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Derek doesn’t know why he goes into the locker room. It’s late, the lacrosse game is long over, and just because he didn’t see Stiles come out doesn’t mean he didn’t.
He’s not even inside the door before he can hear the sound of the shower, water splattering against the floor. And just under that, a voice, soft and continuous, though Derek can’t quite make out what it’s saying.
Quietly, he pushes his way into the locker room and walks down the rows, finally settling on the last bench before the showers. The lockers hide his view, but he doesn’t need to see. Even through the stench of stale sweat and cleaning supplies and the water in the shower, he knows Stiles’s scent. He’d know it anywhere.
It’s Stiles in the shower, Stiles’s voice whispering the two words he’s been repeating since Derek walked into the locker room.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”
Stiles’s voice cracks, and Derek’s breath catches. He shouldn’t be here, he should walk away, give Stiles the privacy he so obviously wants.
And yet he can’t.
He can’t walk away, not when he remembers so vividly kneeling in water, the litany of I’m sorry battering at his own mind. Remembers Stiles’s hand on his shoulder, gripping, the implied I’m here.
It wasn’t much, not against the overwhelming tide of grief, but it was something. An anchor. A reminder that Derek wasn’t alone.
That's a favor he can return now.
He grabs a towel and waits by the bench for the water to shut off, and then walks to the shower and holds out the towel. He keeps his gaze trained on the lockers, but hears a sharp intake of breath and knows Stiles has seen him.
The towel is yanked out of his hand. “How long have you been there?”
Derek shrugs. “Not long.”
“The game’s been over for an hour.”
“I know.”
“I thought we’d trained you out of your creeper ways,” Stiles mutters, but his voice is too unsteady, too soft or too sharp by turns, for it to come out as the joke he undoubtedly intends.
“It’s okay,” Derek says.
“No, it’s not.” Stiles’s breathing is harsh. “You’re going to get arrested if you keep lurking around the boys’ locker room. Again, I might add.”
Derek finally turns to look at Stiles, who’s wrapped the towel around his waist and is glaring at Derek now, glaring like it might be some kind of defense. Maybe it would be, if Derek couldn’t see the redness in his eyes, hear the hitching in each of his breaths.
He doesn’t know what to say; words just feel like they’re tangled up between his mind and his tongue, so he does the only thing he can think of. He bridges the distance between them and rests his hand on Stiles’s bare shoulder. Tentative at first, but though Stiles stiffens, he doesn’t try to shake Derek off.
Derek squeezes. “It’s okay,” he repeats.
Stiles’s face crumples for a split second before he shores it back up with anger. “No, it’s not.” He steps closer to Derek, eyes blazing. “It’s not okay, Derek, nothing is okay, it hasn’t been okay for...for...and you can’t just come in here and say that shit when it’s not true, it’s not, it’s--”
He punches Derek’s chest, hard enough for it to hurt but not enough to make him move. Derek debates grabbing Stiles’s wrist and holding him, but doesn’t, just stays where he is.
“It’s not okay.” Stiles spits the word like it’s poisoned, punctuates it with another punch. “It’s not okay, it’s not, it’s not, it’s--”
The third punch hits again, but this time Stiles doesn’t pull back. Instead, he falls forward, and even though Derek’s expecting it, he’s still surprised when Stiles lands hard against him with a choked sob.
He wraps one arm around Stiles’s back and brings up the other to rest his hand at the nape of Stiles’s neck, holds him close.
The only indication that Stiles is crying is the way his shoulders shake, and the soft, trembling breaths he takes. Still, it’s loud to Derek’s ears, seems to echo in the silence of the locker room.
Derek just holds him tighter, closes his eyes and lets Stiles break apart. For right now, he can be strong so that Stiles doesn’t have to be.
He’s not sure how long they stand there, but it’s long enough that Stiles slowly stops shaking.
“No one understands,” Stiles says, voice wet and muffled against Derek’s shirt.
“I know,” Derek says. “I’ve been there. Still am, some days.” He’s pretty sure Stiles knows about the first part. He’s not so sure if he knows the second.
“Yeah?”
Derek nods. “You know, if you ever--if you need, the loft is always open. And I don’t mean because you have a key.”
Stiles’s shoulders shake again, but this time it’s with laughter. He pulls back, looks Derek in the eye. He doesn’t look as fragile as he did earlier, but there’s still a vulnerability there that hurts Derek’s heart.
“Is it open now?” Stiles asks cautiously, like he’s afraid of the answer.
“Of course.”
Stiles sags a little, like a weight just dropped off him, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Good. Great. I’m going to just, uh,” he hooks his thumb over his shoulder, “go change and call my dad, let him know I’ll be awhile.”
Derek sits back on the bench. “I’ll wait.”
Stiles’s smile is brief and small, but it’s genuine, and he hitches the towel tighter around his waist and heads back into the lockers. Derek keeps his ears open, listening to Stiles’s heartbeat fade as he moves away.
And then he hears it, two words spoken from between the lockers, quiet enough that he’d never have heard them if he weren’t a werewolf.
“Thank you.”