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Chapter Text

The iron giant behind him managed to bend backwards enough to get stiles feet to lift off the ground, the spikes in his cleats making their last scraping protest before they were airborne. He barely had enough time to grunt out a sound of protest at being manhandled even more than he was, before dickhead number two punched him in the stomach again. He let out a miserable moan, wondering how many hits he could take before his skin gave up on holding his guts in and split. He took a few more bone crushing hits to his rib cage and abdomen before the iron giant made a maneuver that swung stiles feet into the air as he tossed him to the side to connect painfully with the asphalt.

His knees crackled with audible accuracy with the pavement, a painful ringing ran deep within his bones. Stiles felt sick at the sound. Would his knees even fucking work after this? Had the pavement completely obliterated them because that's exactly what it felt like. Hell. He heard the whoosh of a boot before it hit him. Even with some of his gear hanging on, the hit went straight to his core. He saw stars.

This was just his fucking luck. He had made most of the 12-8 game winning shots tonight in lacrosse. Not scott, not Jackson, him. Stiles. The kid who thought his ass had a permanent seat on the bench until tonight. His dad had made it, Melissa cheered for him, Lydia even smiled at him after the winning shot. For the first time in his life he felt valued on the team. Things were going great, until they suggested the diner and stiles said he’d ride with scott and Allison in her car he just needed to grab his wallet from the trunk where his bag sat. It was his fault for going alone after crushing their famed rivals. But he would have never guessed that while everyone was still celebrating, and hugging and planning their late night dinner, that he’d be getting his ass royally kicked out in the dark parking lot. Alone. Like he always is. The weak human, always getting into shit he cant handle. And tonight, it wasn’t even against the supernatural. Although he had some ideas where the beefy meathead who was currently fracturing bones in his face while meathead two kicked him in the side enough to ensure he had no air in his lungs, was on. And that drug had some supernatural side-effects so maybe all wasn’t lost. 

“alright man, I think he’s had enough” someone with some sense said, after stiles coughed up enough blood to second guess his chances of survival. “look at him, he can’t even focus his eyes”

Well he wasn’t wrong. He was seeing triple at this point, and he wondered if his lips were still lips and not saucy shredded pieces of skin on his face. All he could do was breathe through his mouth at this point, hoping that this guy had had enough fun.

“give me the camera, so I can take pictures” and stiles heart dropped. They were going to spread these images all over the internet for anyone with eyes to see. What if his dad came across them. He would, especially if he came home like this. God…his dad…

"take his gear off"

"nhnno" he moaned, holding onto his braces for as he could, but his goons snatched it away from him like it was nothing. 

"Don't worry Stilinksi, Jared will take real good care of it. Just like I'm going to take real good care of you" He said, receiving the camera from Jared and kneeling into his personal space. 

"What...did I...do" he said.

"nothing stiles, nothing" he cooed. He looked around and then motioned for them to grab stiles. "lets go to the trees"

---

Stiles hit the dirt with an oompf! He began to turn onto his stomach and felt a weight drop onto his back. 

"no, stiles, I actually think this'll be alright" he says, and stiles can hear the grin on his fucking face. Immediately his heart drops. 

"what're you do-"

The solid clunk! of his fist driving across the top of his head reverberates in his teeth, Stiles vision flickers. 

"Did I fucking tell you to speak?!"

"no-" dammit stiles!

Another hit, from the other side, the guy drops the phone beside stiles head and flips him onto his back. Stiles doesn't even get a chance to let out a cry of protest before he's being punched again. This is getting old, he thought. Then he felt the familiar pang of panic as he felt himself losing consciousness. 

"mm losing-" another hit. "I'm gonna pass-"

Jared finally stopped his dickhole of a friend so stiles could get out his fucking words. He was going to pass out. He needed him to know he was going to pass out not because he wanted to be there for whatever they had planned, but he didn't want to not be there. He didn't want them to have free reign on his unconcious body. The thoughts of what they would do sent a shiver down his spine. 

"Let him fucking speak dude" Jared said. 

"What" he said, tipping his chin towards stiles. 

"I'm losing....consciousness" he said in between breaths. It was getting hard for him to breathe. He felt the familiar onset of a panic attack rising deep in his gut. 

"Garrett, lets go. Take the fucking pictures, and let's go"

Ah. Garret. Nice to put a name to a face. faces. stiles was seeing several at this point. 

"Did I fucking ask you to speak?"

"He's the son of the fucking sheriff dude. It's bad enough we beat the shit out of him, let's just go"

"yeah" Stiles sighed, his voice cracking. A slap. He's starting to get creative, he thought. 

Scott. Where was Scott. How could he not realized how long Stiles' been gone. I mean the parking lot isnt miles away for fucks sake. Someone has to be wondering where he is. I mean, he won them the game tonight, jesus christ. 

A light flicked on, blinding him. He squinted his eyes, feeling the swollen state of his eyelids. He wouldn't be here much longer. The looming darkness pulled at the corners of his consciousness. He heard Jared speaking, and Garrett laughing, but no real words. He felt his mouth open, something went into it, but he couldn't see. Couldn't taste anything except for blood and embarrassment. He'd be the laughing stock of the school, again.  Suddenly the light was gone, and so was the weight on his abdomen. But the spots were still floating in his vision from the brightness. Stiles felt a pull at his foot, stretching it out, then a tug at the waistband of his pants. 

A puff of air hit his bellybutton. 

fuck. he thought. 

And then everything was dark and cold. Colder than when the Nogitsune had claim over his entire being. This was a dreadful darkness, because he knew exactly who had found him, and it wasn’t Scott.

Chapter Text

CRUNCH!

CRUNCH!

DRAGG-

CRUNCH!!-

The cool night air blew with halloween-ish accuracy, lifting leaves from their piles and swirling them into air tornadoes, depositing them wherever it pleased. The moon shone through the trees providing just enough light to make walking a little easier. But wolves don't need the moonlight...warewolves don't need the moonlight. Derek's full wolf form takes another step backward into the darkness, his legs pull with careful precision the torn remnants of a lacrosse jersey. Theres a body in it though. It's Stiles. Still bloodied and bruised to the 9s. Derek takes another step back, panting. Then he carefully deposits stiles onto the ground by slowly releasing the material from between his teeth. Stiles doesn't stir. Derek sits on his hind legs, panting-listening, for anything that could be potentially dangerous. There's no one out here but them. He whines and begins licking stiles face carefully. 

Suddenly he pulls back, tongue running over his teeth in an attempt rid his mouth of foul taste. This won't do. 

He shifts, kneeling beside Stiles, debating where he can safely pick him up. He decides bridal style is the best way, really the only way. After all he did just spend twenty minutes pulling him through soft dirt-carrying him is something he should have done from the start. But his instinct of getting him as far away from trouble as possible was too strong. 

"Why is it always you" he says, grunting as he lifts with his knees, adjusting the body with a small bump up. "its always you."

He starts running. 

-------------------------------------

Stiles comes to with a start, hands meeting in front of his face to block a hit. He doesn't know where he is, doesn't understand the soft light at the base of his feet, the darkness everywhere else. Can't quite comprehend the softness of the couch beneath him, or the blanket draped across his body. His breaths get caught in his throat, eyes-eye, wide with fear and confusion. He looks around, can't see much through his blurry and swollen left eye, but the room is dark overall. 

"fuck" he moans, sitting up on his elbows. They ache. 

The blanket falls down, and he realizes from the gush of air that he has no shirt on. His body is covered in white patches that are cool against his skin. From the bandages around his knuckles he realizes someone is taking care of him. He licks his lip. It stings, swollen and puffy on the left side. It holds a heavy weight on his face and after bringing attention to it it feels like it weighs a ton. 

His shaky hands move to lower the rest of the blanket, sighing when he's got basketball shorts on. But they're far too large for him, tied tight at the waist to keep them up on his much smaller hips. As he slowly lowers his legs to the ground he hears a noise start from beyond the darkness. His hands go up to his forehead, trying to see through the shadows. He notices another cool bandage draping from his forehead, over his eyebrow and down the side of his face. While he's becoming familiar with it he doesn't see the shadow in the darkness begin to approach. 

Suddenly a hand reaches towards his face from an angle on his bad side that causes him to jump and flinch, falling back into the couch, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"don't touch-"

"no!" he shouts, holding a hand out protectively. 

Derek moves into the light a bit more, his face laced with surprise. 

"Stiles-I-I'm sorry I didn't know you couldn't see-"

"....Derek? he breathes, unmoving. 

"...I-I'm sorry, I-" he trips over his words, hands meeting in the center like a child in such an un-derek-like manner. Derek waits patiently for Stiles' heart rate to slow. It takes ten solid minutes of unmoving, unwavering eye contact. Stiles finally swallows, takes his eyes off of Derek, looks around the dark loft. Looks down at himself, realization setting in. His face contorts with pain.

"oh my god-I-the game, I went to the parking lot-scott-I'm pathetic- the camera, my dad- oh fuck my dad-my dad!"

Derek rushes in, choppily grabbing his shoulders, facing him towards himself. 

"stiles, breathe"

"I'm fucking breathing man" he says as tears begin to well in his eyes. "I'm breathing!"

And then he cries. Pathetic sobs with even more pathetic breaths, robbed of their full potential and laced with wheezing and gasping. Derek thinks one of his ribs might be broken. He drops his arms and Stiles follows it by sinking into his side. They sit like that for thirty minutes. 

-----------------------------

The diner is bustling with Lacrosse Players. The staff are enjoying the company, rounds of milkshakes are brought out one after the other. The table in the far back, the only round table booth in the whole place is chock full of cheerleaders and their boyfriends, Scott and Allison, Lydia and Jackson. They laugh and joke together, throwing fries across the table and shoving one another. The atmosphere is light. Allison leans over and gives Scott a surprise kiss, Scott returning the gesture with a finger of whip cream to BOP! her nose with. They kiss again.

"Disgusting" Jackson remarks right before Lydia plants one on his own lips. 

"Like this?" She smiles. 

"Just like that" He says, kissing her back. 

Danny joins the table after picking up a freshman by the collar and reseating him at the table behind them. He sits down, hickeys on his neck. The table goes quiet for a moment before everyone starts laughing. Danny blushes and shoves one of them. 

Next, food hits the table. Burgers and Onion rings. Danny tells the waitress he moved tables and requests his chicken tenders and curly fries be brought to him here instead. She smiles. When they hit the table Lydia makes a face.

"Who ordered curly fries?"

"I did"

"I thought you hated curly fries"

"Yeah, but Stiles doesn't"

Lydia looks at Scott. 

"Where is he?"

"Um, he said he was going to his car or something but I figured he decided to stay with his dad after Sheriff Stilinski headed to the parking lot and Stiles never came back. Our car was full either way"

"So...what does that mean, Scott, because I didn't order these fries for him not to show up" Danny says, bottle of ketchup hovering over his chicken tenders. 

"Call him" Lydia demands.

"Maybe he just doesn't want to be here" Allison chimes.

"He won the game tonight, Allison. He has no where to be, but here."

Scott raises his phone shyly, the screen is still black. Lydia makes a "so?" motion with her head. 

"It's dead..." He shrugs his shoulders.

"What are you good for Scott McCall I swear to God-" she says, digging in her own purse for her cellphone. She whips it out, flashing a cold smile before dialing his number. 

Everyone waits with anticipation. She lowers the phone, raising her eyebrows, lips curling up. 

"He didn't answer. Something has to be wrong-"

"Lydia, you don't need to jump to the worst conclusions-" Allison starts.

"It went straight to voicemail. Stiles NEVER lets his phone go straight to voicemail"

"I'm sure it died, and he's home celebrating with his dad. We'll stop by on the way back, Lydia, no big deal." Jackson says.

"No big-No big deal. Just like that right." She pushes everyone out the way so she can stand from the booth. 

"where are you going our food is coming out!" Jackson calls. 

She sticks up her middle finger and she makes her way to the door. 

"fucking idiots" she sneers under her breath. 

Right when her hand touches the door she turns around, walking back to the table, heels click-clacking against the linoleum floor. She picks up the plate of curly fries, turns on her heels and exits. 

"Hey! I paid for those!" Danny calls, mouth full of food. 

Scott watches her leave with an uneasy face. Jackson slaps his arm.

"dude he's fine"

--------------------------

Stiles lurches forward again, vomit splashes back into his face, sweat beading at his brow. He heaves, hands gripping the toilet seat as hard as his injuries would allow. He's panting. A small bead of blood trickles down from his blue nose. He groans. 

A wet washcloth is placed at his forehead. He raises a shaky hand to hold it. 

"I've got it" comes Dereks soft voice. 

"m'nose is bleeding..." Stiles announces, half in a daze.

"I'm going to lean you back against the wall" Derek says, grabbing his shoulders and moving him into place. Stiles slumps, unable to hold his weight. 

"Hold this to your head, I need to go make a call"

"please don't call my dad" Stiles whispers. 

Derek hesitates at the door. 

"I'm calling Deaton" he says even softer, his eyelids drop with pitying grace.

He exits the room.

Enters his bedroom, his hands clench at his sides, eyes flashing red. He spins to punch the wall, stopping mere centimeters from the brick surface. He lets out a growl, groaning and throwing punches into the air. He grabs his hair, pulling, clenching his teeth, eyes a wild red. 

Then he breathes. Releases such a long breath of air the one he takes in comes to him in a wheeze, like the breath taken in after staying under the surface of water too long. It's immediately followed up by a cracked sob.

He picks up his phone, dials Deaton. 

"Why is it always you" he repeats to himself. 

"Derek, I hope you know that no matter where you are in the world, 2am in Beacon hills is still 2am in Beacon hills-

"I need help."

"...well, Derek you know I'm always here to help but-"

"Deaton is Stiles, please-"

Theres a long pause. 

"Where are you."

Chapter Text

Deaton wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. Then raising a hand to discretely wipe his eyes. Derek turns to face him, his white t-shirt now covered in blood. He looks helpless. Deaton nods once, wipes his hands on the towel he's holding and takes a deep breath, checking his watch. 

4:17 am

Deaton looks back at Derek. 

"he'll be okay for now. But I really need to take x-rays. His breathing shouldn't sound like that"

"can we get him in tomorrow morning? actually, let's go now, I can-" Derek starts, moving towards the bed, where Stiles lays, finally sleeping and completely patched up. 

Deaton makes a sudden start towards Derek in a panic. "No, no leave him. he needs to rest, after all of this his best bet is to sleep right now. But we'll get him in, I promise you that"

Derek stands up straight and nods at Deaton. He looks around the room for something, anything, to do with his hands. Deaton glances at Stiles.

"derek, what happened?" 

Derek stops and looks at Deaton, then down to Stiles. He moves to go sit in the living room. When Deaton plops down onto the couch next to Derek, Derek folds his hands in his lap. The room has an eerie stillness to it that puts Derek on edge. He's trying to find the words to tell Deaton that this wasn't even a supernatural encounter. That no being in any of the thick text books that litter Stiles room or Deaton office or even Dereks study were responsible for the state that Stiles is in. This was a human vs human disaster. It was bullying. 

Derek angrily admits in the back of his head that if anyone were to be on the receiving end of such a situation it would be stiles. Stiles is odd, spastic, quirky, has a mouth on him that could have ended his life many a time, but it's also saved their asses countless times. He certainly isn't stronger than any one of the men in the pack, tall and lanky with lean muscle gives him the agility but not the endurance, not the protection. He still doesn't get how he managed to be on his own, how the pack didn't come to check on him, why he was alone in the woods off the  back end of the parking lot when Derek could hear people still down at the field. It made his blood boil when he though about how the pack was probably out partying or something, and not one of them was thinking about Stiles. Stiles would never have let anyone go unheard from for so long, unless the pack hadnt even tried to contact him...did they even know he was supposedly unheard from?- Stiles would never. He'd be all over the situation, unapologetically annoying with every move, but you'd be safe. He'd make sure you'd be safe. He can't say the same for the rest of the pack so it had to be Stiles, naturally, it had to be Stiles...It was always Stiles. 

"derek?"

"I don't know" he breathes. "I was coming to see if I could catch the end of the game after a long run...heard some commotion in the trees up ahead...heard Stiles"

Deaton grunts.

"When I got there, he was surrounded by some assholes...he was in the dirt, telling them he was losing consciousness, they laughed and hit him. He was in bad shape, and then they started the camera"

Deaton watches Derek as he tries to remember every detail of what happened next. Deaton listens silently, doesn't ask questions, doesn't respond, just listens. Watches the way, for the first time, Derek has trouble maintaining his composure. His voice breaks, his fists clench and unclench. He doesn't look Deaton in the eye when he tells him he wishes he had killed every last one of them. Wish he'd taken their heads for trophies. Explains how hard it was to limit his damage to bloody noses, says he knows he broke several bones, mumbles when he says he wished he'd broken necks. When he tells Deaton about finding Stiles in a daze after waking up in the loft, he breaks. He keeps his face taught, but the tears spill over and down his face. He doesn't seem to notice them, because he talks through them, even as they drop from his chin. A small strangled sob escapes past his lips and he buries his head in his hands. 

" Did you call Sheriff Stilinski?"

"No." Derek wipes his face. "Stiles asked me not to-"

"We need to. He needs to know what's going on"

"Not now" Derek jerks forward.

"Not now" Deaton agrees. "But soon..."

Derek takes a moment before he nods in agreement. A vibration fills the room before a tune chimes on, some mixture of bells and whistles. Derek stands up and retrieves his phone from the kitchen island. He looks at the caller ID. Lydia Martin. 

"It's Lydia" He states.

Deaton nods for him to answer. 

"Hello?"

"Derek!" He hears her breathe a sigh of relief. "Derek, it's Lydia-"

"I know"

"Have you heard from Stiles?" She says in one breath. She's slightly panicked. "I've been trying to get a hold of him all night, we were supposed to meet up at the diner after the win tonight but he never showed and the usual assholes said he went home with John but I just went by the house and his jeep isn't there, and so I went back to the school and his jeep is in the parking lot and Derek I'm panicking because he isn't answering his cellphone and stiles ALWAYS answers his cellphone-"

"Lydia-"

"I know its late Derek, and I know you hate him but for fucks sake, he's missing! Stiles is missing! and if I hear from one more god damn person that this is just Stiles being stiles, that he's probably fine i'm going to lose my shit, okay, I'm going to lose my shit!" He hears her voice break. He can hear her crying. "Damnit Derek, he's pack, and no one gives a shit that he might not be okay. He's too good for this-"

"Lydia, he's here" Derek says, looking down at the floor after glancing over at Deaton. 

"...what?" she sniffles. "He is? How- is he okay? where did he go, why wasn't he at the diner, his phone-"

"Lydia where are you?"

"...I'm, I'm driving away from the school...Derek what's going on? Is he okay? Derek?"

"You should come over here for a little while. Just you. Don't message the pack alright?"

"Derek..."

"Just get here, okay, Lydia?"

"I'm on my way" She says. 

"Hey Lydia" Derek says quickly, trying to catch her before she hangs up. 

"yeah?" She sniffles again, probably starting to cry again. 

"Um. He's alive okay?" Derek scratches the back of his head. 

"okay" she says, and the lines goes dead. 

Derek locks his phone, and reluctantly looks up at Deaton. Deaton stands. 

"where's your tea kettle?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lydia sips tea from a red mug, seated at the dining room table of Dereks loft. Her eyes are red and puffy, black makeup streaks run down her cheeks. She doesn't look at anyone, doesn't want to. Derek sips his tea as well, slowly, absentmindedly. Deaton returns from the kitchen, his mug filled to the rim and steaming. He takes a slow seat at the table, stirs his tea once he's settled, and releases a large sigh. 

"He's still sleeping, peacefully I might add" Deaton sips his tea, making a noise that would usually want to make derek punch a hole through the wall. Now he just stares into the murky water of his own mug. "Lydia are you alright?"

"You know none of them cared, when I said something was wrong in the diner. They all shrugged it off." She scoffs. "I knew something was wrong" 

Derek and Lydias phones both go off at the same time. Lydia looks down at the group chat. She scoffs again and turns the phone to face down. 

"They're asking if anyone has heard from Stiles. It's almost 5:30 in the morning" she pushes her mug away from her and stands. "idiots. all of them."

Derek finally looks up from his mug, eyes locking with hers. 

"Lydia, you didn't scream, did you?"

She studies her cup a little while longer, and derek smells shame on her. 

"....no" she closes her eyes. "I didn't feel him at all tonight. I always feel him."

"How odd" Deaton comments.

"Yeah" she says. 

She walks away from the dining room, feet softly padding across the hardwood floors. She enters the bedroom as quietly as she can. Stiles is laying on his back under the covers, his breaths come in strained puffs, but he seems peaceful none the less. Lydia tries not to stare at his injuries any more than she has as she climbs up onto the bed to lie next to him. He doesn't stir even when she jostles the mattress on accident getting comfortable. She watches him sleep. She softly touches his face.

"I'm here stiles" she says softly. 

She'll tell herself that the small movement he made with his head after she said that was him dreaming. She knows what's going on in his mind. She can feel the embarrassment. She wonders how many times he thought about how much fun the pack was having without him, that maybe he didn't deserve to be there. Maybe this was all he was good for, distracting, getting hurt, taking on the hard stuff while everyone was enjoying themselves. As Lydia stared at him she could feel more sorrow bubbling up in her chest. How pathetic would he feel waking up to find just her here? She vowed in that moment to never tell him how long it took the rest of the pack to give a damn. Only when everyone was settled in at home did they think to see if anyone checked on Stiles. She knows Jackson never went by the house. They'd know something was up if they didn't see stiles jeep parked in the drive way. But they didn't, so they don't. She blinks a tear down her cheek, raises his right arm up to kiss his hand as more tears run down her face. 

"It's Lydia, Stiles..." She kisses his hand again. "I brought you curly fries"

Chapter Text

Rays of light filter in through the lofts single pane windows, settling politely on anything within reach. The sun is just peaking over the horizon, coating its path in deep shades of orange. Dereks bed holds the weight of two bodies, chests rising and falling in unison. Lydia's hair cascades over Stiles' chest, his own breaths struggle to come and go. Derek stands in the doorway, one shoulder touching the frame as he watches intently. He hasn't moved from this spot for some time now. Arms crossed, one leg crossed to stabilize him- he's comfortable, and he's not going anywhere. After his own breakdown the night before he can't quite bring himself to take his eyes off of his injured friend. 

Friend.

Dereks eyes hit the floor in shame. He wonders if he was really a friend to Stiles if this situation would have been avoided. Maybe, if they were really friends, Stiles would have been meeting him in the parking lot. Perhaps Derek would have been at the game to start, would have noticed Stiles absence. Would have been there to help, to prevent it. He leans forward, scraping the floor in front of him with his foot guiltily. 

Friend.

Maybe Stiles would have called him for help, if they were really friends. Would have trusted him to be there to save him. Before this, their interactions were nothing more than snide remarks and rough housing. A thankful look or two, but mostly Derek manhandling his lanky form so he would focus on the task at hand. Derek had never done anything worthy of being regarded as a friend. He'd been living in survival mode all his life, did what he had to do to keep things moving on the right path. Derek never thought he had it in him to be "friends" with anyone, so he really never tried. Now he thinks back to all of the little things Stiles would do unprovoked. Baking cookies, cooking food, cleaning, asking him if he's eaten randomly throughout the day. It hurts Derek to think that Stiles put out for him so often and the only way he could repay him was getting to him so late. After so much damage had been done. He's spiraling at the thought when a soft hand grasps his shoulder. 

"Good morning" Deaton says, sharing a small smile. 

Derek grunts in return, clears his throat and after a moment finds his voice. 

"Morning" Derek replies, short and sweet, his specialty.  

"I should change his bandages. Check that they still look okay, that there's no infection setting in"

Derek glances at Stiles and Lydia on his bed, looking so peaceful. He turns back to Deaton, but can't find the words to ask him to leave them be. He's been doing this since last night, forgetting how to talk. But Deaton has already followed his gaze and gives him a small nod of acknowledgement. 

"Where do you keep your coffee?" 

"How do you know I drink coffee?" Derek asks. It's a stupid question but a part of him wonders if he looks like the coffee type. 

"You look like you have a fancy french press, am I wrong?" 

Derek watches him for a moment. He’s a little flattered, though he’ll never admit it.

"The cabinet closest to the sink, on the first shelf" 

Deaton smiles and clasps his hand together in excitement before pointing a finger at Derek as if to say 'you got it'. With the sudden absence of the vet Derek returns his attention to the bed. The hair on the back of his neck is standing straight up, his skin buzzing with panic. Two brown eyes are locked on his, unwavering. 

"Stiles" Derek breathes, his heart pounding in his chest. He drops his arms to his side, takes a step, and then another and then suddenly he doesn't know his right from his left. "Stiles." 

"Me" he croaks, blinking slow. His eyes slowly trail down to the top of Lydia's head. "Who is this" 

"Stiles… it's Lydia"

"Lydia?" He swallows like he hasn't had water in days. "What is she doing here? Where- why am I in your bed? What happened?" 

He tries to sit up on his elbows, but the combination of his injuries and the weight of Lydias body cause him to fall back onto the bed. It's this movement that finally jostles her awake. Lydia sits up, takes a look around, finds Dereks face. She recognizes his expression, and then turns back to look at Stiles. She sits up straighter, hands hovering.  

"Stiles" she says softly, caressing his face. "Oh Stiles...I'm so sorry" 

"For what?" he asks her, he makes an attempt to sit up again. "God- my ribs" 

Lydia is on her feet in seconds, her red locks falling into her faces as she helps Stiles sit upright. She sits next to him to hold his face in her hands again. She softly kisses his face wherever there is an absence of bruising or cuts. It's not many places. He grabs her hands to stop her, studying her. 

"Please...tell me what happened"

"Stiles-" Derek starts again. This time Lydia turns to face him. "Stiles- I-"

"Derek" Lydia stands up, focuses him. "Why don't you make us some tea? Extra honey please"

There’s a crash in the kitchen, Derek dials his ears in for a moment to hear Deaton humming, he's rearranging something metal, and Derek can hear the sound of the sink draining. He spends the next few moments switching his gaze between Stiles and Lydias piercing eyes. He can't believe how stupid he feels in this moment, to have been upstaged by a teenager. It's no wonder he lost- no. That wasn't my fault, that wasn't anyones fault. He takes a slow breath. Get your shit together, Derek. Get it together! He nods once, turns on his heels and leaves the room. When he gets to the kitchen Deaton is prepping a work station. There's no coffee in sight. 

"Is he awake?" Deaton asks without looking up. 

"Yes, and Lydia has requested tea"

"Great, I'm ready. Grab those mugs over there please Derek"

Derek swings around to find his tea kettle set with mugs already prefilled with tea bags and slices of lemon. Derek turns back to Deaton, who grabs his tools and moves past him with ease. His french press is set to the clean side of the drying rack, he can smell the coffee grinds in the sink. He tries not to be slightly offended at the waste of such expensive goods. 

“What happened to my fancy coffee?” Derek motions towards the sink even though Deaton can’t see him move. 

“Tea is better for you, don’t forget the honey!” Deaton tosses over his shoulder.

—------

Scott takes the steps three by three, using the guardrail for leverage as he races to the top floor, towards Derek’s loft. He hasn’t been able to reach Derek or Stiles since yesterday, and the startling discovery of Stiles' abandoned jeep in the school parking lot honestly has him scared shitless. It doesn’t smell like he’s been here for a while. He takes the next step skipping four. No one’s heard from him? At all?  He’s overtaking each flight now in two strides. His dad isn’t home, he’s here at the station- Scott thought Stiles and his dad would be celebrating their win quietly at home. What a stupid assumption, to think he wouldnt want to be the center of attention for once. To be celebrated for once. Scott knows that Stiles’ father has shifts from 7am to 6pm and 7pm to 6am if he works a double. He must have taken an early lunch to support Stiles at the game before heading back to the station, alone. You were wrong. Scott fumbles the top step and falls, crashing to his knees on the landing. YOU WERE WRONG!

“Scott!” Isaac is up the stairs in an instant, holding Scotts arm for support. “Scott, are you alright?”

Scott wonders for a moment if voices are supposed to sound like this, fuzzy and distorted. He looks up at Isaac to find his face fading, his vision dark around the edges. Isaac speaks to him, but Scott can’t hear any words. Just the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he tries unsuccessfully to fill his lungs with air. 

“Scott you need to breathe” Jackson- where did he come from? He’s got the front of Scotts shirt balled up in his fists and Scott can’t seem to find Isaac anywhere. Scott is resting on the floor of the stairwell, eyes starting to loll with the lack of oxygen when he’s suddenly refocused on the wall to his right. It takes a moment of stinging silence before he looks for Jackson just to be refocused once more. It takes another moment before Scott realizes Jackson is raising his hand for the third blow. He sucks in as much air as he can, raising his hand to stop him.

“Wait!” Scott wheezes.

“We don’t have time!” Jackson grabs his hand to help him to his feet. Scott nods in agreement although he can't quite feel his legs.

—------

When Scott, Jackson, and Isaac top the stairs the door to Derek's loft is already open, but Derek is standing in it, arms crossed, face stone cold. He braced himself against the door, mostly for support, but also for restraint. He thinks taking up a more relaxed position will hold him back from painting the hallway with Scott’s blood. He crosses his arms tighter, an extra layer of protection for Scott’s sake. Maybe a little for his sake too. It won’t do Stiles any good to come out of this having to deal with Scott’s injuries as well, fast as they may heal. 

“Derek? Where have you been, I haven’t been able to get a hold of you or Stiles since yesterday!” Scott says, tossing his hands into the air in defeat. 

“He’s here.” Derek lifts his chin, he goes on to clarify: “He’s safe, here.”

“When were you going to say something? I’ve been calling you all morning!” Scott takes a step forward. “We’ve been worried-”

“For what, all of five hours?” Derek scoffs and lifts himself from where his shoulder rests on the door frame. Restraint: fading.

Scott appears anxious, his eyes darting into the apartment, judging the consequences of taking Derek on. Derek is watching him closely, and he widens his stance ever so slightly. He doesn’t want Scott to know he feels challenged, but he also doesn’t want to risk being taken by surprise. There's three of them versus him. He can’t justify the need to play to his ego and remain cool. He feels anything but that at the moment. 

“Where is he?” Scott asks, taking a small step forward. It doesn’t take too long for Derek to realize that he’s actually positioning himself for a fight. 

“I told you he’s safe Scott”

“That’s bullshit!” Scott yells. “I need to see him now! Or else-”

“Or else what-” Derek says, finally taking a step out of the door frame. Suddenly a hand appears on his chest, warm and light, arm snaking around from somewhere behind him. He’s pushed slightly to the side as the smaller form steps into the doorway with him. 

“-Lydia?” Jackson is astonished to see her, clearly. He walks right in front of Scott to reach out for her. She’s quick to duck his touch, pushing his hand softly down by her side. 

“Please, can we do this inside, quietly?”

—-----------

The group stands near the front door, Derek is down the steps where he leans against the kitchen table, arms crossed again. He gave Lydia the okay- reluctantly- to take charge of the situation, if only for Stiles’ sake. The boys stand together while Lydia finishes recounting the events that Derek shared with her. She’s nearly finishing when Deaton leaves the bedroom to duck into the kitchen with a bucket of water. 

Derek smells the sweet tang of blood a second later and he confirms that Scott has picked up on it too when he makes off for the kitchen. 

---

“Deaton?” Scott says, rounding the corner. He takes note of a bucket in the sink that Deaton is meticulously working over. He does a double take on the red strips inside of it when he notices the ones in Deatons hands are washing white. His breath catches in his throat. 

“Scott.” Deaton returns, never breaking pace. 

“How-how is he doing-”

“He’ll be just fine in a few days. Physically.” He pours the tainted water down the drain. Turns the freshwater on. “Mentally however, is a question only he can answer. Preferably with people only he can trust. And from the looks of it-”

Deaton upends the bucket once more, but his movements carry growing anger. 

“That group will be very, very, small.” he sighs, shaking his head in what Scott assumes is disappointment. “Very small.”

Scott turns on his heels and runs straight into the brick wall that is Derek. Derek is pleased when he bounces off and stumbles back a few steps. Good. 

“I need to see him” Scott pleads, eyes downcast. “Please-”

“I think he needs to rest” Derek says. Scott looks to him, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. Derek has to look away at that, because no matter how much he yearns to let Scott feel it, the hurt he’s emanating from his being is overwhelming. Scott chokes back a sob, gets down on both knees. Derek can’t hide the shock that crosses his face to the point that he stumbles back a few steps when Scott…bares his neck to him in submission. He loses a shuddering breath while Scott’s tears ultimately fall from his eyes, staining the leg of his jeans. 

“Derek-”

“Scott-”

“-please. God- I am so sorry, I know this is what I deserve but I need  to see him. Please. ” and out it goes, all of the resolve Derek has been holding onto for the past 12 hours. Straight out the window. 

“Get up” he says, voice quiet. He pushes to find his ground. “Get up!”

“Derek?” a voice calls for him. He ignores it. 

“Get up!” he shouts again, reaching forward to pick Scott up himself. He keeps lifting until Scott’s shoes lift from the floor, his toes failing to find purchase. Derek has him by one hand, the other hand has claws drawn, ready. Deaton steps back against the counter top, under the dim light of the hanging lights over the sink. Derek's mind replays the past events: finding Stiles, calling Deaton, wiping the blood from Stile's face in the bathroom. All of these images flash across his mind and with every moment of it there is a lack of Scott. Lydia in the dining room, in bed with Stiles last night, this morning. Scott no where to be found. Not until 4am when his stupid  name flashed across the screen of his phone with a half-assed attempt at securing Stiles safety. Hours after the fact that he was the one to leave Stiles to be beaten and abused in a dark school parking lot while the team rejoiced in the victory he brought them that night. Derek has had enough of the fuckery- it ends here-

“Derek?” the voice calls again. Derek follows Deatons gaze to look behind him, at Stiles. Scott is immediately dropped. 

“Stiles- what are you doing out of bed” Derek moves towards him, hands hovering like they did just hours ago. He’s not sure where to hold, where to touch, what to do. He looks up at Stiles who isn’t watching him at all. He’s watching Scott. 

“Scott?” His voice is so small. Holds so much hope. 

Derek wants so badly to move him to another room, pretend Scott isn’t here, protect him from more hurt. Why is it always you? Derek can’t stand the thought any longer. The urge to protect Stiles was burning deep within him. To show him what he has yet to experience first hand- a real friend. Derek wanted to be his friend. To show him what it felt like to have someone give a shit about you unconditionally, always. Derek has so much personal work to do himself but it was in this moment that he vowed to be the person that Stiles needed, no matter what it took. 

He looks back at Scott who is freely crying at the sight of his best friend. This must be new for him, to see this much hurt on someone he loved. Derek couldn’t deny that piece, no matter how things unfolded. What puzzled him though, is how he could go on to abandon someone he loves so much. That part he would never get.

“Stiles” Scott stands, brushes his hands off his jeans. He tries a few times before he can find his words, hands motioning to the endless layout of bruises covering his exposed arms and face. Stiles shies away at this. “What happened to you?”

Chapter Text

Stiles has more patience than anyone Isaac has ever encountered. Isaac adds up the patience for the whole group, multiplies it by two, counts five on his hand for extra measure and decides it's still not enough. There's not a whole lot in life right now that would be enough, especially for Stiles. Isaac decided his excuse about halfway up the stairwell, trailing behind Scott who reeked of something worse than guilt. Embarrassment. Isaac was embarrassed too, but reasoned with himself around the second or third flight that he really didn't fit in with this pack at all. He was quiet, submissive. Did what he was told and not much more. Who can blame him really? His upbringing spoke volumes. So when they'd collectively decided at the diner that Stiles was probably okay, he'd gone with it. Somewhere deep down he had a strange itch, that uncomfortable sensation you get when you've gone to the bathroom but still feel like you need to go-the point when you kind of know that something is wrong but not wrong enough for a doctors visit. You browse the isles of CVS or RiteAid hoping for some cheap cranberry juice to ease the discomfort, ignoring the little voice that tells you to hit up your doctor for antibiotics. Isaac brushed off his absence, coincided with the group, and hoped that it wasn't worse than what it seemed. But he was wrong. They'd all been wrong. Except Lydia, which fully checked out. And possibly Danny. More than likely Danny. 

"To be honest Scott, I'm not really sure" Stiles says. 

"No, Stiles, you're 100% sure, because I told you. And Lydia told you" Derek says. Isaac knows Derek is fuming, his words cut like knives, but the anger is really targeted at Scott, and they all know that. 

"Yeah..." Stiles agrees sadly. "I don't really remember it at all, but they told me...twice now"

"Stiles...I...I didn't know" Scott tries. Isaac shifts his weight to another leg. His bullshit excuses will start now, and the uncomfortable weight in the room is stifling. Isaac starts to feel a familiar tension in the room, the kind he felt when his dad would begin his weightless apologies, the falseness of it all sent waves of embarrassment through to the center most part of his bones. 

The not so funny funny thing about this entire situation, Isaac thinks, is that if they compared Stiles to him, they weren't really all too different. Isaac spent years under his dads fist- and foot (he thinks bitterly)- taking beating after beating. At one point he swears he began receiving them with open arms if it meant it eased his dads hate enough to free him of the abuse for a few days. He covered the marks left behind and tried his best to fit in, to make friends. Though it didn't always work, because he was awkward and perhaps a bit slow moving, he found ways of not feeling so alone all the time. When he met Stiles, he spent a lot of time watching him. Observing. Learning. And he quickly concluded that Stiles was a lot like him, or he was a lot like Stiles. It was obvious from the start that Stiles really only wanted one thing: company. Often times he was so desperate to find it that even when he found himself between a rock and a hard place, he wasn't alone. More often, he was the one who'd put himself there. "I needed to save you", "I was helping", "I couldn't let them hurt you too". When things first kicked up it was a lot of pack this and pack that, but as time lingered on Isaac found himself patching up a lone Stiles on more than a few occasions with promises to keep it between them. Stiles spent time under multiple peoples fist, and welcomed the time with open arms if it meant it freed the pack of the brunt of the abuse and hurt, sometimes if only for a moment. Derek called it reckless, Isaac had far nicer adjectives. Brave, admirable, loving. 

"I think you can find a better way of apologizing than that, Scott" Derek huffs, arms crossed. He's basically Stiles shadow.

"Derek why don't you let Scott find his own words-" Lydia says. She takes a confident few steps towards him.

It stuns everyone when Derek snaps on her, whipping two glowing red eyes to meet hers, stopping her movement cold turkey. Isaac takes a peek at Jackson. Although the room is tight with tension he makes the smallest move forward to support her. If Derek notices he doesn't show it. 

"Don't. Touch. Me." He growls. Lydia only allows her shock to show for a minute before she composes herself, her hand unmoving. There's something about the way she holds her ground, showing no fear towards the threat Derek has thrown her way. It's moments like these, where the balance of power shifts in favor of Lydia's strong personality that makes Isaac itch in places he can't reach. Though no one would ever openly admit it, Lydia must instill a fear in Derek that prevents him from crossing a line she drew herself. Isaac really loves that about her, and often wonders how he could achieve such results and live to tell the tale.  

"Do you really think it's a good idea to feed an apology into Scott's mouth?" she asks, her hand wanders up lazily to motion in his direction. 

"He hasn't said-"

"I wasn't done talking" She snaps back, her eyes blazoned with anger. "If Scott can't find his own damn words he doesn't deserve to say yours"

Derek knows she's right in the way he straightens himself out, red eyes receding into his own, and actually takes a few steps away from Stiles. Isaac doesn't miss the way Stiles shivers at the loss of heat warming his back. He finds everyones eyes as he takes roll of the audience he seems to only have now noticed is watching this exchange. He looks down at the floor and Isaac knows exactly whats coming next. Wandering away like a kicked puppy until he finds a window to look out of, Derek settles on the far side of the loft quietly. Lydia begins stomping towards the couch to sit down when Stiles says it:

"I'm so sorry I caused all of this-"

"Don't you fucking dare-" Lydia spins on her heels, an accusing finger pointed directly at Stiles heart, firing off like missile locked on its target, it finds it's spot, a manicured nail to the soft jersey shirt he's borrowing from Derek's wardrobe. "Stiles- you have nothing to be sorry for, do you hear me? We should have been there. We all should have been there. How many times can we do this?'

'How many times do you have to get hurt before we realize, before we all understand?" Her lips quiver in response to the tears that begin to stream down Stiles face. She has to try a few times to find the voice to support the words she wants to say. "What is it going to take Stiles? Why do you keep forgiving us? Making excuses for us? Why?!"

"Because I love you-"

"Love! God-Stiles- Do you think we don't love you? Stiles, love doesn't stop us from ending up here time after time!" She points at Isaac, at Jackson, at Derek- who turns away to find something new to look at outside. "Do you think they don't love you, Stiles? Isaac loves you, Jackson loves you, even Derek loves you- but look- look where that love has found us, Stiles. Look at where it found you. Love isn't enough!"

"What-what is enough, Lydia" Stiles whispers, taking a chance to look at Scott. He didn't miss the way she left him out of her argument. Scott doesn't miss it either. She's not looking at him, but he's looking at her, probably wondering when he began to inhabit this island alone. 

She pulls back her hand to reach up and grab hold of Stiles shoulders. I don't know  is written all over her face. Stiles looks so hurt and confused. Isaac could call out a few things greater than love: devotion, adoration, appreciation. Somewhere between him and the space this feud is occupying is a line Isaac doesn't feel like he can cross. There's a line that makes Isaac feel more like an observer, like he's entirely removed from having any input. He wonders if Scott would even get it if he fed those terms to him on a spoon. Probably not. And that's why they were all here. Scott clears his throat and steps forward, reaching out for Stiles. Lydia instinctively pulls Stiles closer to her until Scott stops his advance. 

"I love you too, Stiles" Scott says quietly. "I've always loved you Stiles, and I know that nothing that I could say right now would make up for all of the hurt you're feeling- you've felt, the last few hours. The last few years even...I had so much going on in my own life that I...I started to take you for granted Stiles. I didn't want to set you aside while I tried to figure everything out-"

"and yet you did" Derek says somewhere off to the right. Scott doesn't acknowledge him. 

"Yes- yes, I did, because...because I wasn't capable of balancing everything on my own, not like you do Stiles. I fucked up, I know I did. But you were always there and I thought that if I could just get a little bit more time- if I could just figure out a way to make everything work, make everyone happy I would be okay, that you would be okay, that you wouldn't mind" Scott says desperately. "Except you did mind Stiles, and you told me countless times and I kept brushing you off because I knew you would forgive me. I can't apologize to you right now Stiles because I don't deserve to be forgiven. I know that I don't. I know you aren't okay, and I just want to help you feel better. Please."

"I called out for you, Scott" Stiles says. He shifts uneasily. His next words barely above a whisper. "I was so scared"

Scott buries his face in his hands. Stiles watches him through red lined eyes, lips quivering. He looks so exhausted. Scott drops to his hands and knees, pleading.

"Please, Stiles, just tell me what to do, tell me what I can do to make it better. I will do anything. I can fix it stiles, please let me fix it" He begs. Stiles actually takes a step back, out from his grip. His breaths come in shallow pants. 

"I can't-" he says, gripping his chest in panic. "I don't- I c-breathe-"

Isaac has been glued to this spot on the floor for the last 30 minutes, feeling statue-like in his will to absolutely disappear from this sea of extreme emotions. Jackson hasn't moved once since they came inside either so it really surprises him when Jackson is the first person to move towards Stiles. He envelops him with so much care that Isaac is actually physically ill at the sight. How did we let things get so bad? he thinks. Jackson is literally touching Stiles with the same care a mother would her newborn, it's just barely missing her soothing shushing of comfort when Jackson actually does it. He shushes Stiles. Stiles looks horrified to watch him do it, like he just realizes how bad things must be if Jackson has stepped into this new, foreign role of caretaker. He sits them both down and works Stiles through his panic attack. Isaac's feet are moving him closer to the door. He has to leave. He needs to leave. To escape this onslaught of grief and guilt, and hurt. So much hurt. The memories of his life before the pack flash across his vision in a fit of PTSD, and he swears he can smell the cologne his dad once wore. He's not strong like the others. If there's one thing that never changed about Isaac Lahey it was his cowardice. He's not built to withstand, especially not a scene like this, all too familiar. His hand reaches the handle of the door behind him, but he can't see. He can't shake the images, the memories.

"Stiles please tell me how to make this better" Scott is still going. "Help me to take the pain away from you Stiles, please-"

In Isaac's eyes all he can see is his dad. Fists rolling in from the left and right, his blind spots, from behind him. He can't anticipate one move. When he thinks he knows where the next hit will come from he's blind sided by another. Isaac is better than this now, stronger than this now. He want's to catch his dads hands and show him he's finally strong. That his dad is the one who needs to fear him now. The roles have reversed but Isaac can't get a grip and the hits keep coming-

" ENOUGH!" Isaac roars. " ENOUGH, ENOUGH, ENOUGH!"

---------------

Derek hears his breathing change about halfway through Scott's pity party- at least that's what Derek is calling it to avoid feeling even the tiniest bit of sorry for him- unsure of the panic attack creeping to the surface until Stiles verbally confirms it. He want's to be the first person there to assist him, but the shock of Jackson moving forward with haste he's never seen actually knocks him back a few paces. He watches the way he caresses him, hears the comforting sounds, his inner wolf stirring with something he can't place a finger on. On the far side of the room he hears the floorboards creak and looks up to find Isaac inching backwards. The look of horror on his face is almost understanding except he doesn't understand the extent of it. There's something else there- fear, recognition. Derek doesn't move until Isaacs gaze floats up like he's remembering something, caught in a violent memory he can't escape. Derek understands then, about halfway across the room that he's not responding to Stiles at all. He checks the kitchen as he walks past and doesn't miss the miserable look Deaton is giving Stiles, hands rising to his eyes to wipe away tears Derek is moving too quickly to see fall. 

"Isaac?" Derek calls softly, trying his best not to scare him into a fit of rage like he's done before. 

"ENOUGH!" he roars. "ENOUGH, ENOUGH, ENOUGH!"

He reaches out to catch something but its clear he's missed when his right arm overtakes his left in attempt to reach something Derek cannot see. He just misses nearly losing an eye when he's able to catch one of Isaac's hands.

"Isaac?-" Derek asks, more focused on Isaac's face as a way to get through to him than the free hand he left open. Isaac wolfs out, grabs him by the throat and lifts him up with strength Derek never knew existed inside of him. 

"Enough!"  He repeats. "I've had enough!"

"Okay" Derek squeezes out. He can't breathe, but he's admittedly hesitant to say more. He's never seen this side of Isaac and he's had his fair share of pushing him to his limits. 

"We lie, we lie, we lie, we lie" Isaac is stuck like a broken record. Derek's feet are swinging a few good inches off the ground. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, if Derek wasn't so scared of him right now. 

"Who... is lying, Isaac" he manages, his hands slowly prying one finger open at a time.

"He's just like my dad" Isaac says. Derek doesn't think that's fair but he realizes that he never listened to Scott's heartbeat to know. They've all trusted Scott and his judgement so far to the point that the most obvious layer of security was absolutely neglected. Derek personally took everything Scott said with a grain of salt, and has been calling bullshit on his whining this whole time. But he never tuned in to know the real truth behind his words. 

"Isaac please stop you're scaring Stiles" Derek says calmly. Isaac releases him.  

"You're a liar, Scott. You lie"

Scott's jaw clicks closed. He looks over at Stiles, who is staring leagues through him. Scott drops his head and grips the floor, nails ripping into the worn medium. 

"Stiles, I don't know how to be a good friend to you, a brother to you. I don't know how. I don't know how to fix this" He finally admits. 

The acknowledgement crushes Stiles. 

"I can't tell you how to fix this, Scott" Stiles says. "Thats-that's not fair"

"I know it's not, I know" Scott pleads. "Will you give me the chance to figure out how to fix it?"

"Scott..." Stiles falters. "Do you realize that it was the bare minimum that you passed up on that night? You-you ditched me Scott. I went out to grab my wallet and you ditched me"

"I-" 

"Scott, you ditched me" Stiles says. "What if they weren't some dumb rival team, what if they'd taken me?'

Derek tenses at the thought he's been avoiding for hours. The situation they'd be faced with right now if Derek had anything else to do that night.

'What if Derek wasn't around?" His lower lip shakes. Without Derek he had zero chance of making it out of there in one piece. 

"Scott, I'm not as strong as you, as talented as you, not nearly as favorable as you...I don't have backup plans Scott. I'm my backup plan. But sometimes I just wish that maybe I had someone to rely on. I really needed that person to be you Scott. I wanted you to be that person for me because I want to be that person for you. If you can't do that Scott please just tell me so I can adjust my expectations. I can't do that if you aren't honest with me"

Scott shakes his head, tears leaking from his eyes. He blinks through them in an effort to see. 

"Scott please" Stiles whines through a sob. "Please just be honest with me for once, I'm begging you"

Scott shakes his head again, he doesn't hold back anymore. The room is full of his cries. Deaton bends down next to him, puts a hand on his back. 

"Scott" He says. "Scott, Stiles needs you more than he has ever needed you before, right now. Please don't let him down again Scott. Be honest"

"Please Scott" Stiles cries. "Please Scott, I won't hate you for it I promise"

His words make Scott cry harder. They are all waiting. Deaton coaxes him to speak again.

"Stiles" Scott manages. He tries so hard to find the next set of words. "Stiles, I'm so sorry...I can't" 

The unfaltering rhythm of Scott's heart makes it harder for Derek to watch the exchange with steady gaze. He hears Stiles take a sharp breath and then he doesn't breathe again for so long Derek is forced to look up to confirm he's still there. Stiles looks horrified, watching his best friend cope with the realization that he can't be what Stiles wants him to be. The room wills Stiles to breathe again, and when he does he released a cry so gut wrenching Jacksons response is to howl. With the weight of the unknown lifted from his shoulders Stiles slumps over, head and arms resting on the ground like he's too weak to lift them up. So Derek crosses the room and supports him.  There's a metaphorical changing of the guard happening right before them in the way Scott watches Derek take the place he should be in. 

In another plane of existence Derek would pick up Stiles and take him to the comfort and safety of his room- his den, and he would metaphorically lick all of his wounds clean. He would comfort him until he stopped crying and then he would make all of Stiles crappy jokes until Stiles had enough of the awkwardness and has no choice but to laugh. Derek would be able to tell him how sorry he was that all of this had to happen this way, that he had to get hurt this way, but somehow Derek is kind of glad that it did. Derek would be willing to tell Stiles that this is the first time in a long time that he was able to feel and he hopes that this feeling never goes away. He wouldn't be afraid of what anyone else thought about his friendship with Stiles. He'd be so good at it. But this is here and now. So Derek stands and offers a hand to Stiles. Stiles takes it without hesitation and Derek leads him to his bed to lie down, and probably cry some more. Derek backs out of the room and shuts the door behind him softly. Lydia is watching him closely when he approaches the mess of people strewn across his loft in disarray. Isaac is still standing by the door. 

"I'm going to find us food" Derek states. He turns to face Scott. "I don't care what you do, but stay out of my room and away from Stiles until I'm back. Jackson?"

Jackson confirms his non-verbal orders with a nod. Deaton takes his time making his way to his feet, brushing his hands together. Derek makes a mental note to sweep the floor at some point soon. Deaton looks down at Scott and then back up at Derek who is already reaching for the car keys and his phone in the bowl Lydia gifted him a while back. She said he needed a place to keep his "things". He thinks on the floor by the door worked well enough but he uses the bowl anyway. 

"May I join you?" He asks. 

Derek watches him for a moment, trying to figure out when he became so close with the vet. He weighs the pro's and con's of having someone tag along, probably to discuss what just unfolded when Deaton breaks the silence. 

"I won't say much" he promises. 

Derek grunts in response, happy to be back to his one-to-none word sentences, and heads for the door. Isaac steps aside, eyes downcast, but Derek grabs his arm and pulls him through the door. He might as well take Isaac with him.

--------

Derek unlocks the car doors with the key fob, the beep beep echoes into the space surrounding them. The world seems huge now, after spending so much time in the loft. The cool breeze of the wind is pushing their jackets around their tired forms, the sky is dancing with pastel swipes of color amongst the setting sun. Isaac instinctively slides the passenger seat forward to fit his tall frame in the backseat. Derek is opening his driver side door, lost in thought when the heat of Deaton's presence is suddenly beside him. 

"Derek" Deaton says, putting a halting hand on the door frame. Derek looks up at him with one eyebrow raised. From inside of the car Isaac is bent forward to watch the exchange with big curious eyes. 

"I'm going to take Scott away for a while. I understand what happened upstairs had to happen, I don't disagree with it. But I need you to do me a favor, just this once. When Scott calls him, not now, maybe not in a two weeks, maybe not in a month, but when he does eventually call, please- let Stiles answer"

Derek doesn't move. After all of this, after all they have been through together in the last 24 hours? Deaton would be lucky if Derek doesn't delete Scott's existence from Stiles' entire life the moment they leave town. Derek glances at Isaac and then looks down at the gravel strewn ground. Deaton has always been wiser than Derek has ever understood. Far more level headed and understanding than Derek thinks he ever will be. If Deaton has the gall to ask this of him after all of this there has to be more to it than meets Derek. Deaton must understand his hesitation because he smiles softly and clasps a hand to his shoulder. 

"Things will not undo themselves overnight Derek. I know that there was a shift. I'm am glad you were the one to make it" 

Derek is visibly surprised when Deaton pushes the driver side door closed and...hugs him. Tight. Derek tries to fight it but Deaton holds on tighter. 

"You did well Derek" Deaton says. He pats his back. "I know you think that no one notices, but I do. You are a good man, Derek. A good Alpha. And today you became a better friend . All that I ask is that you allow things to fall back into place"

No one has given Derek compliments with so much weight since before the fire. It leaves him a little breathless, if not entirely taken aback. There were moments just like these in his youth, back when he craved stability and acknowledgement from his mother and father nearly every day. The grip Deaton has on him reminds him of moments when his father had him in an embrace just like this, supporting Derek through his childlike demeanor with soft words of encouragement. Deflecting any doubt he tried to reason with. Without meaning to, he goes right back to that place:

"What will my place be when that happens?" He asks. 

"I never said you had to move while the pieces fell" Deaton mumbles into his shoulder. "We upset a balance, but we will restore order. You and I"

Deaton hugs him a bit tighter with the intention of releasing him, but Derek hugs him back right before the moment ends, taking the older man by surprise. He pats his back in thanks, unable to find the words to mask the emotion he's feeling. He never thought he would have found comfort in Deaton, of all people, but in this moment he's stilled into acceptance. When they part Deaton turns on his heels and makes his way over to his own vehicle. In confusion, Derek starts up behind him. Deaton turns around to face him as he unlocks his door. 

"I just remembered I have some things to organize back at the clinic. Melissa will be looking for an official document for this summit Scott and I will be attending. I'll be back later to dress Stiles bandages. I'll show you how I do it so you can take over when we leave" Deaton calls back. "By the way, which is more believable? Colorado or Hawaii?"

"Colorado" He says. "A Beacon Hills vet isn't going to Hawaii for a summit"

"Yes" Deaton says absently, one leg in the car. "I suppose you're right. Shame"

Derek watches the car choke to a start before it peels back and rips out of the car park. He watches the silhouette disappear down the road, clouds of smoke kicking up from the dust beneath the tires. He's almost forgotten Isaac is there when he drops into his car's seat and catches two eyes peering at him in his rearview mirror. 

"I'm not your chauffeur, Isaac" he says, pushing the key into the ignition. Isaac clambers upfront in a tangled mess of too-long limbs. He manages to avoid kicking Derek in the teeth, which he's really grateful for. When Isaac is settled Derek puts the car in drive and starts moving toward the exit. 

"Listen, Isaac" Derek says as he makes right onto the road. "We should talk about what happened"

"With Stiles?" he asks innocently. 

"No, with you" Derek says, glancing at him through the corner of his eye. "With what you saw"

"You don't have to-"

"I want to" Derek says. He looks at him fully this time. Isaac watches him as long as he watches Isaac, and then some when Derek is forced to look back at the road. He turns to look out the window, a small smile playing on his lips. He feels warm inside.

"Is this a new Derek?" he asks, knowing it'll probably get his head sent straight through the passenger window. Derek doesn't say anything. Isaac takes a chance looking over at him. Derek looks...at peace. It makes the hairs on the back of Isaac's neck stand straight up. 

"I won't forget how you strangled me, if you're wondering" he says. Isaac's smile drops, and Derek finds his. 

------------------

Derek peels the loft door back and shuffles inside balancing a few bags of Indian on one arm. Isaac struggles past him with the rest of the food, a greasy brown bag, and a carrier of sodas. Derek watches him with a pleased expression as he closes the loft door behind him. Everyone is on the living room sofa and Derek is quick to notice an absence of Scott and the presence of someone he wasn't expecting. He follows Isaac into the kitchen to set the food down when Danny of all people knocks on the doorframe as he enters. Isaac looks surprised to see him too, but he's too busy with opening all of the food containers to engage. 

"Hey Derek" Danny says. He clasps his hand to his shoulder. 

Derek glares at the hand until Danny removes it like he's been burned, laughing nervously. 

"Jackson invited me over. Listen, I know what happened. I just wanted to tell you that I was concerned from the jump about Stiles. I'm not pack though so, you know, barriers"

"What do you want Danny" Derek monotones. 

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad you and Stiles are a thing now because I was just telling Isaac the other day that if no one jumped on that I'd have to-"

Isaac shoots a horrified look at Danny who misses it entirely. Derek looks back at Isaac who quickly gets back to unpacking the food. Derek looks back at Danny and walks over to Isaac to busy his hands with something. 

"Danny get the hell out of my house" Derek growls. "There isn't anything between Stiles and I"

"Really? But Jackson said-"

"I'm his friend, Danny. That's it."

"Friend?" Danny looks shocked. "Friend? You- you make friends?"

Derek moves to leave Danny in the kitchen talking to himself when Danny actually steps into his path. Derek has got to start scaring these kids more. 

"Wait, wait, wait" Danny recovers. "That's- I just never saw you as the friend type. But that's really great Derek"

A moment. Derek takes another sidestep, and Danny meets him without missing a beat. 

"Okay, what I wanted to say was that I know you're an Alpha and all, and that you're supposed to be scary and dangerous-" Danny leans back in mild fear- which pleases Derek- when he bares his teeth, partially wolfed out. "Scratch that, you are scary and dangerous- but Stiles has been my friend for a while now, and while I've stuck around to tolerate Scott, I won't stand idly by anymore. Take care of him, Derek"

There's no hint of playfulness there. Derek wonders if this is what it's like having other people care about you. If this is what it's like to have someone stick up for you when you're not even there to witness it. With Dereks lack of friendships, he's never had anyone worry about him like this. He doubt's anyone has ever had his back like this either. He respects it so much it makes his stomach churn with envy. 

"I mean it Derek. Please don't do him dirty, he doesn't deserve it" Danny whispers, eyes locked on Dereks glowing ones. 

"I won't" Derek promises quietly. Danny releases a breath and smiles softly. Derek reaches out the grab his shoulder, feeling like he has to reconfirm. "...I won't"

"I believe you" Danny says. He steps aside to let Derek pass. Derek reaches back to pick up the greasy bag of food and leaves the kitchen.

"Hey wait!"

Derek turns around and follows Danny's gaze to the bag of food in his hand. Danny points at it in shock.

"Are those curly fries?" he asks. 

"They're for-"

"Me?" Stiles asks hopefully. Derek whips his head around to find Stiles standing wrapped in a tattered blanket from the couch. Lydia isn't far behind him. Derek shoves the bag in his direction awkwardly. "Thank you man"

"You're welcome" He manages to get out. Lydia rolls her eyes at him and he grimaces. He's still doing the same thing he did earlier. He's not sure why words are so hard to come by when he's speaking with Stiles. 

"Stiles I just want you to know that I know how much you love curly fries" Danny goes on. "I actually ordered fries for you last night, a huge plate of them so-" 

Jackson covers Danny's mouth with one hand and lifts him from his waist with the other to carry him away from Stiles. Lydia rests a hand on Jacksons lower back in support as she follows them back to the couch. Stiles turns back to look at Derek. He offers him some of his fries. 

"Thank you for everything Derek" Stiles says without looking up. "I know we aren't friends but-"

"We are" he interjects. "I hope that we can be, for a long time"

Stiles doesn't hide how shocked he is. He loses his grip on the greasy bag of food and Derek catches it. 

"I know that trusting people is going to be hard from here" Derek mumbles. "But I hope that you'll be able to trust me someday"

Stiles doesn't say anything for a long time. He just watches Derek, this new Derek, in front of him with an unwavering gaze. Derek thinks that maybe Stiles thinks he isn't telling the truth, and remembers that he can't hear heartbeats like they can. He tries to think of way to prove it to him but Stiles just- smiles? It falters quickly though and disappears, the strength he had looking at Derek is gone. He stares instead at the ground. Derek smells the saltiness of his tears, watches the little droplets form on the floor below, two, three, four. Some droplets grow in size as more fall into to it, slowly two small puddles become one. Stiles drags his sock through it, clears his throat. Derek holds the food out for him again. 

"Are you hungry?" he asks. 

"Yes" Stiles says suddenly. He throws Derek a wistful smile and takes the bag. "Did...did you eat today?"

Derek smiles, blushes actually, but he looks away so that Stiles can't catch the full heat of it. Did you eat today? Somehow his question feels heavier, more romantic-personal? Than usual. There's something else there that Derek is unfamiliar with, can't place his finger on. Gone now are the days that Derek would read that question over text in annoyance, falsely believing that no one would ever care enough to know the answer. Except Stiles always has, probably always will, and now it's Derek's turn to return the favor.

"No" He says. The answer feels lame, considering todays events. Stiles punches his shoulder softly. 

"Then I think we should eat" He says. He goes back into the kitchen and Derek watches him pull the plates from cabinet like he has done a million times, faltering when he over reaches and pulls on his injuries. This time it feels different, watching him. He hears Jackson approach him from behind, nudging him forward with a small push in the center of his back. 

"Go help him, dumbass" He snickers so low only Derek can hear.

Derek doesn't so much as look back. He obeys quietly and steps into the kitchen to help Stiles pull the remaining plates from the highest shelves. Stiles reaches up to beat Derek to a stack of plates and misjudges, instead knocking two mugs off the shelf to shatter on the counter. In an attempt to catch the mugs he releases the plates and they shatter as well. Stiles turns to look at Derek slowly. Derek is glaring at him, but his eyes hold no malice. 

"Sorry" Stiles tries.

"Why is it always you, Stiles" Derek says, bending down to pick up the larger pieces with a smile on his face.  

fin~