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7.
As a child, Derek used to sleepwalk. He ended up in Laura’s bedroom four times, the summer he turned seven. He tripped over the rug by her door and banged his head against her desk so hard there was blood everywhere. He healed almost instantly, but Derek vividly remembers the shock of pain and the confusion of waking up somewhere he didn’t go to sleep.
If the sleepwalking is starting up again, Derek will chain himself to his bed. Especially considering where he sleepwalked to this time.
He knows where he is before he opens his eyes. Stiles’ scent saturates him completely. Derek feels heavy with it, which is why it takes him awhile to figure out that it's not the beating of a bird’s wings he hears; it’s Stiles’ heartbeat. Derek sits up.
“Hi,” Stiles says, clears his throat and says it again, drawing it out. “Hi.” He’s sitting in a chair across the room, hugging a pillow and staring at Derek with saucer-wide eyes. “Um. You’re in my bed.”
“I am,” Derek says because Stiles is looking at him like he’s expecting an answer.
“Is there something wrong with your bed? I mean, do you, uh, have a bed? I did wonder at some point if you slept at all, but apparently you do. Scott says you just need less than –– Oh, here we are, there’s that scowl again, fine, I’ll just––” Stiles rolls his eyes and waves a hand in no particular direction. He turns to boot up his computer.
While Stiles is occupied, Derek takes a deep breath and closes his eyes over the red glow. Erica and Boyd are fine. So is Isaac. He can feel Jackson, though not as clearly as the others –– Derek hasn’t figured out why that is yet, but he seems okay too. Even Scott is a content thrill at the edges of his awareness. They’re all right.
Derek blinks his eyes open. Stiles is staring at him.
“Doing good big guy?” Stiles asks, swinging his chair from side to side, legs splayed wide. He’s still hugging that stupid pillow and his mouth is quirked up at the corners.
Derek finds Stiles’ eyes really unsettling. The way Stiles scrutinizes him makes Derek irrationally angry sometimes. Stiles is doing it now –– looking at Derek as if he’s got him all figured out. Well, he doesn’t.
“You gonna tell me what you’re doing here?” Stiles asks. It’s supposed to sound challenging, but underneath the tone, Derek can hear the genuine surprise, the quiet wonder.
“No,” Derek says and jumps to his feet before he has to admit he doesn’t know what he’s doing there. He leaps out of the window, chased by Stiles’ laughter.
As the crow flies, he’s maybe half a mile away from the Stilinski house when he hears the first gunshot. Then there’s a second and a third from a different gun. Derek is already crouched beside Stiles’ body on the porch by the time the sheriff’s weapon clatters to the floor.
“Stiles,” the sheriff says. Derek steps back to give him room. “Oh god no, my son. Not my son.”
Stiles stares at Derek over his dad’s shoulder. The morning sunlight catches his irises and Derek finds himself wishing they’d glow with the supernatural light of a bitten beta. But even the bite wouldn’t help him now, not at the speed Stiles is leaking life.
Stiles mouths something, but he must have no breath left to make a sound because Derek can’t hear a word. The small puncture in his t-shirt belies the large pool of blood underneath him. It trickles slowly down the porch steps and through the floorboards. There are sirens in the distance and the smells of grief mingle. Derek can’t tell which one is his.
Stiles is dead by the time the paramedics load him in the ambulance. Scott’s there too now, even though Derek has no idea if someone called him or if Stiles was outside to meet him. Scott’s shaking so hard Derek has to hold him up by his arm. He keeps repeating, “This isn’t real. Derek, this isn’t real, is it?” Scott turns to Derek as if Derek has all the answers, which he doesn’t. He ran a quick perimeter of the house as the paramedics tried to resuscitate Stiles. The giving of Stiles’ ribs against the chest compressions made Derek feel sick in a way the breaking of his own bones never does.
There’s nothing. Not a single scent out of place, as if the bullet that pierced Stiles’ belly came out of nowhere. Later Derek will widen his search, go through the woods behind the house in a more efficient grid. He’ll call Erica and the others to help him, because Scott won’t be much use. For now he just watches with everyone else, doesn’t move or look away as the body bag is closed over Stiles’ face, as if the weight of that sight will lighten when it’s shared.
6.
Sometimes Derek wishes he could fool his senses. He wants to wake up slowly, just once, without the instant recognition of a present that tastes like purgatory. As if his dreams aren’t torture enough. Since the fire, he’s never found that cocoon of safety he used to wake up in, the background buzz of his family’s good natured arguing a routine start to the day.
There’s no fooling any senses this time either. Derek feels he should be more surprised he searched out Stiles’ bedroom again in the middle of the night, but he’s not. It still smells like Stiles will walk in any minute. Derek turns onto his stomach and breathes deeply. He knows how fast scents fade. He has always associated smells with memories. The last time he ever cried was when he realized his mother’s coat didn’t smell like her anymore –– it just smelled like damp house and ash.
With a sigh Derek tightens his fists in the sheets, getting ready to get up, go on. It’s what he does after all.
The wolfs breaks to the surface when he sees Stiles standing in the middle of the room, hugging a pillow. “This isn’t possible,” Derek hisses, but retracts his claws and straightens when he sniffs the air. It’s definitely Stiles.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, too fast. “Although I have no idea why I’m apologizing for being in my own room. What are you doing here, Derek?”
“I don’t know,” Derek admits, hushed and too honest. He runs a hand over his face, feels the need to pinch himself, but Stiles is still gaping at him.
“Did something bad happen? Are you all right? Is Scott––” Stiles hesitates as Derek closes his eyes and lets his awareness drift.
“Everyone’s fine,” he says after a few seconds.
Stiles heaves a dramatic breath of relief. “God, you scared the bejeezus out of me. So what’s the matter?”
How does someone own up to their fears so easily? Derek thinks, but says “I don’t know,” and then again, “I don’t know.” He wants to reach out and check where he’d seen the blood blossom out of Stiles’ body the day before. If Stiles was pack –– he smells like he is, at times, so it’s confusing –– Derek would do just that. He wants to press against him and appease the wolf half of him that Stiles is fine. Derek can stop himself from touching, but he can’t help taking deep, filling breaths until his blood hums with Stiles’ scent.
“Derek?” Stiles asks, taking a step forward and lifting a hand like he’s going to reach for him.
“I’m fine,” Derek says quickly. He doesn’t know what’s going on but he has to get out of there. He can’t think. Not with Stiles looking at him like he cares. It’s not until much later (too late), that Derek realizes he hadn’t woken up to Stiles’ birdlike heartbeat because it had been steady and strong. Rhythmic like his own.
He stays near the house, because he has nowhere else to be, and there is clearly something going on. When he left Stiles in his room, Derek circled around to the porch and found no sign of any blood. The air should’ve been offensive with it, but there was nothing. So when Stiles jumps in his Jeep, Derek shifts to his alpha form and keeps up with him in the shade of the trees.
The accident is horrific in it’s simplicity. Derek hears the deer seconds before Stiles swerves to avoid it. The car coils around a tree, driver’s side door first. Derek rips a hole in the roof and heaves Stiles out of there because he can smell the flame building beneath the hood of the car. Derek has to yank Stiles’ leg free and the cry Stiles tries to smother is like an arrow through his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Derek tells him. “Stiles, where’s your phone? I don’t have my phone and I need to call––“
“Pocket,” Stiles croaks and he whines when Derek lowers him down. “Don’t leave.” His fingers curl and uncurl in Derek’s jacket, as if they’ll find a thread of life to hang on to.
“I won’t. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.” He’s stroking Stiles’ cheek as he calls 911. Derek hangs up when he’s given them their location and never takes his eyes off Stiles as he dials the sheriff.
It’s the worst phone call of his life, because he can feel the waves of worry for his dad come off Stiles. Goddamnit, Derek thinks, angry and helpless, when is he going to start caring about his own life instead of everyone else’s. On the other end of the line, he can hear the sheriff’s voice splinter.
“Will you look out for him?” Stiles asks and his mouth thins with pain. Derek can hear the broken ribs grind together. Stiles is becoming short of breath; the air whistles and burbles in his chest with the sounds of a punctured a lung.
“Yeah,” Derek says, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Stiles’ jaw. “Of course.” He flattens his other hand over Stiles injured side, tries to take some of his pain away, but nothing happens.
It doesn’t take long for the ambulance to find them and for a second time, Derek watches as Stiles’ open-eyed face disappears behind a zipper. He waits until everyone is gone, but his howl can still be heard across Beacon Hills.
5.
It’s happening again.
“Don’t even ask,” Derek says, rolling over and getting a mouthful of comforter for his trouble. Stiles is sitting at the end of the bed, hugging that goddamn pillow.
“I wasn’t going to,” Stiles says. “What’s unusual about waking up next to an alpha werewolf? Nothing, no, nope, nothing at all.” He’s fidgeting, but Derek doesn’t buy it. He doesn’t smell afraid or nervous and there’s no hitch or stutter in his heartbeat. It’s almost as if Stiles acts anxious out of habit. Derek wonders how often he hides behind that guise.
“What day is it?” Derek says suddenly and Stiles grins at him.
“Saturday? Why? Do you have plans?” Stiles looks like he finds the thought highly amusing. Derek doesn’t bother scowling. “What’s going on?” Stiles asks, searching Derek’s face. He shifts a bit and their legs touch through the covers. Derek clamps his jaws shut and Stiles sighs, slow and tired. It’s like the sigh deflates him completely, makes him look small and vulnerable.
“I keep going through the same things over and over,” Derek blurts out. He’s not going to think about why he’s suddenly talking about this. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“The same things?” Stiles asks, straightening. “Like, the same day?”
Derek mulls that over. He never thought to check that, but it makes sense. He keeps waking up in Stiles’ room, in the same clothes, like nothing’s happened. “I think so,” he says.
“Dude,” Stiles yells, excited, lunging for his computer. “You’re in a time loop!” His arms flail as he tries to spin his chair toward his computer and nearly sends it toppling back. Derek is out of the bed and steadying it before it’s even conscious thought. He’s not ready to see Stiles with a broken neck.
“Right,” Stiles says, clearing his throat. “Um. Thanks? I guess?” He’s looking up at Derek as if it’s the biggest mystery that Derek doesn’t want to see him bashing his head on the ground. Derek wants to laugh, remembers the life bleeding out of Stiles’ eyes and his own long, mournful howl.
Stiles’ face falls. “Derek,” he says quietly, swinging his chair around to face him. “What exactly have you been reliving?”
“You keep dying,” Derek tells him before he can come up with a dozen reasons not to.
“Oh,” Stiles says with odd relief in his voice. “I thought maybe –– never mind. So I keep dying huh, that sounds like fun.”
“Trust me,” Derek tells him, backing off again, realizing he’s standing far too close. “You have the easy part.”
Stiles laughs. It starts as a snort and then he’s throwing his head back. “Yeah, I bet,” he says, when he’s done. He looks back at Derek and just like that the mirth is gone. “Because you’re the one who stays behind.” There is a tremor in his voice. It makes Derek feel raw, like he’s splayed wide open and Stiles is staring right at his insides. It makes him angry, or scared if he's being honest with himself, which he’s not.
Stiles must see him crouch to leap out of the window, because he stands quickly and looks a little apologetic when he puts a hand on Derek’s arm. “Do you want some breakfast?”
Escape looks tempting and Derek nearly shrugs him off. Stiles takes a small step closer, tightens his fingers and says, “Please?” Derek looks at the bow of his mouth, the lines of his eyes as they spark with a little bit of hope. It’s too easy to remember them pinched with pain. How long until those are the only memories of Stiles he has?
“Okay,” Derek says and Stiles looks briefly surprised.
“Awesome,” Stiles says with fervor and is already half way down the stairs when Derek hears him go on with, “The Stilinski omelet, Derek, it’s legendary. I hope you like cheese.”
Derek shakes his head, doesn’t know if he feels like he could laugh or cry, if that weight in his chest is dread or something else entirely.
“We should go to your house after this,” Stiles says, drinking from a brimful glass of milk (after Derek glared at him for drinking from the bottle), “maybe there’s some sort of trap that makes you stuck in today.”
“Then why do I end up here?” Derek asks before he can stop himself. Stiles’ eyes grow large.
“I–– that, I don’t know,” he says and there's that blip in his heartbeat. Derek knows it’s not the herald of a lie, but has no idea what it means.
The car ride is strangely peaceful, for all that Stiles won’t shut up. Derek laughs quietly, wonders how far he’s come to actually want to listen to Stiles go on about his chemistry homework.
“What?” Derek asks, his smile lingering. Stiles is gaping at him.
“Nothing,” Stiles says and his cheeks are still flushed when they walk up to the house.
The explosion is deafening and takes them by complete surprise.
Derek roars with anger and shifts into his beta form. He should’ve smelled the explosives, but he didn’t. All he can smell now is the, oh, oh god, the blood. He bounds over to where Stiles lies limp on the ground, yards away from the path up to the house. He sniffs the wounds and it distresses the wolf. Derek whines, high and anguished, and shifts back. It won’t make much difference, but his own emotions are more complicated than his wolf’s and easier to keep at bay.
“Stiles,” Derek says. His mouth tastes like metal. At least the ringing in his ears is subsiding so he knows the healing has kicked in already. Fresh skin knits over the burn on his left arm and he hates it. Hates it. Because he’s gathering Stiles in his arms, who is bleeding everywhere. From long burns on his forearms, his thighs, a deep gash in his forehead. The blood from that one keeps running into Stiles’ eye. Derek pulls the cuff of his shirt over his fingers and gently wipes it away. Stiles’ ankle is at an off angle and his clothes are in tatters. Ash clings to his lashes and it’s awful. Derek tries to take his pain, doesn’t really expect it to work. It doesn’t.
“I’ll be all right,” Stiles is whispering, like it’s Derek who needs soothing. Derek can’t detect the lie even though he knows Stiles is clever enough to understand he’s not going to survive this. “You said,” he goes on, voice so soft Derek can barely hear it. “You said I’ll be alive tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” Derek tells him, pulling him closer. “You’ll be fine tomorrow.” Stiles is looking at his mouth and then at his eyes again, frantic.
“I can’t hear anything. Derek, I think I’m deaf.”
“It’s the explosion,” Derek tells him. “It’ll get better, it’ll get better Stiles.” He holds on to him, burying his head into Stiles’ hair because the scent of fire and blood reminds him so much of losing everything, Derek thinks he’s going to puke.
“Derek,” Stiles says after a while, “no matter what, don’t get my dad. No matter what I tell you okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise.”
“I promise,” Derek says carefully, clearly, so if Stiles can’t hear at least he can lipread read it.
Stiles’ eyes are piercing but he relaxes marginally. It doesn’t last of course. No matter what anyone says, it doesn’t get easier when death comes near. Internal bleeding, burns and broken bones hurt like a bitch until you pass out, no way around it. Stiles keeps slipping in and out of consciousness, his heartbeat slowing a few times. Each time, Derek thinks, this is it, but Stiles keeps fighting. It’s like Stiles is holding on for something. For morning, maybe.
It’s hours before Stiles starts to ask for his dad. When he does, Derek talks over him because Stiles deserves the dignity of not being overheard begging. Derek tells Stiles about his childhood, about that time he thinks of as another life. It’s not like Stiles can actually hear him.
It takes all night, and Derek talks and talks until he’s sore. “I don’t remember what it’s like to love,” Derek tells Stiles in that darkest hour.
“Of course you do,” Stiles whispers, his eyes much clearer than they’ve been and Derek understands it’ll be over soon. He doesn’t know when Stiles’ hearing came back, but it doesn’t matter. For as much as Derek can‘t forget, Stiles will never remember. “That’s the problem.”
Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all.
“You’re kissing me,” Stiles mumbles.
Derek smiles against his forehead. “I’m aware.”
“You couldn’t have done that while I was still, you know, alive?” Stiles sounds like he’s pouting and the laugh that wrenches itself out of Derek’s chest hurts. He sits back so he can look at Stiles.
“You are still alive,” Derek tells him. The smell of blood is too familiar.
“Not for long.” Stiles shouldn’t be smiling under the circumstances, but Derek’s learned that Stiles never does what he’s supposed to. Like lifting his head now, reaching for Derek. It makes him cough, the noise rattling through his lungs. It paints his lips red. A tear tracks a path through the gray dust on Stiles’ face. He turns away but Derek stops him with a hand on his cheek. Kisses him anyway.
“See you tomorrow, Derek,” Stiles says.
“See you tomorrow, Stiles.”
4.
This time Derek tells him everything from the moment he opens his eyes. Stiles is lying beside him –– without that pillow between them –– staring at the ceiling and pretending waking up next to Derek is completely normal. It nearly makes Derek laugh. Instead he talks, if only to stop himself from touching every single inch of Stiles he’s seen bloodied and bruised.
“So I told you it was a time loop?” Stiles asks. He has his hands tucked underneath his head and his t-shirt rides up.
“It was the first thing you came up with,” Derek tells him.
“God, I’m good.” Stiles grins, and Derek elbows him in the ribs. Gently.
“Only sometimes.”
Stiles’ smile grows and Derek knows what that careful happiness tastes like now. “So do I at least like, die in heroic ways? Do I save small children from burning buildings?”
“You took a bullet,” Derek says and he winces. He’s not going to recount all the ways he watched Stiles die.
“Hey,” Stiles says, suddenly in Derek’s space. He’s propped himself up on one elbow and gets that look again, the one that makes Derek want to run. Derek digs his fingernails into his legs and stays where he is. “It’s all right, you don’t have to tell me. We’ll figure this out okay? There’s got to be a way to break this thing. Have you talked to any of the others? I mean, not that they’d remember anything, but did anyone tell you something useful?”
Stiles’ eyes widen when Derek remains silent.
“Scott?” Stiles asks, and after a pause, “Isaac and Boyd? Erica? You’ve been going through this alone?” He sighs and tries to hide it. “Did you at least talk to the vet?”
“No,” Derek admits quietly.
“That’s fine,” Stiles immediately says, and he sits up, back against the headboard. “That’s completely fine, I mean, dude if this was me I’d be freaking out. It’s got to be the weirdest thing to try and wrap your head around. No one’s gonna blame you for not getting help. I mean, I’m not saying that you haven’t tried or anything.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, feeling hollow. “I haven’t tried.”
“I get it man,” Stiles tells him, gently patting Derek’s shoulder. “But we’re gonna try this time, okay?”
They comb through the bestiary without any luck. Stiles researches everything he can think of and Derek tries not to watch time slip by. Eventually Stiles turns around and says, “We’re going to have to go to Deaton.”
“We’re not leaving the house.”
“Derek.”
“Stiles.” Derek doesn’t look up from the book he’s paging through and he feels his mouth quirk up.
“Oh my god.” Stiles laughs. “You do it on purpose don’t you? I bet you were a bit of a brat before––”
Derek flashes his most mischievous grin. “A brat,” he says, quickly interrupting Stiles. He doesn’t want the moment to break yet. “You have no idea.”
“I doubt that,” Stiles tells him and Derek doesn’t know how Stiles does it, with three words and a look, but he feels exposed.
“Will it make any difference whether we leave or not?” Stiles asks after another silence. “I mean, who’s to say I won’t slip in the shower, or something.”
“I won’t leave you alone,” Derek says and then makes a face when he realizes what he just implied.
Stiles coughs a laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice high. His cheeks begin to color and Derek stares in fascination. “So um, I, uh, was saying something. There was a point. Involved. In the bit before the, uh, thinking of you in my shower. Oh yeah.” He straightens, and just like that he’s over his embarrassment. “So, if I’m gonna die anyway, I want it to at least be useful. So, lets get out of here and even if I die in a car crash,” he stops and watches Derek wince, “promise me you’ll still go see Deaton.”
“Okay,” Derek says after a beat. “Okay.”
They learn it’s a spell, but Deaton doesn’t know anything else. He suspects it will either run out eventually or its purpose will become known. He sends them on their way with a huge, heavy book that will do them no good because by the time they leave, the day is almost over.
As soon as they’re on the pavement, Derek can smell the wolfsbane. “Hunters,” he mutters, and pushes Stiles behind him. He can hear two heartbeats, one close, the other further away. “Get back inside, Stiles,” Derek insists, one hand still on Stiles’ arm.
“No way,” Stiles tells him. “We don’t know what happens when you die, so I’m staying right here.”
“Stiles,” Derek growls, but there’s no time. He can hear the arrow whistling toward them but he can’t see it, which should be impossible; Derek can see in almost full darkness and there’s a clear waxing moon tonight. The arrow digs deep into his thigh and he crumples, the wolfsbane already worming through his veins.
“Shit,” he hears Stiles mumble. Derek can hear the other hunter.
“Stiles,” he groans, “the other one’s coming. Go.” He doesn’t expect Stiles to listen; he’s never left Derek to die before, so Derek’s surprised when Stiles slinks back into the shadows.
He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. One second he’s alone, the next there’s a blade being driven into his back. It’s the spell, it has to be, because no one sneaks up on Derek. He twists around, ready to claw the attacker’s face off when he sees Stiles reappear and whack the hunter on the head with Deaton’s book. The guy is instantly out cold.
“Come on,” Stiles says, heaving at Derek’s arm to get him upright. “Good thing we’re right outside a vet, huh.”
“Yeah,” Derek says but his head is spinning and not just from the wolfsbane.
Is this it? Did they avert the attack? Will everything go back to normal?
“Looks like it might,” Deaton tells them, after he’s purified Derek of the poison. “You won’t know until tomorrow but it looks promising. It’s almost midnight and you’re both still alive.” He claps Stiles on the shoulder and leaves them to it.
“Aw yeah,” Stiles says, doing a little victory dance. “I totally saved your werewolf tail. Me! I did something right.”
The happiness coming off him is infectious and Derek laughs. Thank god, he thinks, thank god and bumps the fist Stiles holds out to him. “You did,” he says and he almost reaches for Stiles, tugged by an impulse to hug him. Stiles is still talking though, smiling wide and with his entire body, leaning toward Derek like he’s drawn in too.
“I’m clearly amazing. I keep telling Scott this on a regular basis and yet he remains unimpressed. Won’t even make out for the sake of science and ––” He lifts his feet and looks at the soles of his sneakers one after the other. “–– ew Derek, you bled all over the place, that’s just disgusting.”
Derek sees it happen almost before it does. Stiles puts his foot back down and the heel keeps sliding. He makes this comedy surprised face, his mouth open in a round o, and topples backward with windmilling arms. Derek lunges to grab him but he’s still sluggish from the wolfsbane and misses, and Stiles lands on his back. He bangs his head, not even that hard –– just gets up again and says, “Ow,” rubbing the back of his skull. “Oh, gross, now I’ve got black blood on my jacket.”
Derek stares at him, feels like he’s folding in on himself, piece by crumpled piece.
“Hey,” Stiles says. He puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I’m fine. It’s okay, I’m fine.” He pauses. “I am fine, right?”
Derek breathes in deeply. The hemorrhage in Stiles’ brain smells faintly sweet. “Yeah,” he lies. “You’re fine.”
In the car on the way home, Stiles starts to slump in his seat. “M’tired,” he mumbles, blinking owlishly. “Mind if I––” He flaps a hand in the direction of Derek’s lap.
“Go ahead,” Derek tells him quietly and Stiles rests his head on Derek’s thigh, hugs it a bit.
“I did good, didn’t I?” Stiles asks, voice dreamy and far away. Derek knows he’s caught on.
“You did great,” Derek whispers, keeping one hand on the wheel while gently rubbing Stiles’ side with the other. Stiles falls asleep and Derek drives and drives until Stiles’ heartbeat has faded out.
There’s a brief moment Derek considers giving Stiles the bite tomorrow, if tomorrow comes. But the way things have gone, Stiles would probably die from it. He doesn’t think he can stand to be the actual cause of Stiles’ death.
This is punishment, Derek realizes some time between one heartbeat and the next, and I deserve it.
3.
There’s a soft puff of air against Derek’s cheek and a noise like a hushed moan. For the first time since this whole mess started, Derek feels disoriented when he wakes up. A dark painful corner of Derek’s mind thinks Kate because she used to wake him up like this, sometimes.
Derek opens his eyes and it’s Stiles, his hand sliding over Derek’s chest, under his t-shirt, making the muscles of his stomach jump. He nuzzles Derek’s shoulder and Derek turns into it, inhales the honey-golden scent of Stiles alive.
“Stiles,” Derek says, pained. He’s so turned on it’s agonizing.
“Mmm,” Stiles murmurs, sliding over, pressing his face to Derek’s neck, shifting his weight so he’s straddling Derek. It’s been a long time since anyone touched Derek with affection, and his body aches for it, craves it, arcs under Stiles’ hands. Derek makes an embarrassing noise when Stiles kisses his way up Derek’s jaw, all the way to his mouth and Derek opens, easily.
Stiles draws the breath out of his lungs, gasps with it and mumbles something about dreams. Derek can’t think, can’t get beyond how right it feels to have him there, curled around and over him, hips hitching with little movements like he can’t help himself. Stiles tastes so good, smells so right, and Derek probably shouldn’t be doing this, because he’s so young. Until he dies.
The thought chases away the last of Derek's boundaries and he lets himself want, unlocks a part of him he shut down a long time ago. Derek sits up quickly, taking Stiles with him, clutching him close, chest to chest, arms tightly wound around him. Stiles giggles and Derek bites at Stiles’ bottom lip to stop his own smile from spreading. “Stiles, I––”
Stiles yelps and suddenly his eyes are wide open. “This isn’t a dream,” he says and Derek is riding such a high he can’t quite catch up with him. “I’m not dreaming oh my god,” Stiles goes on, “oh my god, oh my god.” He’s scrambling out of Derek’s lap and it’s like a slap in the face. Stiles doesn’t look scared, or horrified, just bewildered and a little awed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles and he keeps touching his mouth, first his bottom lip, then the top and it’s doing nothing for Derek’s brainpower. “I’m so sorry.”
Fuck. Stiles thought he was dreaming.
Because he’s a coward, Derek is out of the window before Stiles has said another word. He spends the rest of the day in the basement where most of his family died, knees drawn up to his chest and claws drawing fat leaks of blood from his calves as he vividly imagines all the ways Stiles is dying.
He doesn’t go back to find out.
2.
“You’re dirrrrty,” Stiles mumbles and Derek can feel the wet patch on his henley where Stiles’ mouth is pushed open against his chest. “Do that again.”
Stiles nuzzles into him and no, they’re not doing that again. Derek knows how that ends. Today will be different. Today Stiles won’t die at all. The morning does feels more hopeful, somehow. He can taste it in the air that sits lighter in his lungs.
“Stiles,” Derek says, yawning. “You’re dreaming.” He can’t stop the grin now that he knows what Stiles is dreaming of.
Stiles jerks under the arm Derek has loosely wrapped around his shoulder. Derek eases off enough to let him lift his head but keeps him close with a gentle press between Stiles’ shoulder blades. “Morning,” Stiles says, blinking blearily.
Derek can see it coming, that too-wide smile Stiles puts on when he’s trying to hide how he’s feeling. Deep embarrassment in this case, and Derek won’t have it. He reaches up, barely has to move his hand from where it’s resting on his chest and carefully drags his fingertips over Stiles’ cheek.
“Morning,” he says. Stiles’ skin heats beneath his touch and Derek breathes like he could drink him in.
“Did I miss something?” Stiles asks, shuffling to lean up and not accidentally touch Derek more than he already does. “Because if I did, that would suck. Big time.” His eyes flit all over Derek’s face and there is a question in them Derek’s not sure he can answer. “I mean you’re here. In my bed. Not doing any ripping of throats. It feels like I missed something. Or that we’ve been here before?” He looks at Derek, wide-eyed and questioning. Derek is trying to think of what to tell him when Stiles goes on. “And you don’t even look so sour, so you can’t blame me for maybe imagining things that made me black out. Can you please? Say something?”
Derek thinks about the time Stiles was shot in the stomach, bleeding out as the Sheriff curled over his body. He thinks of the car crash. The explosion. The slowing of Stiles’ breath until it evened out completely. The way he’d kept asking for his dad and then, eventually, his mom.
He thinks of his hands under Stiles’ t-shirt, of how the taste of him is something Derek wakes up with now, instead of the flavor of things long turned to dust. “No,” he says in the end, tightening his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. It must be weird but Stiles doesn’t protest or try to pull away. “You didn’t miss anything.”
“Oh. Good. I can work with that. Maybe I can, uh –– yeah, I got nothing.” He laughs, quiet and unsure. Slowly he puts his head on Derek’s shoulder, taking awhile to lean into it, as if he expects Derek to suddenly throw him off. He settles though, eventually, and Derek can feel the relaxing breath he takes right before he goes boneless. He hums a bit and his fingers play with the frayed cuff of Derek’s sleeve.
“So,” Stiles says and Derek laughs because he’d been wondering how long Stiles would be able to remain quiet. The sound makes Stiles’ face light up. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Maybe I just want a day, Derek thinks, where you don’t die. Where I manage, just once, to keep you safe. Just one day. He holds Stiles a little tighter. “Do you want to do something?” He asks, instead of telling the truth. “Go somewhere?”
“Um, I guess?” Stiles says. “Yeah, I, uh, what do you have in mind?” Stiles shifts his head and Derek realizes Stiles is listening to his heartbeat. Derek puts his hand over Stiles’ back, where he can feel Stiles’ heart thump just a little faster than usual.
Derek doesn’t say anything. He kisses the top of Stiles’ head because it’s right there. The thumping against his hand picks up a pace. Derek swings his legs over the edge of the bed and Stiles tries to follow him out but gets tangled in the blankets and nearly falls flat on his face. Derek catches him, feels winded like he was the one about to hit the floor.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, swallowing hard when Derek can’t manage to let go or look away.
“Don’t mention it.”
“So where do you want to go?” Stiles asks him, freshly showered and half an hour later, his hands loosely resting on the wheel.
Stiles’ knee is bouncing up and down. He smells of anticipation. “Why don’t you choose,” Derek says and Stiles grins.
He expects Stiles to head for the coast, for light and water and air, but instead he drives toward the mountains. It doesn’t occur to Derek until he’s falling off the cliff, that Stiles probably chose this, because he thought it was where Derek would want to go.
The hike is brutal for Stiles but he pushes on with a determination that shouldn’t exactly shock Derek given Stiles’ stubbornness. Derek had never seen it as a particularly good trait until now. He watches the way Stiles forges ahead, one step at a time, his breath coming hard but even, cheeks flushed with the effort.
“I can help you,” Derek says.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Stiles says a little snappish, “but I can do it by myself.”
“That I know,” Derek tells him and Stiles gives him an astonished look. Derek rolls his eyes. “The only one who thinks you’re incompetent is you, Stiles. You’ve saved my life enough.” Derek bites back the rest of that thought but Stiles sees it on his face anyway. He stops, grabs Derek’s wrist.
“Tell me what’s going on, Derek,” Stiles huffs, having more trouble catching his breath now that he’s standing still.
Derek shakes his head. “Don’t ask me,” he says and lowers the backpack he’d insisted on carrying. He hands Stiles a bottle of water and resumes the slow, steady climb to the top.
Three quarters of the way there, Derek spots a mountain lion and he’s in his alpha form before it’s even conscious thought.
“You cavebear,” Stiles yells at him, after laughing so hard he nearly falls over. “Oh my god, I think you scared the entire population of predators out of these mountains with that roar. We’re going to have an influx of deer and you’ll be to blame. Why did you do that? It was like, half a mile away.”
Stiles stops laughing the moment he looks up, and if Derek looks half as nauseated as he feels, he can’t blame Stiles for the way he pales. Derek's imagination is too vivid to deal with the equation of Stiles in range of a mountain lion.
“Hey,” Stiles says, “hey, it’s all right.” He puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder and the weight of his comfort nearly brings Derek to his knees. He grips Stiles’ wrist and they stand there for awhile, Stiles letting him hold on.
“Come on,” Stiles eventually says. “We’re not there yet.”
The summit is a gentle slope lined with just enough trees to create a patch of shade. Stiles plops down in it with his usual grace and starts rummaging through the backpack Derek flings at him.
“Water and granola bars,” Stiles says, throwing a bottle at Derek. He catches it easily and shrugs.
“It was your kitchen,” he says, taking a drink, “and I didn’t know we were going hiking.”
“Can you catch me like, I don’t know, a rabbit or something? I can roast it on a fire.” Stiles lies back and starfishes out, still breathing hard. His hoodie is wrapped around his hips and the t-shirt he wears underneath has a dark, sweat-soaked V on the front.
“I’m not your beagle,” Derek tells him, walking over and crouching down beside Stiles. “And roasted rabbit doesn’t taste half as good as you’d think.”
Stiles is grinning at him, squinting at the bright sunlight behind Derek, and Derek’s sure Stiles is imagining him with beagle ears or something equally ludicrous. He decides not to ask. Instead he sits back, cross-legged, toying with his bottle cap.
“This is nice,” Stiles says when his heartbeat has evened out.
“Yeah,” Derek says, “I like it up here.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Stiles tells him, but he doesn’t elaborate. He looks away to the blue sky and Derek can see white clouds reflected in the amber of his eyes. There’s a bit of grass, longer than all the others, tickling the edge of Stiles’ chin. Derek really wants to reach over and pluck it away but he doesn’t. He stays very still and just looks.
It’s quiet for a long time, nothing here but the wind and a few birds, and Derek lets the peace seep into his tired bones. He can tell there are a thousand things going through Stiles’ mind, some part of him always moving, always twitching, and Derek recognizes the moment Stiles’ mind stumbles over an obstacle. He stops fidgeting, lets go of the lip he’d been chewing on, and his eyes keep darting toward Derek. Derek stays quiet and waits.
"Do you think," Stiles says, "being a werewolf would've saved her?"
Derek doesn’t need to ask who he means. His own mom is never far from his mind. "It would have," Derek tells him and he hears Stiles' breath catch, snagging on his stuttering heartbeat. "Or the bite would have killed her and then you'd have to live with never knowing if she'd gotten better on her own."
Stiles is silent for a long time. He doesn’t look at Derek, just at the leaves above their heads, but his hand creeps over and tangles with Derek’s fingers. Bit by bit, Stiles relaxes until he says, "Yeah," and, "Okay." Some of the sadness in him shifts, smells like fresh air after a rainstorm instead of the oppression of humidity.
Derek wonders how many ways Stiles has imagined her not dying, saving her, having her now, still. Would Stiles be here if she was alive? Would he have felt the need to go running through a dark forest in a morbid search for a dead body?
For Laura.
Stiles squeezes his fingers as if he can read Derek’s mind. “It’s okay,” Stiles says and he means it.
It’s so peaceful, the arc of the sun the only proof of time passing by. Derek remembers being in school, finding it hard to understand that the sun doesn’t move, when he can see it so clearly. It’s a fixed object and the world spins around it. A little bit like Stiles, Derek thinks, who for his incapability to remain still, has become the solid anchor to Derek’s world.
The thought feels like a secret he wants to spill, something intimate and true. Something he wants to whisper with his lips directly against Stiles’. It makes him look at Stiles’ mouth. It’s parted in a way that makes Derek very grateful Stiles doesn’t have werewolf senses. The shape of it is something Derek could look at for a long time without losing interest.
Stiles’ mouth curves into a smile and Derek blinks.
“You all right?” Stiles asks. He’s blushing and Derek can smell the warmth of it in the thin air. “I mean, you were, uh, looking at my lips. Is there something on them?”
What’s it like, Derek thinks, to live with your heart on your tongue?
Maybe he should try it, say everything out loud, all the things that sit in his insides, that twist and coil and change him until he doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror.
“I’m afraid of failing,” he says, looking at the hand not holding on to Stiles and the bottle cap that is now useless. “I’m afraid of screwing up. Every day feels like a fight to live. Even on the good ones I just remember those who are gone.” He looks up. Stiles has pushed himself to his elbows but says nothing. He watches Derek in that same way he always does, as if Derek is telling him nothing new. Derek gently untangles their hands and puts two fingers on the pulse in Stiles’ wrist. Lets the drumbeat beneath it center his mind. “I’m afraid to ask for something I really want.”
“I won’t refuse,” Stiles says when Derek doesn’t go on.
Derek closes his eyes against the ache that stabs him deep in his gut. “No,” he whispers. “I know.”
They’ve kissed when Stiles was dreaming, they’ve kissed when he was on the verge of death, but they’ve never kissed while they had an undefined amount of time stretched out before them, be it hours or always. They’ve never kissed with purpose beyond comfort and Derek doesn’t know if he can stand having this and then watching it be taken away. “I don’t want to lose you,” he says, the hardest admission of them all. Derek never lets himself have things, for this exact reason.
“You won’t,” Stiles says, pushing himself up to his knees, “you won’t.” He sounds so sure, so convinced, Derek just slumps forward and wills himself to believe it.
Stiles catches him before Derek gets very far, pulls him close and presses Derek’s face into the hollow of his neck. Derek inhales him deeply, fists the sides of Stiles t-shirt and drags his hands up his back, digging his fingers into the muscles on either side of his spine. Stiles makes a pained noise, his hands tightening in Derek’s hair until Derek lets him pull him back. Stiles is looking at him from mere inches away and Derek tries very hard not to feel like Stiles is a star, bright still, even after he’s already gone.
“You probably know this with your werewolf voodoo,” Stiles says from so close Derek can feel his breath. “But I’ve been––” he scrunches up his face, “–– in like with you, for a very long time. I thought it was wishful thinking that you, uh, felt the same. And now something’s happening, isn’t it?” He pulls back so he can look Derek in the eye. “It’s gotta be pretty bad if you’re telling me this. Are you dying? Are you going to die? Is someone threatening the pack?”
Derek thinks about what to say but it takes too long and he sees Stiles’ face close down with disappointment. “It’s bad,” Derek says in a rush, “but this here, today, is helping. So can we just––”
“Yeah,” Stiles says and Derek can hear his heartbeat pick up speed, can feel the anticipation in return.
For Stiles, this’ll be their first kiss and Derek makes it slow, makes it good.
The woman appears not long after Stiles throws all pretence to the wind and climbs into Derek’s lap. Derek laughs, Stiles clambering all over him, refusing to stop kissing. Stiles, breathless, says, “Oh my god,” tugging Derek’s hair. “Oh my god, how is your laugh so great? You need to do that more often, it turns you into a completely different person. Look at you.”
I’d laugh every day if it meant keeping you, Derek thinks, burying his face in Stiles’ shoulder, feeling bashful of all things. He looks up, and there she is.
“I need a second,” he tells Stiles, who is already rising to his feet. “Stay here.” Stiles’ eyes darken and Derek takes his hand and leads him to a large rock in the middle of the clearing. “Please,” he says quietly, putting all he has into it. “Please, promise me, no matter what happens, stay here.”
“Okay,” Stiles whispers, “yeah, it’s, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
She stands half in the shadows on the other side of the clearing, and Derek goes to her.
“Are you doing this?”
She nods.
“Why?”
She smiles a little sadly. It’s odd, Derek can’t feel the anger he wants. “I’m a harbinger of death, Derek. It’s what we do. You of all people should know the world rests on a balance. The balance needs to be restored.”
“But why like this? Stiles didn’t do anything, he deserves better,” Derek says. He looks over and Stiles is still where he left him, watching.
“He had today. He was happy.”
“No,” Derek says and can hardly stand to look her in the eye. “He deserves more, I’m not good enough.”
“You never will be,” she says, “if that’s what you truly believe. It’s not about punishment, Derek, it’s about doing what is needed. Making the right choice.”
Stiles is still sitting on the rock, hugging his knees. He’s looking over at Derek, probably forgetting about Derek’s wolf-sight again because he has a silly little smile on his face.
It makes him ache so much.
“Time is up, Derek,” the woman says, “this is it.” She gives him a kind smile and turns toward Stiles, with a sword of all things.
Derek simply says, “Hey,” and takes her by the wrist. He doesn’t have to hurt her, she doesn’t struggle. Derek turns his head slightly, so Stiles will be the last thing he sees. Stiles is on his feet now, running as fast as he can, reaching for Derek. He is, as always, putting two and two together too fast. He eyes the sword and then the drop behind Derek, yells, “No, Derek, no!”
He really cares about me, Derek thinks, and in that moment he knows that even if he's bad at it, Stiles was right; he can love. Maybe today is all about falling. "Thank you," he says, hoping Stiles hears him.
It’s an epiphany and it’s a little late, but this is how it has to be. This will set everything right. “Derek!” Stiles screams, frantic and broken. Derek smiles and steps back, taking the woman and the sword with him. It feels like he’s about to soar instead of fall.
1.
When Derek wakes up it’s unexpected. He has trouble taking it all in, where he is, what Stiles is saying, how his entire body hurts like he really did fall off a cliff.
And Stiles doesn’t help. He's giving off these waves of emotions, battering against Derek like a relentless tide. Excitement and panic and hope, all slowly covering up the scent of bitter sadness.
Stiles is making very little sense, so Derek grabs the phone Stiles is waving about and stares at it. It’s Sunday and Stiles apparently went through something very similar. All Derek wants is to close the space between them, make sure this Stiles is whole –– has no wounds and scars, still tastes like everything Derek has denied himself or tried to forget for years.
Derek hesitates. He doesn’t know what happened between Stiles and the other him. Stiles falls silent and looks at Derek with a slow, private smile. Derek can’t swallow back the wounded noise he makes. Can’t stop crawling over there and into Stiles’ lap like an injured dog.
Later, after Stiles tells Derek about a day at the beach Derek is sorry he can’t remember, Derek says, “I left you to die alone, once," as he rubs small circles behind Stiles’ ear. It sits heavy in his chest and Derek needs to tell Stiles or it’ll fester between them. As usual, Stiles doesn’t respond like he expects. He laughs.
“Oh man, really? Me too, all right? Me too. I couldn’t even stand to go looking for your body, my god. I just sat on your bed angsting while clutching my phone. I’m man enough to admit that at some point I cried all over you.” He lifts his head from Derek’s shoulder and pushes up on his elbow. There’s a gentle openness on his face Derek has never seen before. “It was crazy okay, it was insane. No one’s supposed to go through crap like that and nobody’d expect you to be all heroic and brave all the time, okay? Least of all me. In fact, I feel better knowing you freaked out too, so your wallowing insults me.”
“Okay,” Derek says, feeling the heaviness in his chest start to dissipate. It’ll take a long time before he can be near Stiles without a feeling of foreboding, but Derek thinks having Stiles look at him like this might be a good beginning. Derek touches Stiles’ pajamas where the bullet hole had been. He runs the pads of his fingers over the skin of Stiles’ forearm where it was burnt. Palms the ribs that had punctured his lung. Strokes his thumb over the bump on his head that was never there. He’s so caught up in this, it takes some time to realize Stiles’ eyes keep dropping to Derek’s chest.
“It’s all right,” he says, “you can check.”
Stiles startles a bit and he catches on to what Derek is doing. He lifts Derek’s shirt and strokes the skin over Derek’s heart, presses a kiss against it.
“So are we really doing this?” Stiles asks, eyes wide. He smells like Derek, like he really did spend a week sleeping in Derek’s bed. He also smells of sex, from when they’d kissed and bitten until they both came still wearing all their clothes, more panic-desperate than the good kind of desperate. They both needed the reassurance though, so Derek doesn’t mind.
Stiles traces the seam of Derek’s mouth with his thumb and Derek bites at it and says, “Enough talk.” He rolls them over in one fluid move.
Stiles laughs again, “Wow, you really aren’t very good with the whole verbal communication thing, are you?”
Derek laughs. At the sound of it, Stiles’ eyes widen and Derek intends to hold his laughter back less often; he wants to feel the delight whirl around Stiles like an echo. “Why would I be,” Derek asks him, “when all the answers are written all over your body. I can smell your arousal." He sniffs Stiles’ neck. “I can hear the excitement in your heartbeat.” He noses at the spot below his left clavicle. “And I can feel the nervousness under your skin.” He mouths at Stiles’ jaw, follows it down to his ear and sucks the lobe into his mouth.
“Oh,” Stiles says shakily, “but that’s not fair. I can’t do any of those things. How do I know what’s going on?”
“I’ll show you,” Derek says against his ear, pressing Stiles’ knees apart. “Now get naked.” He tugs at Stiles’ pajamas. “Not that I have anything against Spongebob––”
“Oh my god,” Stiles laughs, wrapping his arms and legs around Derek and pulling him tight, “not again.”
~end.