that Derek can sense him out and find him before Karlin finds either of them. All he's got to do, yeah, sure, piece of cake.

Stiles stops, hallucinating fireworks exploding in front of his eyes, and pushes his palms into his knees, hunching forward on his shaking arms. His vision swims in and out of focus, the sounds of the forest in stereo raking across his tattered nerves; owls hooting, branches creaking, wind whistling.

Something crashing through the trees and coming towards him.

Stiles lurches sideways awkwardly, hand grazing painfully against rough bark, and swings himself into a low crouch in a tangle of raised tree roots.

“Stiles.”

It's that sinister whisper like something sliding across the forest floor. Just his name, over and over again. He can feel the pull of it making him lethargic, tempting him to obey, Karlin's hold over him difficult to resist. The black rolling mass of Karlin's shapeless form moves into his peripheral vision like smoke, hardly touching the ground, and Stiles watches it around the thick trunk of the tree, one hand pressed over his own mouth to quiet his breathing.

Oh, God, please just keep going, please just move along, absolutely nothing to see here—

The thing stops, dead center of the clearing, white shimmer from the moon streaming over it, lighting it up like a rain cloud with a silver lining.

Stiles can almost feel it grinning.

He darts out from behind the tree using his grip on a root to propel him forward but he knows it's futile, just an instinct, a natural reaction to the danger. Stiles has always been a stubborn bastard, even when his odds were as bleak as this.

Karlin smacks into him like a freight train, sending him sprawling forward in the hard dirt, both Stiles' hands hitting the ground hard enough to send shockwaves up to his shoulders. Karlin, human now, grips one arm and turns him, pins him on his back and looms, eyes bright as silver and narrowed to cold, furious slits.

“We could have done this somewhere much warmer but it's all lost on you, isn't it, Mr. Stilinski?” Karlin rages, looking honestly half-crazy right now. “Everything I've done for you, everything I've shown you—“

Stiles is almost definitely certain he's about to die and he's hit with a pang of grief so powerful it throws his higher brain functions into chaos. He shouts over Karlin, cutting him right off because he will not let Karlin use him to kill Derek and he sure as hell won't let Karlin turn him into one of those creatures. “Just fucking kill me already!”

Karlin jerks back, eyes going wide. He says nothing for tortured seconds, just breathes over Stiles, staring down like he's poised on the edge of whatever fate he's deciding fit to bestow. It's long enough for Stiles to seriously start regretting the outburst, because, like, who just asks a serial-killing crazy man to murder them? Who honestly does that?

Then Karlin takes a breath.

“Too late.”

Stiles feels every single sense light up like a tripped alarm system, a spread of sensation from his head down through his limbs.

Karlin shifts up to his knees, straddling Stiles' body, and lays a hand across Stiles' throat.

“Show yourself, wolf. Or I'll rip out his jugular.”

Stiles looks, too. Tips his head back against the ground and feels his throat bare to the claws growing from Karlin's fingers. He hears Derek before he sees him, feels him before that even; he slips out of the shadows with his eyes bright blue and his teeth sharp and for a second Stiles feels nothing but punch-drunk from relief. But it turns quickly to horror, a swift pain to the head as his brain kicks into high gear, desperately scrabbling around for a way out of this amongst all the crushing, abject panic.

“Let him go, a deal's a deal,” Derek says, voice all restrained fury, trembling and tight.

“Where's your pack?”

“I came alone.”

“How can I trust that?” Derek glances down at Stiles and Stiles tries to give him some kind of look like please don't do something fucking stupid that actually, probably looks more like oh God we're gonna die and Karlin takes it for an answer. He croons softly, “Ah, I was right—“ but Derek interrupts him, voice low and furious.

“I kept my end of the deal, Karlin. Time for you to keep yours.”

Karlin chuckles, like Derek and him are just adorable or something, like this isn't a life or death situation. A life or death situation! Literally the calm before the very, very bad storm, the moment of now or never, and it lifts some of the dread seizing Stiles' body and fills his pounding heart with adrenaline.

“Derek!” he yells.

Derek looks down and Stiles tries to force some of that urgency he's feeling into his expression. Then he kicks up hard with both knees, right into Karlin's back. Karlin makes a hollow, winded sound and lurches forwards, hand pulling away from Stiles' throat to catch his fall against the ground by Stiles' shoulder, a sharp pain where his claws skip shallowly against Stiles' skin.

Then he's gone, the warmth of him over Stiles' body knocked away by Derek smacking into him and replaced by freezing air. Stiles immediately scrabbles back, tries to pull up unsteadily to his feet. He sees them both, rolling in the dirt, Derek flipping Karlin over and tearing into his chest with his claws until Karlin regains his breath and starts to fight back.

All Stiles can see is blood, slick and dark in the moonlight, painting the leaves and so much of it—too much of it—is Derek's.

Karlin hits Derek right in the center of his chest and Derek goes falling back against the solid trunk of a tree like he weighs nothing at all. He dodges Karlin's claws, gets a square punch to the jaw that even Stiles can hear, ducks Karlin's attempt to actually bite his throat and Stiles can see it, Karlin becoming less and less human, fading out and turning feral and dark, shifting into something Derek has no chance of surviving.

Derek's going to die and this truly is Stiles' last chance.

Once I grow familiar with a mind, Stiles, I develop a connection to it, a bond.

Like a flip of a switch and with the kind of confident clarity he sees things come together when he's working out a mystery, Stiles becomes aware of it: Karlin in his head, the journey of Karlin's soul inside his dreams, and if it works one way—

He squeezes his eyes shut against the searing pain splitting open his head, focuses with everything he's got left and yanks.

Karlin comes screaming, thrashing, tearing at Stiles' mind. Stiles feels everything he feels, the panic and rage and bone-deep sadness carved deep by time, all of it terrible, a storming chaos that might send him insane.

He thinks he might be falling to his knees, also thinks he might be straining to clear his vision, blinking out burning tears from his eyes.

He can see Karlin's body crumple to the ground like a string-cut puppet—oh the irony—and Derek's shock, Derek's eyes seeking Stiles out. He calls out weakly, “Derek,” and chokes back a scream, Karlin's soul railing harder, the pain unbearable. “Derek, I—I got him—you can—you can kill him.“

Derek gets it. He gets down on one knee over Karlin's empty shell, places his claws across Karlin's jugular and tears through flesh and vein, ripping deep, bleeding him quickly. “Stiles? Are you okay?”

Stiles grinds out, “Fuck. Fuck no, I—I don't think he's dead.”

“Wait, hold on,” Derek says frantically, pulls a flick knife out of his pocket and stabs it hard into Karlin's heart again and again, every blow like a searing punch through Stiles' body, part of him dying right along with Karlin. He feels the moment Karlin realizes it's over, that his physical body is gone, a crippling grief, a hopeless tide of it.

“What have you done to me?”

“Killed you. How's it feel to have the tables turned, asshole?”

God, despite the pain he's in, Stiles feels so fucking smug right now.

“You're only hurting yourself here, Stiles!”

“And how's that, shitlord?”

“Without me it dies! Without my magic, the bond between you and Derek is gone!”

Deaton said that letting go would be the hardest part, but he can, Stiles can let him go, finally get this bastard out of their lives forever—

“Can't you feel him pulling away already? He walked away from you, Stiles—“

Except Karlin has access to his memories here, his biggest weaknesses. Stiles has just given him free rein inside his own mind.

“—you told him you needed him and he walked away.”

“I know what you're doing, it's not gonna work.”

Except it is.

Like a slick black thing, corrosive and toxic. It slips between the cracks, opens them up, gets in. Burns and burns and then tears, Stiles pushes and Karlin digs in, fish-hooks in his brain matter. The more he pushes, the worse it hurts. Karlin claws through Stiles’ emotional catalogue and pulls out everything raw and tender and shines a spotlight over every flaw, forcing Stiles to see them all. He sags to the ground, fingers scratching in the mud, blinded by grief and anger and the awful sensation of being completely alone. His mom's heart monitor levelling out to a flat whine, his dad vanishing without a trace, calling and calling but Scott won't pick up the phone—

—Derek telling him, “When this is over, nothing is going to be the same.”

“I can keep it alive. Just let me stay, don't eject me, let me regain my strength and when I have, I'll move on, I'll possess an animal, something small, I'll leave Beacon Hills and never return. Your friends will be safe, Derek will be safe, I promise!”

It's slimy and cold and wrong, so wrong, what Karlin's offering. But Stiles is at his mercy, paralyzed in the dirt and shaking, weak and wanting. He wants—God, he wants so bad—

“Stiles!”

He wrenches his head up at warmth against his neck. Derek. Derek kneeling on the ground with him, one hand cupped around his jaw. Stiles is babbling, a stream of consciousness he can hardly hear but he can feel his lips moving, his throat humming. The words, “I can't, I can't, I can't—“ over and over and over again, Karlin pushing on his memories, a frozen-cold grip around his heart.

“Don't you want this?”

Stiles reaches out a shaking hand and curls it in the front of Derek's t-shirt.

“Stiles? Stiles, look at me,” Derek says, sounds wrecked. “Can you hear me?” Stiles nods, it's all he can do. “You have to push him out, you have to. He's—he's killing you, Stiles, please—“ He's never heard Derek beg, never even imagined—Karlin's barbs hooked in his emotions come loose. “I need you to push him out, I can't—“

Derek's eyes are wide and bright, his chest rises and falls dramatically under Stiles' curled fist. He grips Stiles' shoulder and the back of his neck, buries a hand in his hair.

“I can't lose you.”

A second, two, three, of terrifying silence. Then a solid weight settles in around his heart, anchoring him; that's what it feels like, an anchor. Derek's here and Derek needs him and Stiles won't lose himself to Karlin.

“Looks like I already got it, you bag of dicks.”

Karlin clings and clings but Stiles gives him the mental version of a punch, feeling the flex and satisfying hit of it inside his head. Karlin screams go faint until they're nothing, just wind, Stiles’ mind wiping clean for the first time in months and the relief is so sudden and enormous he almost does actually throw up.

He groans and slumps against Derek's body and clutches his head but for once, it's not out of pain.

“Stiles?”

Derek keeps saying his name and Stiles just wants to hear it like, five or six hundred more times before he interrupts.

“Yup. All me,” he chokes out eventually, forehead resting against Derek's collarbone.

“Oh, thank God.”

“He's gone.” It doesn't feel real, even saying it over and over, “He's gone, he's gone—“

Derek pushes Stiles back gently, hands on his shoulders, to look him in the eye. He's frowning, his mouth's all parted, he looks like he can't believe Stiles is real. “I thought you were gonna d—“

“Yeah,” Stiles says quickly; he doesn't wanna hear Derek say it out loud because he'd been thinking the same about Derek, he gets it well enough. “Yeah, me too.”

Derek's gaze drags over Stiles' face and neck, catching on the various aches and pains that Stiles assumes are evidence of Karlin's aggression. “You look like hell.”

Stiles coughs a laugh, damn, it feels good. “Well fuck you, we can't all have your healing powers.”

Derek exhales a sigh that sounds like a laugh. He cups Stiles' face and tips their foreheads together. “Can you stand or do you need me to carry you?”

“You better be joking.”

Then Derek presses forward, lips dragging against Stiles' cheek, right over the place Karlin hit him. Stiles feels Derek's fingers shaking in his hair, the trail of damp and soft breath he mouths across Stiles' face, the sheer desperation in his touch—if not the lightning buzz from before.

“It's gone,” Stiles says against the corner of Derek's mouth.

Derek nudges his nose against Stiles', slips his other hand under Stiles' t-shirt and up, curling against the curve of Stiles' ribs. “I don't care.”

“Me neither,” he agrees and actually means it.

He tilts his head into a kiss just as good, just as gratifying, as any other and so much more important. Derek licks into him, fingers flexing against his skin. He feels rough and unraveled, like he's spent the last couple of hours being slowly picked apart.

“You were right earlier. I was terrified,” he says, pushing the words between Stiles' lips. “I don't like being scared, Stiles. I don't like having reasons to be afraid. And you're just one walking reason.”

Stiles chokes a bit, he wasn't quite ready for that one. “Yeah, I get that. That gonna be a problem?”

“Probably.”

He takes a shot. “Worth it, though.”

Derek pulls in a hard breath and Stiles holds his own, waiting on the answer. He doesn't know how long, five, maybe ten seconds, a frayed thread of stress settling in across Stiles' shoulders. And then Derek nods slowly and Stiles closes his eyes, swallows down the spit gathering under his tongue and exhales. He sucks Derek's bottom lip between his teeth because some kind of urgent tremble is trying to break out across his mouth, he feels a little hysterical.

Stiles touches his fingertips to Derek's chin, rough against his beard. “Okay. Okay. That's. That's good.”

They take some time, Stiles' legs feel wobbly under him and Derek's inhaling him in that subtly animal way he does and Stiles thinks maybe they just need a damn minute, both of them, to get their shit together before standing up becomes a possibility. The full moon shines out from behind the clouds and bathes them in silver and he feels his whole body shake out one huge shiver of tension.

Stiles pulls back, feels like he can finally hold something resembling a solid expression on his face without it shattering into a million pieces. “Please tell me you didn't run here.”

“Car's parked on the road.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

Derek moves to stand up, dragging Stiles up with him and holding him steady when he sways on his feet, exhaustion and relief battling with adrenaline trying to make him crash. He thinks he'd quite like to hug Derek right now, just wrap his arms around Derek's neck and cuddle the crap out of him and he realizes, fuck it, we nearly died, I can do whatever the hell I want and just aggressively tackles him. Derek moves into it instantly, arms slipping tight around his waist, pulling Stiles up against him and pressing out all the space between them.

He's solid and alive and Stiles can hardly process what he almost lost, it hovers there in his peripheral vision like a fork in the path, a too-close maybe he can still see the graying shades of. He clings tighter, doesn't feel like he's ever gonna get close enough to push the shadows out.

“That was incredible,” Derek says eventually, words gentle against Stiles' ear. “What you just did. You saved my life.”

It penetrates like few compliments ever really do, because it's true and Stiles feels like he's really fucking earned this one. Saving Derek's life is pretty high on his list of really awesome stuff to do. Plus, this is Derek Hale—the king of grudging and back-handed praise—using the word incredible and it does things to Stiles' stomach, twisting him inside out and splitting him open.

“Yeah, well, you came here to martyr yourself, you idiot,” he says, voice scratched-up rough, feels like he's thundering at a hundred miles per hour around an emotional roller coaster.

Derek's voice goes light, a soothing balm to Stiles' edges. “Honestly? Yeah. But I kinda hoped you'd have a plan to get us out of it.”

It takes him a second to hear the words and Stiles pulls back. “You—you hoped I'd have a plan?”

Derek gives him a withering look. “You usually have a plan.”

“You actually trusted me to save the day?” Stiles asks dryly. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I think I must be.” Derek smirks. “I'm thinking about dating you and you're just all sorts of trouble.”

Stiles’ mouth shuts with a click. He's not gonna smile, not gonna give Derek the benefit of knowing Stiles finds him funny and adorable and ridiculously good looking and—

—and it's too much like hard work, so Stiles kisses him again.

It's way better.

 

 

fin

Chapter Text

Deaton shines a light in his left eye. Then his right. Then he flicks it between the two until Stiles gets dizzy and makes a pitiful noise like eugh.

Scott's tearing Derek a new one somewhere at the back of the clinic but Stiles can tell without looking that Derek isn't the least bit sorry. Wouldn't be surprised if he was stood with his arms folded, rolling his eyes; the full package of Hale bull-headedness.

“We're a pack, we're supposed to do this stuff together! Do you have any idea what we thought when you disappeared—“

“I didn't have time to think about it, okay? Karlin said now, and he said alone—“

“We could have made a plan!”

“We did make a plan, and it was a disaster.”

“What happened to thinking things through and being cautious, huh?”

It goes around and around like that while Stiles tries not to be sick on Deaton's shoes.

“What's the damage, doc?” he asks hoarsely.

Lydia rubs a hand across Stiles' shoulder reassuringly; she's that one hand on him the entire time they've been here like she thinks he might poof out of thin air if she doesn't keep him on a leash. She's shaken up, quiet and watchful and moving stiffly like she's not sure she's still fundamentally herself anymore; Stiles can sympathize.

“Honestly? I'm not sure. You seem okay but it's difficult to tell what goes on inside the mind.”

“We're winging it, then?”

Deaton gives him a small, wry smile. “Something like that, yes. How are you feeling?”

Cut up, bleeding, bruised, jostled, aching. His head feels split down the middle. He's frozen down to his bones.

But everyone lived, so dammit if he doesn't feel somewhat smug.

“Like I could sleep for six months.”

“You probably need it. It's the only thing I can really recommend, plenty of rest.”

He intends to do a lot of that for the foreseeable future. No monsters, no woods, no mortal danger. Although if he's being realistic, Stiles will be lucky if that lasts six weeks, let alone six months. What he does intend to do a lot of, however, is Derek. So that's an upside.

The second he'd gotten through the clinic door, it'd been hug-city; a sheer chaos of Deaton trying to wrangle him up onto a table to check him over while he and Scott stuck, leech-like, to one another the entire time. Derek had given him the space, armfuls of Cora to contend with, but Stiles can't quite smother down the urge to check every few minutes to make sure he's still here and he's not even gonna feel the least bit embarrassed about it; Derek nearly died tonight after all.

Finally, Deaton cleans the triple set of claw lines on Stiles' neck with antiseptic. They sting like a motherfucker and he hisses air through his teeth, fisting his hands tight in his lap.

Scott sidles up in front of him, stern-face firmly in place. “You're lucky I don't strangle you, dude. Don't you ever disappear on me like that again, I'm serious.”

“Less disappearing, more getting kidnapped, Scott.”

“Whatever, all I'm saying is—“

“Not really whatever! It's a pretty big distinction!”

“All I'm saying is,” Scott repeats louder. “You'll be lucky if I let you out of my sight again for the next fifty years.”

Stiles looks at him, really looks at him, at the stiff way he's holding himself and the little groove between his eyebrows that looks permanently embedded, and drops his gaze to his lap. “So. Think we'll still be doing this in fifty years?” he asks softly and waits.

It takes a few seconds but Scott finally huffs a laugh. “Old man werewolf?”

“And his old man human wingman, you bet.”

“I'll still be keeping an eye on you.”

Stiles quirks a half-smile up at him. “Yeah, likewise, buddy.”

“Might wanna keep the other one on Derek,” Scott says and then, louder, “we need all the eyes we can get on Derek,” and Stiles looks across the room and watches Derek purse his lips.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Give him a break, dude. It's not like you've never bolted without an explanation before and worried me half to death.”

“That was then. Things are gonna be different from now on,” Scott says decisively. “I gotta, y'know, alpha up. Take charge and stuff. We need rules and, like, strategies and, y'know, crap like that.”

Derek comes up behind him, clapping a hand over Scott's shoulder and squeezing. “Crap like that, sounds legitimate.”

Scott ignores him. “Rule number one, nobody runs off without at least one other member of the pack knowing where they're going.”

“We're implementing a buddy system?” Lydia asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Do we have to hold hands?” Cora adds.

Scott is decidedly unimpressed with the lot of them but before he can chew them out, the front doors to the clinic open with what sounds like the force of a bear charging through them.

“Where, is he? Where's my—“ It's his dad's voice and Allison close on the sheriff's heels. The second he sees Stiles, he actually does charge him, wrapping both arms around him like he hasn't seen him in months, like he thought maybe he never would again. “Stiles.”

Stiles notices everyone shuffle away, giving them space.

“I'm okay, Dad,” Stiles mumbles into the sheriff jacket. He's told his dad this twenty-five billion times already on the phone in Derek's car but he can't stop saying it now, moisture leaking from his eyes so he squeezes them shut tight and rubs his face against his dad's shoulder to scrub away the tears and quite possibly snot. “I'm okay.”

“I should've been there, I should never have left for work.”

“Stop it,” Stiles says sharply. “Don't start doing that, I mean it, I'll get so mad, don't even test me.”

His dad huffs a laugh against his ear and hugs him tighter. He pulls back, holds Stiles' face and examines him. “You look like hell, kiddo.”

“Yeah, thanks, so everyone keeps telling me.”

“Is—is Karlin, y'know?”

“He's gone. For good.”

“I swear, I half wish he wasn't just so I could kill him myself.”

Stiles gives him a dry look. “Sorry, Dad, me and Derek beat you to it. Which I think is only fair since we were the one he was continually being an asshole to.”

“Definitely fair. And, uhh—“ He turns, spots Derek and takes a few slow steps towards him, Derek watching, stock-still and carefully neutral. “Derek.” His dad holds out a hand. “Thank you for bringing back my son.”

Derek doesn't react much for a second—Stiles sees his eyes go a fraction wider but that's all. Then he nods, reaches out and shakes the sheriff's hand and Stiles exhales slowly, feeling a little light-headed. There's not a lot that could surprise him anymore but that one pretty much filled his quota for the night.

“Now, if you'll excuse me.” His dad looks at Deaton. “I'd really like to take him home now.”

Deaton smiles. “Be my guest, Sheriff.”

In the resulting disorder that follows, everyone makes a move to leave; except Stiles, his ass firmly planted on the table and very little inclination to be otherwise until he absolutely has to. His dad quietly interrogates Deaton at the back of the room in that way where he doesn't want Stiles to know he's talking about him and while Stiles is straining to hear, Allison blind sides him a little by slipping her arms around his neck for a brief hug.

“Good to have you back.”

“It was touch and go there for a while. Miss me?”

She makes a non-committal noise and Stiles nudges her until she laughs. “I might have shed a tear, just the one.”

“That's 'cause you love me.”

“Maybe a little bit.”

“What happened at the house? Everyone's tiptoeing around it, s'like they think I'm about to have a meltdown.”

“Are you?” she asks seriously. He shrugs and doesn't really have an answer; these things rarely hit him full-force until he's alone, usually in bed and in the dark—optimal time for a small nervous breakdown. “Lydia was screaming. It was—it was bad. She wouldn't stop, we thought for sure you must be dead. One of your neighbors called the police, that's how your dad found out you were missing. He sent out an entire patrol looking for you, me, Isaac and my dad went along to help. And then Derek disappeared, I thought he was gonna go do something so stupid, he was just—even Scott couldn't calm him down.”

“Pretty bad, then?” Stiles asks weakly and Allison scoffs.

“Just a little.”

“So. What now?”

She looks almost as lost as he feels. “I don't know. I guess we go home, rest up, and wait for the next one.”

“Sure you don't miss sitting on the bench?”

She glances around, gaze sticking on Scott, and when she speaks, it's soft and indirect. “It's our choice to be here in the end, right?”

Stiles considers it. No, this one wasn't his choice, but if it had been, if it'd been one of the others possessed by Karlin, trying to murder Derek, he'd be here just the same, front line and facing down the oncoming volley of gunfire like he always is.

“D'you think we have a chance?” she asks him, eyes still on Scott and she's clearly not talking about Beacon Hills and its disproportionate draw of nasties.

“Scott thinks so.”

“Scott's optimistic.”

“Okay, well, I'm not. You know me, I'm like, the guy with the bell screaming the end is nigh from street corners,” he says and watches Derek across the room. “And I think so too. I think if there's even a half a chance, then you should take it. Could work out.”

She gives him a sweet half-smile. “Take care of yourself, Stiles. Don't make me and Lydia come over and force-feed you more cookies.”

“Yes ma'am.”

He hugs her and Scott goodbye, watches Deaton go over a checklistwith his dad, listens to Lydia make plans to go back to the loft with Cora for the night, and eventually catches Derek's eye.

Wasn't hard, Derek was already looking.

“What're they saying?” Stiles asks, gesturing to Deaton when Derek steps close.

“Something about brain damage.”

Stiles swats him. “Dude, not cool.”

“I'm serious! Deaton's giving your dad the number of a neurologist, wants you to get checked over.”

“Well that's incredibly worrying.”

“Think it's just a precaution, your dad's panicking, that's all.”

Stiles would disagree, thinks it might be more to do with his mom than panic but he doesn't say that, doesn't have the energy for that right now but it occurs to him that he will tell Derek that one day, he'll share that painful part of himself willingly. “So you think I'll live?”

Derek gives him a glance up and down. “You better.” Stiles face cracks into a grin before he can help it and he shakes his head, Derek giving him the raised-eyebrows of Derek-sign that mean what?

“It's bizarre hearing you say stuff like that.”

“It was two words.”

He lowers his voice to a murmur. “Fuck me is only two words but it still—yeah, see.” Stiles points a finger at the faintest twitch of Derek's lips. “Still makes you react.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta thing for ridiculous so I think I'm gonna be oka—”

“And could you maybe not say things like that with your dad in the room?”

“What? Fuck me or talk about your thing.”

“Aren't you supposed to be traumatized right now?”

Stiles twists his mouth into a wry grimace. “It'll hit me later, trust me. S'how it usually works.”

Derek frowns, looks like he has something to say on the subject but the sheriff beats him to it, business card tucked in his front pocket and some folded papers in one hand. He spares Derek an odd look before asking Stiles, “You ready to go?”

He hops down off the table and looks awkwardly between his dad and Derek. “Well, I guess I'll—“

“I'll see you later,” Derek finishes and then cringes. “If you need anything—“

“Yeah. I'll—“

The sheriff folds his arms and Stiles feels the pressure in the near vicinity rise to painful levels. “Really boys? Really?” Stiles looks at him in alarm, nerves tightening and he could really do without it. Then his dad turns to an equally startled Derek. “If you're coming inside my house tonight, I want you using the front door like a normal human being.”

It takes a few seconds, Derek opens his twice in an aborted attempt at speech and it takes until he says, “Yes, sir,” for Stiles to really catch up.

“Wh—dad?” is about as articulate as he feels, heart doing a weird swoop.

“You think I don't know you two have been sleeping over for weeks now? I'm the sheriff, son, I'm not an idiot. And I expect you not to be too, if you get my meaning.”

Derek gives the floor one huge, wide-eyed look of horror but it vanishes faster than Stiles can get his wits about him and he stands up straight, looks his dad straight in the eye and nods it out like a fucking boss. Stiles is insanely proud, as well as completely mortified but whatever.

“I have to get Cora and Lydia back to mine first though,” Derek says, catching Stiles' eye and he realizes he hasn't actually contributed to this conversation yet. “It's a forty-five minute round trip, you're exhausted.”

The sheriff claps one hand against Derek's shoulder. “Just knock. I won't be getting any sleep. I've got pages of reports to write up about our shapeshifter and somehow I have to come up with enough plausible lies to explain what happened tonight in, oh—” He checks his watch. “Six hours.”

“Say it was all my fault, that usually goes down pretty well,” Stiles suggests.

His dad throws an arm around Stiles and starts to steer him towards the door. “There's only so many times I'm gonna be able to get away with that before they actually throw you in jail.”

Derek walks with them to the reception. He says a hushed, “I won't be long,” to Stiles, head tipped down towards him, all of him just soft and sweet and private; it's enough to make Stiles' knees go weak.

Outside in the parking lot, Stiles leans heavy against his dad and tells him, “Thanks,” and “I love you,” and makes a private promise that he's gonna say those two things at least bi-weekly as long as he lives.

***

He wakes up with a jolt—

—breath catching in his throat, ribs constricting, can't be, it fucking can't—

“Stiles, shh, it's me.”

It's dark, he's on his back and there's something leaning over him, something blocking the moonlight from the window; a black shape haloed in silver. He feels something warm press against his pounding heart—an open palm.

“It's just me, just me.”

Stiles chokes out, “Derek?” but in his head it's black eyes, lipless mouths, pain and cold and terror and he can't—he can't do it again, it'll kill him.

Derek stays right there, hovering over Stiles. He presses their foreheads together and runs his thumb against Stiles' cheek over and over until the fog clears, the black eyes recede back into the dark. He's shaking and nauseous, head aching, and Derek's whispering soft sentiments, “sshh,” and “I got you,” and “you're safe.” Touching Stiles like he can still take away the pain.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, until Stiles' chest can rise and fall evenly again, until his heart rate slows under Derek's hand. He inhales leather and pine and remembers, feels the steady presence of Derek like a familiar anchor.

He reaches up slowly, limbs heavy, and rubs at his eyes, realizing his hair's damp and he's only wearing boxers. All he remembers is getting home, almost falling asleep in the shower and then collapsing onto his bed, immediately passing out.

“Time's it?”

“Almost four,” Derek whispers in the dark, slipping off his jacket and what sounds like his shoes, the faint scrape of a zip and rough noise of folding denim. “Go back to sleep.”

Stiles doesn't say anything, just watches Derek move with the curious sensation that everything's happening in slow motion. He climbs carefully over Stiles' body and drags the comforter from the bottom of the bed up and over them both. Stiles rolls onto his side with all the speed of sixteen ton boulder, feels too heavy and his senses all confused and overwhelmed to move much more than that.

“Derek,” he chokes out again hoarsely.

“Yeah?”

It wasn't really a question, he doesn't know why he said it, just needed to say it out loud or something, give it some weight and fact; Derek's name in this room, Derek's name in the quiet dark, Derek's name on Stiles' lips. There are no words that can make it through his throat to express what he's feeling right now, something a little too swollen inside him and taking up so much room.

He swallows thickly and tries not to stutter. “Nothing.”

Derek shuffles closer, sliding an arm across Stiles' body and curling fingers against the skin at the bottom of his back. Stiles closes his eyes and feels Derek's breath on his nose and he thinks I can't lose you so loud he's surprised Derek can't hear it.

***

It's two in the afternoon before Stiles wakes up.

Derek wants to use his computer but Stiles wants some fresh air and deservedly, Stiles ends up winning. Derek says there's only one official breakfast—“I don't care what time it is, you just woke up so it's breakfast, shut up,”—allowed for sick days. And that's pancakes.

“Not that I'm complaining,” Stiles starts—because he's not, he's really not complaining; if Derek wants to drive them out to a diner and buy them pancakes for breakfast then Stiles is going to enjoy the ever-loving fuck out of them, “but who wrote this official rule?”

“Laura.”

“She used to feed you pancakes when you were sick?”

Derek shrugs, sipping his coffee. “She wasn't all that responsible when we were younger.”

“No, but it sounds like she was hella awesome.”

“It was just our thing, didn't you have things with your mom?”

It's not even weird, that Derek can ask questions like that now. Stiles doesn't even flinch, just shoves his mouth full with another small pile of pancake bits and considers the question. “When my dad worked the nightshift, we'd stay up late and watch—“ He pauses to grin around his food. “It's kinda weird but we used to watch stuff like The Twilight Zone and Tales From The Crypt.”

“Explains a lot.”

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “Doesn't it?”

Derek swallows down his food, licks the syrup off his bottom lip distractingly and asks, “That what you thought when Scott got bitten? That'd it'd be like a TV show?”

He considers it. “I admit, I thought it would make a pretty epic superhero origin story.”

“Like Spiderman but with wolves instead of radioactive insects?” Derek smirks over the rim off his coffee cup.

“And without the spandex bodysuit. I love the guy but that would just make me uncomfortable.” Stiles yawns, big enough for his jaw to crack, and Derek narrows his eyes warily. “Don't! Don't even—if you ask me if I'm tired, I'm gonna—“

“Gonna what?”

“Make you wish you hadn't,” he finishes lamely.

Derek leans back in his chair. “And how're you gonna do that?”

“Talk excessively and with massive TMI about my childhood.”

“Be my guest, I wanna know.”

Stiles cocks his head, a little bloom of heat spreading under his ribs. “Really?”

“You know that's pretty normal, right?”

“Normal for—“ Stiles trails off, wants to make Derek say it. It's different here in the day, tucked up against the window with the sun glaring off the snow-covered ground, no post-near-death experiences to hide behind, and Stiles wants to see how far he can push, see where they're at now that everything's calmed down. Derek rolls his eyes and sighs, shifty in his seat, and yeah, he's embarrassed, Stiles has actually managed to fluster him. “Aww, look atchu. It's okay if you can't say it, Derek. We can't all be out and proud.”

“Oh my God.” Derek presses a hand against his eyes.

“Can I call you Shy Wolf from now on?”

“If you wanna walk home, sure.”

“Did I say Shy Wolf? I meant Fly Wolf.”

Derek haughtily picks up his coffee mug and takes a sip like he's trying to prove a point. Stiles grins, he can't help it.

“So, what d'you wanna do for the rest of the day?” Derek asks eventually after some endless period of staring that starts to make Stiles' hands feel tingly.

A molten glob of heat slicks about in his stomach. “Hmm, what can we do?” he faux-ponders, scratching his chin. “What. Can. We. Do?”

Derek leans forward, elbows on the table. His eyes go dark, mouth parting, it looks frankly obscene in such a public place and Stiles wonders why nobody's told them to take it somewhere else yet. He realizes it's because this is what he refers to in his head as Derek's naked face, stripped down to the bare bones and far too private for a diner. Stiles wants to get up and cover Derek with his body so no-one else can see; they've no damn right, Stiles is the sole protector of Derek's naked face, he's just made the executive decision.

“Come on,” Derek says and starts to stand and Stiles is so with him, a heavy throb in his dick foreshadowing a serious and inappropriate hard-on any minute now; it's been too long, far too long, fucking sorcerers and near death experiences seriously cutting into his orgasm time.

They're halfway across the diner parking lot when Derek abruptly turns to face Stiles mid-step, gripping his wrist and pulling him close and licking inside his mouth like he owns the thing. Stiles fists his hands in Derek's hair and arches close, thrills at the thought of people looking out the windows and seeing them like this—like a couple of horny, love-struck idiots trying to stumble their way home whilst sealed at the mouth.

Stiles' back hits the Camaro and Derek presses into him, hands tight on his hips. He holds Stiles just so, angled where he wants him, and grinds one firm, lazy thrust between Stiles' legs that has Stiles gasping.

“Derek,” Stiles whines—actually whines. “Unless you're about to get on your knees and blow me in front of a dozen people eating a late lunch, we really need to get the hell in the car like yesterday.”

Derek mouths at the corner of Stiles' lips, rubs his thumbs against Stiles' sides, murmurs, “You want me to blow you in the car?” and Stiles wants to make some un-Godly noise of Hellish frustration and drop his pants here and now and tell Derek to have at him, whatever the hell he wants to do, fuck the CCTV camera footage his dad has a very good chance of coming across when they get deservedly arrested for public indecency.

Stiles tips his head back and away, trying to get some air in his lungs that doesn't smell like Derek and sex. “Jesus Christ, you—I could—“ He gives up with a rough sigh and lets his head fall back until he can see the sky.

“I'm not normally like this,” Derek tells him in a low voice and Stiles swallows, Derek's lips moving over his Adam's Apple as it bobs. “In public like this, I don't—it's just you. This is pretty tacky.” Stiles barks a laugh, feeling dizzy and delighted by the admission and so fucking desperate he could cry. “I don't even care. What've you done to me?” Derek asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“My reckless, horny teenage boy hormones must be addling your wolf-senses.”

Derek makes a non-committal noise. “Or it could be something to do with this,” he says, one hand pawing Stiles' ass and dragging them together, half-hard dick on half-hard dick and far too many layers of denim in between. “Or this,” he goes on, cupping Stiles' jaw and pressing a thumb to his bottom lip, dragging Stiles' mouth open and kissing him, trailing his lips across Stiles' cheek until he feels melted and disorientated, a barely-standing pile of mush.

He asks, dazedly, “Are you kissing my mole?”

And Derek blatantly lies, “No.”

“Oh my God, get in the—“ Stiles pushes at Derek shoulders. “Get in the car, I'm so serious right now.”

Derek stumbles back all loose and amused and grinning that smile that Stiles once admitted to loving what feels like years ago but was actually more like last week. He does, however, head to the driver side of the car, so Stiles considers it a double win.

“It's totally weird just sitting in a car acting normal when I know that I'm going home to get thoroughly fucked,” Stiles finds himself saying, mouth on full autopilot now in some desperate attempt to cling to words to stop from vibrating out of his skin.

Derek slants him a look. “That what we're doing?”

“If that's all good with you, then yes, I'd really like to get fucked today.”

Derek does this five second pause, a smirk on his mouth that Stiles suspects is smug as hell. “It's good. I got an idea anyway.”

Stiles' heart kicks and skips and his stomach does flipping, sickening somersaults. “You gotta what now?”

But Derek won't tell him and Stiles is seriously about to come inside his jeans just from the expression on Derek's stupid face. Stiles calls him an asshole six times and Derek laughs and says, “Yeah,” like Stiles is actually complimenting him; which he kind of is and isn't that just their relationship neatly summed up?

He fumbles his keys into the front door lock, breaks the line of mountain ash across the threshold and reassembles the whole security system so impatiently anyone would think he hadn't been kidnapped from this very house and almost killed yesterday. He turns to Derek in the hall and feels time stop and stretch, sealing them up tight in a bubble separated from the rest of the world.

Derek slips two fingers into the neck of Stiles' hoodie and pulls him close, drops his hands to the hem and tugs it up and over Stiles' head in one smooth motion. After that it's pretty much on, Stiles' hands on Derek's belt and Derek's palms spreading wide and greedy up the back of Stiles' t-shirt.

He tosses the belt somewhere with a loud clatter, kicks off his shoes and hears Derek do the same, wrestles Derek out of his jacket, trying to keep his tongue in Derek's mouth the entire time and when that fails, at least somewhere on his skin, his jaw, his throat, the soft ripple over his thundering pulse. Stiles spots the stairs and pushes Derek into a messy sprawl across the bottom four, throwing down onto one knee on the step between Derek's splayed legs and looming over him. He slides both hands into Derek's hair and rocks against him, Derek turning his face up and pulling in stuttering breaths inches from Stiles' hovering mouth.

Stiles doesn't close the gap, just stays right there and watches Derek's damp lips parting under him, the smudge of his eyelashes against his cheeks where he's watching Stiles' mouth right back. Derek's so hot against him, Stiles can feel the shape of him completely hard in his jeans.

Derek's sort of mumbling against him through the haze of Stiles' delirium, “Stiles,” and Stiles finally pulls back just enough to take in all of him, loose and hard and spread across Stiles' stairs like some kind of delicious spread on a cracker.

“Yeah?” he asks dumbly and Derek blind sides him like a sneaky bastard by yanking off Stiles' t-shirt while there's room.

“I'm not fucking you on the stairs.”

Stiles takes a couple seconds to right himself, gravity gone all warpy and lopsided while he was busy with more important things. Then he blurts out, “Race you,” and scrambles over Derek's body to crawl up the stairs. He wonders if he did it because he knows how fast Derek is, but it's pretty much confirmed when Derek grabs his ankle and drags him down three steps into a half-kneeling sprawl, boxes him in against the carpet with both palms to either side of Stiles' shoulders and grinds his dick against Stiles' ass through his jeans.

He breathes rough against the back of Stiles' neck, “Nice try,” and Stiles pushes back into it, ducks his head low so Derek can get at more of his skin with that mouth and all that scratchy stubble.

“Thought you said we weren't doin' it on the stairs,” Stiles goads, hitching and soft, and Derek strokes a hand down his body, curving around his waist and down between his legs. Stiles pushes into it, “Yeah, come on,” because he's beyond desperate at this point, covered in Derek like a blanket, the smell of him everywhere.

Derek rubs against his dick with a broad palm. “I said I'm not fucking you on the stairs.”

Stiles' knees feel weak, his arms shaky from propping himself up. Derek drags down Stiles' zipper, tugs at his waistband until cool air hits his cock and then it's gone, Derek's hand wrapped around him and all his muscles tensing painfully with the suddenness of it.

“Jesus.”

He pushes into the tight circle of Derek's fist a few times, turning his head over his shoulder to get at Derek's mouth. Derek kisses him but just for a second and he's gone, Stiles making a pathetic little whimpering noise like wha—bu— that sounds ridiculous.

And then Derek shushes him, jacks his dick nice and slow and kisses the top of Stiles' spine all open-mouthed and wet and it's good, so good Stiles can only clench his fists in the carpet and hold on. He realizes, hazy as he is, around half a minute later that Derek's tongue is three quarters of the way down his back and still moving and Derek's shuffling down the steps and Stiles has a moment of blinding holyshit where he almost comes just from sheer adrenaline.

“Fuck, Derek—“ Derek; Derek who's guiding one of Stiles' knees gently onto a higher step, Derek who's mouth is sucking sloppy kisses into the base of Stiles' back, working Stiles' jeans down his thighs. He's spread open already, air hitting shocking against his ass, all his skin violently pricking up into goosebumps.

“Stiles,” Derek says lightly, the smug little bastard, rubbing his chin against Stiles' skin and making him feel raw. He thumbs the head of Stiles' dick and Stiles groans, tries to push into it but Derek shakes his head, Stiles feels it against his back. “Uh-uh, can't get come all over your dad's hall carpet.”

“Oh, I fucking hate you,” Stiles grinds out through his teeth and feel Derek's teeth against his skin like a grin turning into a soft bite and then Derek's lips sucking down, down, one hand gripping Stiles' ass cheek and spreading him wide open, Derek's tongue flat against his balls and swiping all the way up in one smooth, slow drag. “Holy fuck, I take that back.”

Seems good enough for Derek; glorious Derek whose mouth Stiles wants to build an altar to the way he's tonguing against Stiles' hole, sucking softly, all of Stiles' over-sensitive nerves there firing off and a hot ache throbbing through his entire pelvis in time with his racing heart. He can hear blood rushing in his ears and his head feels too heavy so he drops his forehead to his fist in the carpet, getting dizzy off his own warm, recycled breath.

Derek palms the spit dripping down his balls and uses it to slick up his dick in slow, loose strokes. He presses a thumb against Stiles' hole alongside the wet tip of his tongue, slipping both past the ring of muscle until he's fucking Stiles into a slippery kind of Heaven and it doesn't matter than he's hardly touching Stiles' dick because he's pretty sure he could come from this alone.

And he almost does, every muscle in his body seizing just before Derek pulls back; pulls him back, stroking both hands up and down Stiles' back, stretching back over him and kissing his shoulder.

“Oh, God, just—just fuck me here, seriously,” he manages to whine.

“Too messy, come on.”

Derek has to physically help him roll onto his back while Stiles wrestles his jeans up just enough that he can climb the rest of the stairs—gross feeling of spit between his legs that really shouldn't be this insanely hot. His knees are shaking, Derek's flushed and barely-restrained, breathing like he's run miles and this wild look in his pupil-swallowed eyes and they stumble against the hall rails, Stiles' shaking hands pushing up into Derek's shirt until it's falling over the side and landing on the steps.

They make it into Stiles' room and he immediately presses Derek back against the door, can't bear to not be touching all that skin right now and there's even more under Derek's jeans and boxers so Stiles' addled brain figures out that's the next place to tackle. He shimmies and kicks off his own in the process of battling with Derek's in an impressive display of multi-tasking and all while Derek's got both hands firmly buried in Stiles' hair, mounting a physical assault on the inside of Stiles' mouth with his tongue.

He thinks he's muttering, “Bed, get to the—come on, bed—“ or something like that, definitely the word bed, and Derek grips his thighs and Stiles gets with the program, pushing up into Derek's arms, legs around his waist, Derek's dick all hard, hot friction against his own pressed between them.

Derek gets them—finally—to the bed, pressing one knee into the mattress and leaning low, letting Stiles' weight pull them both down.

Stiles fumbles in his nightstand, blindly flailing his hand around because he's a little too preoccupied with kissing Derek to use his eyes. His fingers find plastic and foil and he actually pushes the condom up between their faces because stopping on his own willpower feels impossible. Derek jerks back and frowns, dazed, and then huffs a laugh, condom poking right under his nose. He grips the corner with his teeth and Stiles pulls it, tearing the wrapper.

“Fucking teamwork right there,” Stiles says around a grin.

Derek spits out the corner. “Brought down a sorcerer and everything.”

“Hell yeah, we did.”

Stiles can hardly kiss him around his stupid, goofy smile, but they manage it, a soft, sweet press of lips. He wraps his arms around Derek's neck and pushes up until Derek eases off, Stiles flipping them over until he can straddle Derek's hips.

He makes a fist around Derek's dick, watching his chest hitch when he jacks him, and says distractedly, “I've never even ridden a horse before.”

Stiles doesn't even realize he's said it out loud until Derek chokes a half laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.” He looks so fond and bright-eyed; warm and flushed and easy, like it works, this thing they've got. Derek sits up, curling one arm around Stiles' back and Stiles rolls the condom carefully onto him and hands Derek the bottle of lube from his nightstand. He rises up on his knees until Derek can press slick fingers against his hole, still slippery with spit.

It doesn't take much to get him ready but that was a given, Stiles feels like Derek could jam his dick in right now and Stiles would part for him like the Red Sea. But Derek's careful, like always, fucking him with long, clever fingers, turning Stiles' spine into a slinky. His hands feel bruising on Derek's shoulders, he can't stop the compulsive roll of his hips, his dick trailing precome across Derek's stomach and the feel of Derek's rubbing up against his balls; this whole thing is gonna be over so quick.

Derek kisses him through the stretch as Stiles lowers himself open, thick length of Derek's cock inching rough and tight up inside him.

He sits in Derek's lap, sweating with his head thrown back, trying to gulp down air and adjust to the sensation; it's overwhelming, is what it is. Really fucking intimate like this. Derek's mouth opens over Stiles' throat, gentle over the claw marks Karlin left as a parting gift, and he's right there, every bit of their skin pressed damp together. Not like before with Karlin's curse messing with their heads, turning every impulse into pleasure. It's real, raw and painful and stealing his breath.

Better, so much better.

He tips his forehead to Derek's and rocks slowly, Derek gripping his hips, this incredible look on his face that's completely open and a little awestruck. He breathes rough gasps of air against Stiles' mouth as they find a rhythm, Derek's cock nudging against Stiles' prostate if he angles his hips just right. He feels heavy and melted and rippling with sensation, up to the swelling behind his ribs that's making him feel a bit like a cartoon character with its giant, red, valentines-shaped heart bursting out of its chest.

Derek sighs his name, palms at his skin desperately; he's close and Stiles just wants to make it good, blow Derek's mind or something. He cups the back of Derek's neck, fists a hand into the mattress somewhere close behind him and grinds down hard, uses the new leverage to actually ride him and it takes less than a few minutes before Derek's arms slip tight around his middle, face pressing against Stiles' collarbone and bending him almost backwards with his weight. Stiles strokes the damp hair at the back of his neck while he shakes, groaning out muffled cries into Stiles' skin while Stiles pulls his orgasm out of him.

And Stiles hasn't forgot how quickly Derek recovers, he's just enjoying his moment of pride when Derek fists a hand around his dick moving in solid, satisfying strokes. Stiles' hips stutter and Derek picks up the slack, shallowly fucking him with tiny upwards thrusts. He buries his hands in Derek's hair and aches, gasps and feels his orgasm rise from the bottom of his balls like a pulsing wave. He comes over Derek's fist, face pressed into his throat, and then kind of loses time somewhere between the dick in his ass and the hand on his cock and the smell of Derek's skin smushed up against his nose.

He just clings on, seconds or minutes passing like trickling water, leaking out like his brain but all pleasantly buzzing, a kind of heavy wash of calm.

When he opens his eyes he's on his back, Derek throwing the comforter over him and not that sure how he got here. Derek looks like he might be moving away and Stiles grabs out for him very slowly, feeling a bit like a baby. His hand closes around some of Derek's hair and he drags until Derek's face is above him.

“Where'y'goin'?”

Derek smiles; softest little smile Stiles has ever seen. “I need to use your computer, remember. You're exhausted, go to sleep, I'm not going anywhere.”

Stiles makes a noise like, “eugh,” and then, “you're sneaky, just wanted to wear me out, didn't you?” and Derek laughs, smooths Stiles' hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You got me.”

“I need to get all the—the clothes,” Stiles tells him, waving his arm about. “Hall's full of 'em.”

“I'll get them, don't worry about it.”

Stiles slips Derek's hair through his fingers and stares up at him, openly fascinated by his soft features and lazy expression. Derek Hale, scowly and sarcastic and impatient and downright violent and Stiles will never get over this difference, probably not in his entire lifetime.

“S'like I'm petting you. Pet you like a good boy.” Jesus, Stiles really is too tired for these rapidly swooping emotions.

Derek nods slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Sure thing, dopey.” He pulls Stiles' hand away, presses a kiss to his wrist and places it carefully over his stomach.

He moves off the bed and Stiles turns on his side to watch Derek's naked ass walk away to collect up their battle-fallen clothes. He shuts his eyes and drifts a little but he's not entirely comfortable, feels like he can't let go of consciousness and it's making him itchy. At some point he hears Derek typing and the sound grates on him but not for any obvious reason.

After a while, Stiles mutters, “You know, they say that starting a relationship under fire is a bad idea.”

And Derek doesn't sound surprised that he's still awake. “Yeah? Who's they?”

“Y'know. They. The people that say that kinda stuff. The old proverbial folks.”

“Right. And why do they say that?”

“Y'know, all that stress and drama and then you go back into real life and realize the stress and drama is the only thing keeping your relationship interesting.” Stiles cracks open one eye and watches Derek tap away at the keyboard in just his boxers; such a bizarrely domestic site. “Although, I guess that shouldn't be a problem for us.”

Derek huffs a laugh. Doesn't turn around, though.

“I could be wrong, however,” Stiles says pointedly at Derek's back and—nothing. “No, Stiles, you're not wrong. I still find you interesting and sexy and funny—“

“No, Stiles, you're not wrong, I still find you—“

“Ha ha,” Stiles drawls.

It suddenly occurs to him that actually, he really has no idea what Derek wanted to use his computer for. He squints at the screen and then feels dumb because it's all the way across the room. He's gonna pretend it's nothing to do with the fact he's got this anxious pit in his stomach about falling asleep right now when he swings his shaky legs over the side of the bed, pulls his boxers out of the pile of clothes dumped on the floor and heads over to lean heavily against Derek's back.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing it all down.”

“All?”

“What happened to us.”

“All the stuff with Karlin?”

Derek hums. “Blame Lydia. Ever since she asked me write down my memories, I've kinda thought it might be—“ He rubs his chin awkwardly with his knuckles. “You know, a good idea.”

Stiles grins. “It's a great idea. It could turn into a comprehensive record of all the crazy shit that happens around here. Very useful for future generations.” He watches Derek's fingers across the keys, quick and deft. He loves Derek's fingers, his hands and wrists and how he smells, like laundry and aftershave and pine and right now like sex. How Stiles wants to always, always be touching him. “Can I read it when it's done?”

“Well, you're in it, so.”

“How've you written me? Like, strong and heroic and stuff? Wait, are you gonna write about fucking me?”

“Yeah, Stiles,” Derek deadpans. “I'm writing gay porn.”

“Come on, it's at least sixty percent a romance novel. Did you at least write about the bit where you confessed your undying love to me on the forest floor under the moonlit sky—”

He feels Derek physically cringe under him. “Oh my God, shut up.”

“You totally did, dude. Can't even deny it.”

He tries to shrug Stiles off his back. “I swear, you are so—“

“Loveable?” Stiles suggests, gripping Derek's shoulder and spinning him in the chair. “Because you totally love me.”

Derek folds his arm like a stubborn kid and looks up at him, unimpressed. “I think the part I love best is how subtle you are.”

“Eh,” Stiles shrugs. “That doesn't really sound like me.”

He slips to one knee between Derek's parted thighs, hands sliding into his hair. It's half because he's too exhausted to stand upright and half because he knows he can touch Derek like this whenever he wants and that knowledge is an incredible thing, only just truly settling into Stiles' skin. Derek wants this, all of it, there's no half-measures here, no need for Stiles to wonder what if?

Derek tips his head back and raises his eyebrows, presses his fingers into Stiles' hips. “Do you mind? I'm doing important stuff here.”

“Eh. That doesn't really sound like you either.”

“You're supposed to be sleeping.”

Stiles shrugs and Derek rolls his eyes. Then he stands and walks Stiles back towards the bed, pulling the covers back and bodily wrangling him underneath them. Only it's better this time, because Derek gets in too; might've been Stiles' goal in the first place but whatever.

“What happened to your important stuff?”

“I'll never get it done with you yapping in my ear.”

Stiles scoffs. “Did you just make a dog joke?”

Derek shakes his head against the pillow, slings an arm over Stiles' body and pulls him close, tucks him up against his chest. “You're clearly delirious.”

He can't think of anything smart to say about that because he's so comfortable. “You're delirious,” he counters intelligently. “With love.” He can almost hear Derek rolling his eyes. “I wrote you that poem, by the way.”

It takes a few seconds for Derek to cock his head back, look of pure bafflement on his face. “Are you serious?”

“Uh huh. Wanna hear it?” Derek nods, wide-eyed and the traces of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Roses are red, wolfsbane is—sort of—blue. You don't suck, but I like when you do.”

Derek stares at him with that expression fixed on his face for a seriously long time, enough for Stiles to get worried his majestic poetry might have fried his brain. Then he snorts, not a haughty, Derek Hale snort of derision, no; a full-on undignified snort right from the throat of the likes Stiles has never heard before. And before Stiles can comment, Derek gets there first and quite successfully throws Stiles off his game.

“Think I must be delirious.”

He lets the statement sink in, the fact that Derek's heartbeat is thudding against Stiles' chest.

In a voice that's only slightly shaking, he replies, “Well, I know I am,” and watches Derek's breath catch.

fin