Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

9;

Arriving the next morning at the vault, Stiles spotted Derek with Talia, so he walked up to them and managed to explain to Talia what had happened with Gerard at the Argent house the night before, which meant explaining to her about the wolf living in the Preserve— the same wolf he considered his closest friend.

She was pretty reassuring about making sure the wolf would be safe and how she would have a chat with Chris and his father about the "insinuation" he had made to Stiles.

Of course everyone knew Gerard was voicing a threat to a teenager, but the Hales knew the tales of the Argent patriarch, so he would appear innocent when accused of something horrible, of being heartless and a monster.

(Pretty much every supernatural being had heard of the Argents, especially about Gerard, so yeah, they did know how horrible the old man truly was.)

After that, Stiles somehow managed to spend the next three days a bit less tense, able to see Sourwolf every day and warn the wolf about the danger he might be faced against in his own home. Thankfully, Sourwolf seemed to understand the implications of what being found by Gerard or any of his men would mean to him and his safety, so Sourwolf didn't really argue when Stiles began watching the wolf head off to his home instead of being escorted by him to his Jeep.

And in the blink of an eye, school resumed Monday morning.

Before heading out, Stiles had a serious debate. Outside was cold, almost too cold for two t-shirts, a flannel, and a hoodie— his closet didn't have much for cold weather, and what he had left him uncomfortable with the amount of layers he wore, which only left...

Derek's jacket.

He'd left it in Stiles' room on New Year's, and while Stiles had meant to give it back —several times, actually— he'd picked it up, thought about bringing it over to the vault, but would get distracted by something else, dropping it on his bed on his way out of his room. Other times he'd forget it was there, on his desk chair, too busy reading his mother's journals and practicing magic.

And Derek never asked for it back.

Which meant that now, Stiles had something to wear on that cold Monday back to school.

Getting out of his Jeep, and keeping both hands deep in the warm pockets of the leather jacket, Stiles walked up the front steps and entered the building. He walked less than ten steps when he realized people were staring at him.

Not everyone was, of course, but enough people stopped to look him over that made him wonder whether he had his pants backwards or had put on shoes from a different pair. Maybe had something on his face or his hair—

Oh. Right. The leather jacket.

Because it seemed like not only was it weird to see Stiles wearing this kind of jacket, but Derek's leather jacket was recognizable enough.

He fixed the collar of the jacket and continued walking to his locker. Whatever, he was wearing a jacket, even if it was as odd and sudden as a leather jacket, but it was cold out, he could wear a leather jacket if he was cold enough.

People wore leather jackets all the time, probably a couple of dozen students wore a leather jacket for the same reason as Stiles.

Just those dozen jackets didn't smell like Derek Hale.

Shit.

He was so used to the casual scent of Derek around him due to their proximity during the break that he hadn't even realized that he most likely smelled like Derek now, making students look at Stiles.

Whatever— he kept walking.

At his locker, Stiles watched Scott down the hall hesitate for a moment, so Stiles pretended he didn't notice and played dumb while his best friend decided whether he wanted to come over to talk or not.

"Hey, dude," Stiles looked past his locker door at Scott and then past his shoulder— no sign of the others yet.

He jerked his chin in greeting. "Hey."

Scott's gaze lowered briefly, but long enough for Stiles to notice him observing the jacket he was currently wearing. He saw the way Scott's shoulders went rigid, the way the muscles in his jaw twitched, how his nostrils flared over so slightly.

He rolled his eyes and chose to ignore Scott for now, turning to continue swapping out his books for the day, waiting for Scott to say anything else.

"You didn't stay for the countdown..." Stiles paused for a moment, remembering what had happened on New Year's Eve at the Argent house.

Just thinking about it made him feel anxious, so he took a deep breath and remembered Talia's words, reassuring him that the wolf and his family would be safe. Stiles shrugged and fixed his messenger bag across his chest, closing his locker once he was done picking his books.

"I wasn't feeling well," Scott nodded at the simple answer and avoided looking at Stiles in the eyes.

Stiles recognized that.

Scott did that when he felt guilty about something— and Stiles knew exactly what. And he figured this was better time than never.

"Why did you tell Gerard, Scott? Knowing who the Argents are— were," he corrected himself quickly when he noticed Scott tensing. His relationship with Allison hadn't always been as perfect as it is now, and neither Scott or her liked to remember those days.

Scott fidgeted with the strap of his bag, still refusing to look at him, "I didn't have a choice, Stiles. I was trying to look out for you, dude."

"Well, stop," Stiles watched Scott frown, and finally, deep brown eyes met honey ones.

"What...?"

He shrugged and shook his head slightly, as if he was saying the obvious— which to him it was.

"Stop looking out for me when I didn't ask you to, Scott. Stop telling me how I should feel, who I can spend time with, and managing who I'm friends with," without meaning to, his voice began to rise, catching the attention of a few people minding their business nearby.

"That's not what I was doing—"

"Then, what were you doing, Scott?" Stiles stared at him, feeling anger boil under his skin and his magic reacting to it, and he had to take a deep breath, thankful for the wave of calm that flooded through him. He didn't wait for a response from Scott— didn't think he could come up with one, anyway, "Because from what I can see, you decided I was being stupid, decided Derek was a problem, and then you got pissed at me for not agreeing with like I've always done. And now, you painted a target on the only friend I had while you were too busy being werewolf-Scott, being popular and captain of the team, instead of just taking a second to be best-friend-Scott. And I'm done with putting up with your bullshit."

God, if he hadn't already closed his locker, it would've made such a dramatic exit. Whatever, they already had people's attention because of his sudden outburst at Scott, and right now, all he wanted to do was get to class. And for lunch to arrive quickly.

He wanted to see Derek.

Unfortunately, he didn't see Derek at all —mere glances here and there, but nothing more— which meant Stiles' anger didn't quite settle until he arrived at his last class, and finally, he felt like he could release the death grip he kept on the silver charm all day.

Not seeing Derek at lunch had kinda messed him up, and he'd been pretty snappy all day— he'd hoped he could hold himself back to prevent getting detention from Harris now, since he really wanted to watch basketball practice.

Thankfully, he managed to ease up when he settled next to Derek in their desk at chemistry, and the werewolf moved closer to him until their knees pressed together. And for the first time, Harris' presence didn't immediately sour his mood.

When Wednesday arrived, Stiles practically stumbled his way into chemistry and noticed the seat next to his empty. This was unusual because Derek always got there first, so his absence made him quirk his brow and swiftly peek out the classroom door, hoping to catch sight of Derek, but nothing.

Well... he hadn't seen the Camaro in the parking lot when he arrived, so there was a chance they were either late or skipping class.

He sighed and went over to his seat, propping his head on his hand and observing around the classroom.

Stiles watched Harris walk in and begin to settle stuff at his desk, and at that, he accepted that Derek wasn't coming to school today. Letting out a defeated sigh, he reached to fiddle with his necklace, eyes glancing over at the door, almost pleadingly.

Right as the bell rang to signal the beginning of class, Derek walked in.

Stiles perked up in his seat, a grin spreading as he made eye contact with Derek, and instantly, a smile grew on the werewolf's face.

...Oh.

Oh, no.

He knew this feeling all too well. Once upon a time, catching Lydia's eye made him feel all giddy and tingly, like he was on top of the world and could do anything and everything to keep a smile on her face. But he was infatuated with the idea of her, too. He had wanted her to notice him, wanted her to smile at him, and had spent an embarrassingly long time putting her on a pedestal.

With Derek, he'd already had the chance to get to know the person behind the handsome face. He'd seen Derek being gentle, patient, protective, and occasionally awkward or shy. He'd seen Derek listen to him and make space for Stiles in his life.

So, of course, Stiles could recognize the familiar butterflies while also realizing this wasn't just another version of the crush he had on Lydia.

He liked Derek as a person.

God, no— he's— he has a crush... on Derek Hale? Well, fuck.

The second Derek started walking over, Stiles kinda freaked out to try and get his heart and body in check because Derek could absolutely hear and smell his panic, so yeah, he willed his freak to go away and forced himself to act normal— he was anything but normal, god help—

He also totally did not watch Derek approach their desk with that radiant smile and confused glint in his eyes. A few shuffling noises next to him as Derek settled into his seat, and fuck, Stiles was suddenly aware of every single thing Derek was doing.

This wasn't good.

The senior inched closer to Stiles, and their hands brushed briefly. There was a tingly feeling where their skin touched, and holy shit, Stiles didn't think he was gonna be able to pay attention to this class ever again.

"You okay?" He turned to look at Derek, their faces almost too close, and his hazel eyes were so bright it made Stiles breathless, and all he could do was nod.

Thankfully, before he could do or say something stupid, Harris called attention, and class started, but fuck, he had a hard time paying attention now.

Especially so when Derek leaned over to take a look at his notes, and Stiles caught a whiff of his scent.

Fuck, I so have a crush on Derek, he closed his eyes tightly for a second. No, I don't. I do. I fucking don't—

"Stiles?"

Oh, that was a shiver down his spine. Why did Derek have to talk... like that! So close to his neck? Fuck, Stiles could only hold on so long, jeez.

He opened his eyes and felt Derek's arm rest on the backrest of his chair, and Derek leaned closer to get a good look at Stiles' face. Damn, why was he so attractive? It was unfair, it's what it was! No one should be allowed to look that good.

He blinked when he heard Derek let out a soft chuckle and, mortified, Stiles realized—

"I said that out loud..." he mumbled. Fortunately, it seemed like only Derek heard him, so small victories.

After that, Stiles —somehow— managed to listen to the remainder of the class, even while he felt Derek's arm against his back and his hand tracing slow patterns on his shoulder.

Which, apparently, was a completely normal thing for Derek to do.

Because Derek had always been like this, hadn't he? But Stiles couldn't suddenly tell him to stop touching him just because he had developed a crush on him overnight— that would be weird.

And he didn't want Derek to stop touching him, which was weird. Goddamn it, Stiles held his head up with his hand on his forehead and stared down at his notes, I am so screwed.

When the bell rang, Stiles almost jumped out of his seat to leave the class and put as much distance between him and Derek as he could. Of course, he couldn't do that since Derek reached out to hold his hand and force him to slow down as he gathered his things into his bag.

"Hey, why are you in a hurry?" He looked at Derek, who was looking up at him from his seat, and Stiles found it hard to breath, "I wanted to ask you something..."

Stiles cursed internally when his heart skipped a beat, and Derek's eyes dropped to glance at his chest, "Uh, what... what were you gonna ask...?"

The small frown on Derek's face faded away when he stared into Stiles' eyes again, and he seemed to get a bit shy, which did nothing to ease Stiles' racing heart. Could Derek be...? Could he be about to ask what Stiles thought he was gonna ask?

Ask him to—

"You're coming to basketball practice today, right?"

The question felt like a bucket of cold water on him, and he realized what he was thinking— hoping he was gonna be asked.

He cleared his throat and continued gathering his stuff while he nodded. "Y-yeah, I... I will."

At least, Derek's soft smile was worth the shattered illusion he had, as brief as it had been.

They walked out of the classroom together, and Stiles had to force himself to continue walking and not tense up when Derek's hand found its place on the small of his back. The warmth that he felt colored his face, making Stiles consider running into the nearest locker.

Instead, he continued walking down the hallways, meeting with a few of his pack friends, but keeping his attention somewhere other than on the heavy and comfortable feeling of Derek's hand on his back as he was escorted to his next class— math, where Erica, Cora, and Malia stood outside the door.

"See you later, Stiles," Derek's hand pulled away from his back, and Stiles felt like he could breathe normally again, but he wasn't expecting the way Derek gently held his chin and held eye contact with Stiles, fingertips tingling on his skin, earning him goosebumps pretty much all over his body. "Don't miss me too much."

Derek smirked and brushed his thumb over Stiles' chin, too close to his bottom lip, and Stiles found himself unable to speak for a good three seconds.

"I won't," he tried to scoff, but the way his voice trembled and his face burned gave away how flustered he truly felt. The way the werewolf girl chuckled at his expense only worked to annoy Stiles.

He was trying to get used to all of this casual touching! It didn't feel casual at all!

Damn—

The thought made Stiles picture how Derek would be if his touches weren't casual and fuck...

"Dude, gross!" He felt a slap on his shoulder, and looking over, he realized Malia had slapped his shoulder, while Erica and Cora had their heads turned and covered their noses with the backs of their hands, holding back laughter.

"I-uh..." without explanation, Stiles turned around and ran to the closest bathroom.

He was mortified, and while there was no physical evidence of it, it was a close call.

Lunch was crazy.

He tried to sit anywhere else but his usual chair at their usual table, with Derek to his left, but it didn't work.

It earned him some groans, but in the end, everyone arranged their seats so Cora was to his right and Derek to his left— as if Stiles was the pivotal point at their table and they moved around him.

Derek seemed pleased when he sat down.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there in his new place at the table, but a nudge on his shoulder made him turn, staring at Derek right as the werewolf stole one of the fries off his tray. He nudged Derek back and pulled his tray further away from him, making Derek smile as he took a bite of the fry in his hold.

"Hey, I was gonna eat that, dude," Derek shrugged and ate the rest of Stiles' fry, making him narrow his eyes, judgingly staring as Derek turned to sip his own drink, "You're lucky you're pretty."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and he turned away from Derek. Why was he so talented at speaking without a filter when it came to Derek? How was that possible? Yeah, Stiles had a tendency to put his foot in his mouth more often than not, but never this bad, not like with Derek.

"Pretty?" He looked back at Derek, noticing his eyebrows raised with a particular look in his eyes that Stiles couldn't decipher.

Stiles snatched Derek's drink from his hand, "Pretty annoying," he muttered before taking a sip of the drink.

Derek stared at him, and slowly, a smug grin grew on his face, nodding slowly at him. "Right."

"Yeah, right. I said it," Derek hummed and slowly took the drink back from Stiles, taking a sip too without breaking eye contact, making those honey-colored eyes trail down to his lips as he drank.

Stiles turned to his lunch as he licked his lips and proceeded to ignore the looks from everyone at the table, eating his lunch while he tried to not freak out about how this day was going.

He needed time alone to think it over... and freak out for a long time.

By the time basketball practice rolled around, Stiles had willed himself to be less... Stiles during practice, but after the first ten minutes, he just didn't like seeing how sulky and gloomy Derek looked at his lack of cheering, so he returned to the loud Stiles he usually was when watching basketball practice, to the point that his throat was sore in the aftermath.

But Derek's smile made it so worth it.

Back at home, Stiles found himself sitting on his living room couch, staring at the TV but not watching what was on it. He survived Wednesday, and now, all he could think about was Derek's smile, about his hands, about his voice, about his eyes.

Stiles groaned and dropped face first on the cushion to his right and rubbed his face on it until it made his nose hurt.

He was gonna figure this out, he was gonna deal with this... eventually— probably.

Maybe.

But not tonight. Tonight he was gonna make dinner, wait for his dad to get home, have a normal dinner, and then head to bed, sleep the day away.

This whole... crush on Derek thing will have to be put on pause until some other time.

For now, he was gonna behave like a normal person. A completely normal person who did not have a crush on Derek Hale...

His eyes opened, and all he saw was darkness, not bothering to move his face away from the cushion. "Fuck." He muttered to himself and let out a deep sigh.

He totally did have a crush... well, fuck.

With Thursday arriving, Stiles woke up with the horrible realization that, unfortunately, having a crush on Derek hadn't been a temporary lapse in judgment. Thinking about Derek still caused the same reaction as it did yesterday at school and then at night at home.

Wonderful, he had made a new friend, and he had to ruin it with a dumb crush— it'll fade eventually, surely. Nothing had changed between him and Derek, they were still friends, and he could still talk to him like a normal person because having a crush didn't magically mean he had to turn into a babbling mess every time he looked his way or talked to him.

That was just wishful thinking on his part, truly.

He was on his way to his art class when he made a fool of himself. He spotted Derek on the other side of the hallway, heading Stiles' way with a growing smile on his previously frowny face.

"Morning, Stiles," it was nothing else but a passing greeting, nothing new.

"Morning, you— uh, you look—" Derek raised an eyebrow at him, his smile changing to a smirk. Stiles was regretting being born because being born led to meeting Derek, which led to a crush, which led to making a fool of himself. "Like a person, you do, in fact, look like a person— more like a model actually, so, you know, you should be proud— I will shut up now."

Before Derek got a chance to reply, Stiles made a tactical retreat to the nearest staircase and sat at the bottom step, hiding his face in his hands with a groan.

"Fantastic. Great, really nailed that interaction, Stilinski."

He took a deep breath and tried to convince himself that he could do this. He could pretend he wasn't losing his mind over every small interaction he had with Derek.

During lunch, sitting in their usual seats, unlike the previous day, Stiles heard Kira complaining about Harris, so naturally, he chimed in, and so did Derek. And like that, they were having a conversation about how Harris had a personal vendetta against teenagers having fun, but specifically toward Stiles' very existence, and then it turned into a ten-minute rant about homework that turned into Derek quietly laughing when Stiles declared that school was disguised as a torture method from the government.

"So you're dropping out?" Amusement dripped from Derek's voice, and Stiles frowned, offended as he turned to look at him.

"Dude, I may complain, but I won't be taking Harris' class next year, that's a win!" Derek nodded and Stiles drank some of his water, "I may be old enough to make terrible life choices, but I need to graduate if I wanna go to college."

"Old enough? You're sixteen, Stiles," he made a disagreeing sound at the senior's words.

"I'll turn seventeen in four months, dude, totally old enough," he argued as he watched Derek shake his head, smiling, and making Stiles grin back.

See? Normal.

He could do normal. He could joke with Derek. He could complain to Derek. He could sit beside Derek without losing his mind.

Everything was fine.

Until Derek reached over and casually fixed the collar of Stiles' flannel. His breath hitched, and his fingers twitched, trying not to freak out. It was nothing, literally nothing.

Derek had probably done this thing dozens of times before, Stiles just never really noticed it, but now he noticed Derek's fingers brushing his neck, the warmth of his hand as he fixed the front of his flannel, and the way his thumb brushed over the material before Derek pulled his hand away.

And a very sudden and unhelpful thought echoed in his mind.

Derek touches me a lot, he stared down at his lunch, oh god. He never noticed— or he did and just didn't think about it because Derek had always been casually physical with him.

(Scott had been like that, too, during the first few months of being bitten, and Stiles knew werewolves were casually touchy with their pack members and family.)

A few instances Stiles could remember were: a hand on his shoulder, a nudge to his knee, fingers brushing Stiles' wrist when Derek wanted his attention, a hand on his back when walking side by side, pulling him out of the way before he bumped into something or someone, touching his arm when he talked, holding his hand when Stiles got overwhelmed— none of it had ever seemed strange before to Stiles.

Now? Damn, now he was aware of every single touch, and his brain chose to store every single one of those in his memory.

"Stiles," he blinked and realized Derek was staring at him, hand tracing patterns on the back of his neck. He had to hold himself back to prevent his body from trembling at the touch, and managed to find his voice again.

"What?" Fortunately for him, his voice didn't let anyone know about the internal conflict he was having.

Derek motioned to the table. "You stopped eating," Stiles looked down at his lunch tray, where his food lay untouched, which Malia seemed to be eyeing with interest. He picked up his fork and took a bite of food, ignoring the disappointed look on the girl's face, shrugging and mumbling around his mouthful.

"I was thinking," he added without much explanation for the drift in his attention.

"About...?" With Kira's soft voice asking him now, Stiles quickly remembered what the three of them had been talking about before the whole Derek fixing his collar thing, and found a reply that would work for the time being.

"Getting rid of Harris senior year," he noticed the corner of Derek's lips twitch at that.

"Okay," Stiles heard him quietly say, and just like that, he went back to eating his lunch.

See? Normal.

He could do normal.

The rest of Thursday wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He and Derek talked a bit in between classes when they happened to cross paths, where they would complain about classmates and homework. And Derek listened to Stiles retelling of something Jackson had said during gym class, and he managed to make Derek laugh hard enough that he had to look away for a moment.

It made Stiles smile, made him feel good, and just because he made Derek laugh. That was, well, nice.

Which was why, making their way out of the building at the end of the school day, Derek began pushing against him to the point that Stiles had to move over. He didn't panic at the touch, and he simply pushed Derek back. That earned him a light bump in response, jerking his chin forward as he signaled slightly behind them.

"You were about to miss the step," Stiles scoffed and glanced back. Considering the way he had been walking, he would've missed the step, and while it wouldn't have injured him, it would've been a funny yet kinda painful fall. If he fell, because with a werewolf beside him, Stiles doubted Derek would've let him fall.

"I had a strategy in mind, dude," Derek snorted at that, probably knowing it was nothing but a playful lie, and Stiles grinned.

At that moment, their friendship felt like it always had, and then Stiles forgot all about the crush.

For as short-lived as it was.

Because then Derek reached out and caught the strap of Stiles' bag before it slipped off his shoulder, pulling it back in place. "Got it."

Stiles looked down at the hand still resting on his shoulder, then up at Derek, and his stomach fluttered.

Oh... right, that.

He managed to swallow while feeling his mouth suddenly dry, and reached for the strap himself, gracing Derek's hand.

"Thanks."

Derek nodded like it was nothing and kept walking them to Stiles' Jeep. He followed after Derek and tried not to smile like an idiot at the thought of being escorted to his car.

Friday was easier, or at least, he wasn't constantly freaking out anymore. He could talk to Derek, could look in his eyes for more than three seconds without feeling like he was struck by lightning— well, most of the time.

So when practice finished after school hours, Stiles remembered he had kept Sabriel in his bag, trying to find the right time to give it back to Derek.

He had been asked what he thought about it while everyone else on the team began leaving the gym, and Stiles replied that he wanted Derek to be done with everything and not bother him, which made the senior forgo the shower and not bother changing out of his sweaty clothes.

Just because he wanted to listen to Stiles talk about the book.

The whole walk to the parking lot, Derek just listened, which Stiles always noticed.

"You know, most people stop listening when I start babbling," he interrupted himself with a chuckle, stopping by his dear Roscoe.

"I don't mind," the answer he got was so simple that Stiles didn't know what to do with it, "I like hearing you talk."

Derek said that so easily and softly that something warm settled in Stiles' chest.

It wasn't the warmth he felt from Derek, Sourwolf, or the pull at his gut. It was something else— softer. Something that made him want to smile and hide his face at the same time.

He looked at Derek, realizing the senior stood in front of him while he leaned on the hood of his Jeep.

I like him, his hand gripped the strap of his bag, I really like him.

And suddenly, every little thing Derek had done hit him like a punch to the face. It wasn't just a stupid crush because Derek was gorgeous or nice to him. He liked Derek— really liked him. "Oh, fuck," he whispered at the thought.

Derek tilted his head when he heard him.

"What?" Stiles blinked and shook his head.

"Nothing."

Derek looked at him for a moment, then stepped closer and nudged Stiles' knee with his own. "You sure?"

That little movement shouldn't have meant anything— it was barely anything, but now he noticed everything Derek did or didn't do, and yet, all of that, rather than scare him or make him want to run away, made the warmth in his chest increase.

He smiled and nodded. "Yeah."

And Derek smiled back. And Stiles thought this whole crush thing was okay, maybe he could just... like Derek. Do nothing about it and keep being friends, though he knew someone had to know— had to tell someone or he would spontaneously combust.

Sourwolf would listen to his ranting about his newly discovered crush on Derek Hale and wouldn't feel judged.

Besides, the wolf wouldn't tell anyone about it, unlike... other people.

With that thought, Saturday couldn't arrive soon, and it wasn't just because he wanted to tell someone about this, but because, when he wasn't thinking about Derek and everything that came with him, Stiles worried about Sourwolf, even if every night before dinner he would get a text from Derek, telling him the wolves were safe.

Those texts helped, they really did, but a simple message saying everything was fine wasn't enough.

The Hales never told him how many wolves were living out in the Preserve, but he knew there were at least two of them, maybe there was one or two more, whether elder wolves or cubs. He worried about them too, especially because they were Sourwolf's family.

And now he really wanted to see Sourwolf again, wanting to make sure he was safe with his own two eyes.

In his hurry to see the wolf, Stiles didn't bring anything over other than his wallet and keys, stopping by the diner to get lunch for the wolf and himself. Just the usual burgers and cups of water he got when he hadn't saved food from the previous night.

Arriving at the Preserve, Stiles stopped and looked around for a minute— since that happened on Christmas with Scott, Stiles always made sure he hadn't been followed by the werewolf again.

He made his way to the clearing where the Nemeton was, keeping his senses sharp as he paid attention to his surroundings. He hated being so cautious in the Preserve when he never had to be before Scott followed him and snitched to none other than Gerard Argent.

And now he hoped to have a normal day with Sourwolf and finally let out everything he'd been holding in since Wednesday morning. He knew he was about to rant about Derek like he had been ranting about Lydia for years upon years. Only this time, he was gonna be telling all of this to a wolf and not Scott.

The past few days he'd been trying to deal with the realization of this crush and denying ot pretending it wasn't there. Of course, nothing worked, courtesy of Derek himself, who seemed to have made it his personal mission to ruin Stiles' ability to function like a normal person.

The guy was always there, smiling at Stiles, touching him, looking at him with those ridiculously pretty hazel eyes. And Stiles was supposed to do what? Not freak out like a teenager with a crush? Yeah, not, that wasn't happening.

With a deep sigh, Stiles stepped through the treeline, in view of the black wolf who yipped excitedly and trotted over to Stiles, rubbing his big head on Stiles' chest.

"Hey, bud," the tail aggressively wagging made him chuckle, lifting his free head to pet the wolf's ears, "Missed you too, Sourwolf."

A soft rumble vibrated through the wolf, which Stiles felt under his palm.

They sat under the shade of the Nemeton, and before Stiles could take their lunch out of the bag, the wolf plopped on his lap, looked up at him with a tilted head and floppy ears.

"What?" The wolf inched closer and bumped his nose on the underside of Stiles' chin, letting out a huff of warm breath that made Stiles giggle at the tickling feeling. He could see the wolf about to reach down to his neck until he got to Stiles' tummy— the same thing he always did when Stiles had something in mind. "You're too smart for your own good, dude," he ruffled the wolf's fur, "I will tell you, let's eat first. You hungry?"

For a while, Stiles simply enjoyed the quiet. The woods were peaceful, the sunlight coming through the branches of the trees around. Sourwolf's presence was comforting, as always, and Stiles found himself leaning against the wolf's body as they enjoyed their lunch together.

He could stay there for hours, which he usually did anyway, but more so now.

"So..." he spoke barely above a whisper, "I think I have a problem, dude."

Immediately, the wolf turned his head to look at Stiles and let out a soft whine, making him chuckle and gently pet his fur, pulling away to gather their lunch trash in the plastic bag.

"It's not a bad problem— well, might be. I'm not sure, and that's the issue..." he took a deep breath and leaned on the wolf again, wrapping his arms around Sourwolf and nuzzling against his soft, thick fur, feeling his face heat up at the thought of what he was about to confess out loud, "I might... like someone."

Stiles waited for a moment, then pushed back to look at the wolf. His eyes were locked on Stiles, and he wasn't sure what to make of the way he was being stared at.

"He's gorgeous but that's not why I like him, that's just the superficial part— that's the part Scott said to me once, like I coulnd't tell the difference between the hollow crush I had on Lydia and actually liking someon fro who they are," he looked down at the ground, "I like spending time with him, I like talking to him, I like that he listen to me, even when I'm rambling about something stupid and I like that he doens't make me feel like I'ma annoying him every five seconds. And... I like how he makes me feel safe."

The wolf shifted around, making Stiles release his hold on the wolf, and he stared at the wolf, who had turned to face him, nudging his hand and asking for pets.

"You know that feeling, right? That warm, safe feeling, like everything is okay, even when it really isn't," he glanced up at the sky, never stopping his gentle petting, "Derek makes me feel like that."

For a moment, everything was quiet. Then, he let out a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh.

"God, I really like him."

This time, he leaned against the Nemeton and looked over at the wolf, hearing the noise his wagging tail made as it hit the ground rhythmically.

"You won't tell anyone, right?" He asked with a nervous laugh before shaking his head, "Not like you could anyway, but damn, I don't want Derek to know, because that would be embarrassing. I don't think I could survive that— I would have to leave Beacon Hills, change my name, maybe even live in a cave somewhere—"

The way Sourwolf suddenly stood up, body tense as his ears stood straight up, staring off somewhere in the distance, made Stiles stop his rambling, and he followed the wolf's line of sight.

"Sourwolf—?"

A howl echoed off the trees and cut Stiles off, making the wolf turn toward Stiles, trying to get him to stand up. He followed the wolf as they carefully began walking through the woods.

About a minute or two after walking in the Preserve, a loud booming sound filled the quiet —a sound Stiles recognized immediately due to having a Sheriff father— and both of them took off running, trying to get away from the gunshots inching closer.

Glancing behind once, Stiles saw a group of at least five people chasing after them with a variety of guns in their hands, ranging from pistols and a shotgun to a crossbow, held by someone standing behind someone Stiles recognized.

Gerard Argent.

And judging by the metal bolt that stuck to the tree he dodged to keep running, this group of people— this group of Hunters were not people who wanted to keep a wolf safe.

He could see that Sourwolf struggled to keep both of them, but especially Stiles, safe from the gunshots that continued to give chase, and the loud, high-pitched whine the wolf let out made Stiles stumble.

"Sourwolf!" He reached for the wolf and touched something warm and sticky, staring at the blood seeping through his fingers, mixed with something black that oozed out rapidly, "Oh my god, oh my god—"

The wolf whined once more and struggled to stand up from the ground, pushing Stiles forward to keep walking. He began to panic.

"Stop— stop! I won't leave you here to die! Absolutely fucking not—" another gunshot rang out, and if he didn't know better, he would believe those were warning shots, just to scare them and make them run, but if those people thought Stiles was gonna leave Sourwolf on his own, then they were the crazy ones.

And there was another shot, except—

Sourwolf lunged forward, knocking Stiles off balance and sending him stumbling against a tree, hitting his head against it, just as something hit the bark of the tree behind him— right where his head had been. It was another bolt.

They weren't just going after the wolf, they were going after both of them.

"Fuck!" The ringing in his ears made it hard to hear anything other than the blood rushing in his ears and his heart beating in his ears, but through that, he heard Sourwolf's growl.

Not the soft, affectionate rumble Stiles was used to, or the playful growl he sometimes got when Stiles tugged on his ears or buried his face in his soft fur. This was a deep, angry growl, so vicious that Stiles could feel it in his bones.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and looked over where Sourwolf was staring, blinking a few times to steady his slightly blurry sight. He didn't see anyone approach yet, but he heard them, the steps of their boots snapping sticks and crushing dry leaves that covered the woods' ground.

"Sourwolf, let's go. They're too many," he spoke quietly, but neither of them could move fast enough to leave. And stepping through the trees, Stiles saw Gerard stop a few feet away from them, and Stiles tried to stand between the old man and the wolf.

"I don't wanna hurt you, Stiles," the old man said with a condescending smile, and Stiles' jaw clenched.

"Fuck you."

Gerard let out a sickly laugh and cocked his revolver, raising it toward Stiles, making Sourwolf's growl turn into a snarl. Stiles reached his hand out toward Sourwolf, starting to trace a rune on the back of the wolf's neck, hoping it would work— believing it would.

"You asked for it, kid."

After those words, everything seemed to be going in slow motion as the gun was fired. Stiles didn't feel any pain, but he heard the sound of the bullet hitting flesh, followed by a low whine filled with pain that made Stiles look down.

Immediately, he knelt on the ground to help the staggering wolf who had taken the bullet for Stiles. His eyes filled with tears as he mumbled the spell and finished tracing the run for stealth he had read in his mother's journal over and over again, hiding both of them in plain sight, feeling like a heavy blanket had been draped over his shoulders.

The wolf seemed to know what Stiles had done, as he bumped his head against Stiles to run away from there, but he refused to let the wolf be there on his own, and he managed to drag the staggering wolf along with him.

He heard voices approach behind them as they walked further and further away, sounding confused and yelling at each other about where they were and to find them.

Sourowlf tried to hold in his pained whines and whimpers, trying to comfort a quietly crying Stiles who was freaking out about the injured wolf beside him.

"You're gonna be okay, buddy, I promise— I'll help you, don't worry," he kept mumbling as he focused his magic to try and heal the gun wounds the wolf had sustained while protecting Stiles from Gerard Argent and his group of Hunters.

Unfortunately, because he was trying to use two types of magic simultaneously, it was draining him rapidly, making Stiles stumble over his own feet and putting more of his weight on the injured wolf, so he stopped and hoped the rune would last long enough until they arrived somewhere safe.

They stumbled and staggered as they continued walking through the Preserve, using each other as support to keep the other moving forward, trying to keep quiet in case they were still being followed.

And that was how they stumbled through the trees onto the property line of the Hale house.

Stiles stared at the house with bleary eyes and ragged breath. "Help... Sourwolf, come on."

Both of them dropped to the ground, Stiles on his knees as he pressed his hands on the wolf's side, trying to heal him again, but the wolf nudged his hands away and plopped on the dirt with a soft whine.

Right as a tear trailed down Stiles' face, the same pitter pattern Sourwolf's paws made on the ground caught his attention.

From the left side of the Hale house, another black wolf showed up, letting out a bark-like sound that seemed to catch the attention of the werewolf family inside the house. Blinking his tears away, Stiles watched this new wolf rush over to him and Sourwolf.

He was almost sure it was the same wolf he had seen that day months ago, but he couldn't think about it now— Sourwolf was his priority right now.

"Please, I'm sorry..." he whispered to the wolf, who, if he was right, was the leader of Sourwolf's pack, the Alpha.

A door slammed open, and voices came closer to the three of them.

"Derek!"

Stiles watched the wolf stop in front of him while Stiles kept his hands on the wolf, trying to stop the bleeding wounds, trying not to freak out at the blood turning black as it oozed through his slender fingers. A gentle, warm hand rested on top of Stiles', making him look up, and where the wolf had stopped, Talia Hale had taken its place, noticing her husband standing behind her and placing a robe on her shoulder as the Alpha kept her eyes focused on the wolf lying on the ground.

"Alpha Hale..." Talia gently rubbed the back of Stiles' hand, holding eye contact with Sourwolf, flashing her red eyes at him.

"Derek, you have to shift back," the wolf whined again, eyes bright and making eye contact with Stiles, who had to keep blinking tears away because he couldn't use his hands to wipe his eyes.

He felt the wolf's body shifting under his hands, and Stiles sniffed as he stared at the wolf...

He blinked rapidly and rather hard, just to make sure what he was seeing was real.

In that moment, the voices he could hear a few meters away from him completely vanished as he stared at Sourwolf. Watching the fur recede, showing taut yet soft skin, and the wolf's face morphing in such a way that reminded Stiles of the lycans from the Underworld movies.

He found himself staring into those electric blue eyes, belonging to none other than Derek Hale.

"...Derek?"

His voice cracked as he stayed frozen at what he'd just witnessed with his own eyes.

"Stiles—" Derek's aggressive coughing and choking interrupted him from saying anything else, and Talia's warm hand left Stiles' to look at her son.

He watched everything around him with an empty mind, feeling numb and in a trance.

Derek was taken inside the house, and amid the chaos, Stiles got dragged along with everyone. Everything happening around him was a blur as he stood in the living room by the window that faced the driveway. He was sure he got his hand wiped off the drying blood, but he couldn't put a face to who did.

He stood there, leaning against the glass while every sound around him was muffled, and his sight was blurry, coming in and out of focus as he stared off into a random place in the room. It just so happened that that random place happened to be Derek.

Stiles blinked once. Twice. Three times. Each time trying to get his brain to come back and understand what was happening— what had happened.

He glanced away from Derek, hearing a pitiful whimper when he did so. Taking a shaky breath, Stiles stared back, this time actually taking in what he was looking at. Derek was lying on the couch, which had been covered with a bunch of towels— those same towels that were now stained black and red.

Deaton —who Stiles assumed had been called when he'd been zoning out due to the shock— was placing stuff on the coffee table while Michael and Chris pulled apart bullet rounds. Peter and Laura, who had stayed around to patrol the Preserve instead of heading back to college, were both stationed behind Derek.

Laura's hands were in his hair, and Peter's hand rested on his shoulder, both of them draining his pain.

Stiles felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't stay there, he had... to be alone, had to think about this new situation.

Slowly, Stiles stepped toward the living room door leading to the foyer, ready to go outside and head back home. His eyes drifted down toward the floor, realizing he couldn't look at Derek right at that moment. Stiles could feel his hands trembling and his throat closing at the pained sounds Derek was making.

"Stiles?" He heard Cora's voice from her spot on the bottom step of the stairs. He couldn't look up at her.

"I—" he swallowed the knot forming in his throat and stumbled back a few steps, feeling his head throbbing where he hit it on the tree, "I think..." he couldn't think, not right now. "I should..."

He couldn't finish his sentence because he wasn't really sure what he wanted to say, anyway.

Stiles took a step toward the foyer, but before he could leave the room, he heard something. It was a sound that broke through the fog in his brain. A small, wounded whine.

Stiles stopped, frozen in place, his jaw tense and heart pounding in his ears. He knew that sound... he'd heard that whine every Saturday for years. The same whine Sourwolf would let out every time Stiles had to leave, coming from the same wolf Stiles had talked to about everything—

He didn't even want to think about the past few months and how Derek—

"Don't," he hated how his voice cracked, "don't do that, please."

Another whine filled the quiet, and there was nothing he hated more than the silence, he hated the way everyone seemed to be waiting for him to say something else. He hated that Derek wasn't saying anything, wasn't explaining, wasn't telling Stiles what the hell was going on.

But part of Stiles was terrified of heading it.

Because what if Derek had an explanation? What if it was a good one? What if Stiles understood why he did it? Then what?

Was he supposed to keep going to the Preserve like usual and sit under the Nemeton as if nothing had happened? Was he supposed to not keep telling Derek things he'd never told anyone else, knowing that Derek had been there all along, listening to every word? Was he supposed to pretend that he hadn't spent the last few days freaking out over a crush on a guy who'd heard all about it less than an hour ago?

"Stiles," Talia's voice came from behind him, but he didn't turn to look at her, "You don't have to stay," hearing those words made him let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, "but..."

Talia moved to stand next to him, keeping her arms crossed over her robe, Stiles could barely look at her.

"He trusted you with a part of himself that mattered the most, and somewhere along the way, he stopped believing you'd ever hurt him. So if you leave, he'll wait for you," her words hung heavy in the air.

Of course he would.

Because he knew Sourwolf would wait— he knew that. He'd spent years watching the wolf sitting patiently at the Nemeton, waiting for Stiles to arrive, waiting for him to finish talking, waiting for him to get up after falling asleep on him, and even waiting for him to stop crying. Sourwolf had never once made him feel like he was taking too much of his time, never complained when Stiles showed up every Saturday with a thousand things to say and no intention of shutting up anytime soon.

And Derek... he'd done the same thing.

After what felt like hours to Stiles, he let out a heavy sigh and frowned at himself. He would have time to... comprehend what happened today.

Right now, Sourwolf— Derek was hurt and bleeding, and he couldn't leave him alone, even if he felt as if he was suffocating. His head was also pounding, and he felt a bit dizzy, so getting to sit down would be nice— he doubted he could make it back to his Jeep and home.

Besides, there had been Hunters out there, ready to—

Stiles let out a shaky sigh before taking a deep breath and clenching his fists, before turning around while keeping his eyes on the floor. Until another whine filled the silence, and his chest hurt at the knowledge of Sourwolf feeling sad and scared that Stiles might hate him forever.

He could never— he loves Sourwolf and Derek... is one of his closest friends, crush or not..

Stiles would never leave him wounded, bleeding, sad, and scared. He doesn't know that, a voice in his mind provided, all he knows is that you wanted to leave after seeing him turn human.

And so, Stiles forces himself to look up, if only to show he wasn't planning on leaving, for now.

Was he upset? Abso-fucking-lutely. Confused? Beyond comprehension, but all of that could wait. Derek's wellbeing came first.

"Is he gonna be okay?" His voice came out in a whisper, and he heard quiet footsteps heading upstairs.

Derek was lying on the couch, sweating profusely but covered with a robe and a blanket. Deaton gathered a few of his things before making his way over to Stiles, offering him some candy and proceeding to check him over for injuries. Chris Argent gathered the empty bullet rounds, placing them inside a wooden box, and he tried to ignore the feel of the werewolf's heavy stare and quiet whimpers.n

"He'll live, so will you. Just a small bump but—"

"Yeah, I know," he'd had many injuries growing up, including hitting his head a few times. Melissa always told him what symptoms to look for after such an injury.

"Derek will be weak for a few days, but he'll be fine. If that's all..." Michael stepped forward to show Chris and Deaton out, while Talia left the living room and headed somewhere else.

Alone in the room, Stiles tried to find the strength to look at Derek for longer than a glance.

He just felt like everything he had ever shared with Sourwolf was suddenly coming to the forefront of his mind, including how he literally—!

His body trembled at the realization that— that— he confessed that he liked Derek Hale to Derek Hale— god!

Another whimper echoed in the room, slightly louder than before, and Stiles' eyes shifted over to look at Derek. His breath hitched when they made eye contact because... it was so obvious now, and— Derek looked absolutely heartbroken. He wasn't crying, he was just... waiting, as if he was bracing himself for Stiles to say; don't come near me ever again.

And that broke Stiles' heart too.

He had to look away to gather himself and his feelings.

"Stiles..." the way Derek whispered his name in a shaky voice made him close his eyes. There was a shuffling sound of fabric, and he looked over at Derek, afraid that he might be moving when he shouldn't, and he saw Derek's hand reaching from under the blanket, reaching out for him, a silent plea in his eyes.

Stay?

The question went unspoken, and with a shaky breath, Stiles walked over to the coffee table to sit down, letting his knee grace Derek's hand. The werewolf held tightly onto him and leaned forward with a high-pitched whine.

Stiles leaned closer, gently holding Derek's shoulder to get him to lie down again. "It's okay. I'm here, big guy."

He watched Derek seek his touch, pressing his face against Stiles' inner wrist, nuzzling him with a soft sigh. At that, Stiles decided to stand up, hearing Derek whine in protest until Stiles urgently moved Derek to be able to sit on the couch with him, and without a complaint, the werewolf laid his head on Stiles' lap.

Now came the issue that he didn't know what to do with his hands. But before he could simply keep them in his pockets, Derek reached and held onto them, letting his whole body relax on Stiles'.

There was an easy silence between them, not a sound in the room besides the distant mumbling of a voice barely breaking through Stiles' thoughts, feeling grounded at the vibration of Derek's rumble.

"...sorry," Stiles felt his eyes sting with more tears, and a knot formed in his throat, remembering the fear of losing Sourwolf, and somehow Derek was the one apologizing.

He squeezed Derek's hands in his, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "We'll talk later, Derek."

A few minutes later, Stiles heard a car outside, and soon enough, the front door burst open.

"Where is he?!"

Stiles' dad came in, rushing through the living room door, stopping abruptly at the sight of Stiles covered in dirt, dried blood, and a trail of tears on his face. "Dad, I'm fine—"

His dad rushed over and hugged him, pulling him off the couch and almost away from Derek, but the grip he had on Stiles' hand prevented that— but barely.

"God, son," John squeezed Stiles tight enough to make Stiles grunt, feeling his body tired and sore pretty much everywhere, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, pops," not convinced, the Sheriff had begun inspecting him all over, realizing that other than the small bump on his head and looking a bit freaked out, Stiles was okay. Only when he was sure his son was truly fine as he'd claimed, his worried blue eyes drifted over to Derek, who still refused to move away from Stiles.

The way he was gripping Stiles' hoodie made that very clear.

Stiles watched his dad let out a heavy sigh and rub his face with a hand, looking more relaxed than when he came in.

"I'm going to go talk to Talia," he pointed behind him before making his way to the foyer, stopping by the door, "I'll drive you home once I'm done."

"Y-yeah, I should go—" Derek tugged at his clothes and buried his face on Stiles' back, "...Derek?" Stiles looked up at his dad when Derek whined in response, hesitating and shrugging, "Could you...?"

Without a word, his dad nodded and walked out, heading toward the back of the house. Stiles sat back on the couch with Derek when he felt the senior pulling him down.

He wasn't sure what to do about the elephant in the room. To Stiles, comforting Sourwolf came easily, but his was Derek— and he'd never had to comfort Derek. If anything, it was the other way around.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but Michael came in before he could, with a steaming mug in his hand. He walked until he was right next to both of them and handed the mug to Derek.

He must've noticed the curious look in Stiles' face as he eyed the mug, because Michael proceeded to tell him it was an infusion Deaton had left for Derek to help him heal.

Even if it was something that would help him, Derek didn't want to let go of Stiles and refused the drink his father tried to give him. He was behaving so weird that it made Stiles wonder why exactly it was.

"Why is he like this?" Stiles' whisper made Derek whine and press further into him.

"He's scared."

He frowned and looked down at Derek, "Of the tea?"

Michael chuckled and put the mug down on the coffee table to brush Derek's hair for a moment before the werewolf nuzzled even more against Stiles. He was curling in on himself, as if trying to make himself smaller. Seeing Derek like that broke Stiles' heart— again.

"He's scared of you leaving," Stiles blinked and felt Derek's hand gripping and tugging on his clothes, "When wolves get badly injured, they look for safety. Usually, that means family, or—" Derek's whining cut off Michael, who shook his head with a soft smile on his face, "Right now... he just needs to know you're still here, Stiles."

Michael leaned over again, caressing Derek's face and neck with his knuckles, and he let out a sigh, a pained look in his hazel eyes and let out a sigh.

"Can you get him to drink this? I need to talk to your dad," Stiles nodded and got his hair brushed back by the man too.

Taking a deep breath, he wondered how he was gonna get Derek to drink this mysterious, healing infusion.

"Derek," he called for the senior and shifted on the couch to look at him, watching him curl more on himself, "Derek, come on," he tried again when he got no response.

This time, Derek lifted his head, blinking slowly at him, hazel eyes flashing blue and pupils dilating.

"Drink, you'll feel better," Derek blinked at the mug. Stiles inched it closer to Derek's lips, his nose twitching at the smell, and Stiles grinned at the cute reaction.

But this time, slowly, the werewolf started sipping from the mug.

When he was done, Stiles put the mug down, and Derek let out a rumble as he cuddled against him again. This time, Stiles found himself comforting Derek the same way he did to Sourwolf.

He gently played with his dark hair, and with a deep breath, he started talking about anything— just like he would any other Saturday afternoon out in the Preserve, under the shade of the Nemeton.

Stiles wasn't sure how long he stayed there with Derek until his dad came back and watched Stiles, with Derek fast asleep on his lap and holding onto his son. John sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

For a few seconds, he simply stood there, watching.

Stiles's eyes turned back down to look at Derek, feeling his dad's heavy stare on them, but he focused on moving his fingers through Derek's hair in slow, absentminded strokes, in the same way he'd scratch behind Sourowlf's ears countless times before. Except now it wasn't black fur he was petting, it was short hair— Derek's hair.

Though both were still incredibly soft.

Derek's breathing was slow and even, showing he was fast asleep, his head heavy on Stiles' lap, one hand still curled around the fabric of Stiles' hoodie, as if he was afraid he would disappear if he let go. He found himself tensing slightly.

All of this was so weird. Not the Derek part— well, definitely the Derek part, but...

He spent years talking to a wolf. A wolf who listened to him ramble, who let him fall asleep on him, who knew about his nightmares, his insecurities, his mother, his dad, Scott, Lydia, school, magic, literally everything.

And that wolf had been Derek, listening to it all. Every Saturday, every dumb rant, every secret, every— oh god.

Stiles closed his eyes as he felt his face burn. Nope, not thinking about it right now, absolutely fucking not.

When he opened his eyes again, he was met with Derek's profile, still peacefully asleep on Stiles' lap. He really wanted to go home.

His head was pounding, his body felt like he'd been hit by a fucking truck, and he needed some time to process everything that had happened that day.

"Kiddo?" He looked up at his dad, who motioned his head toward the front door.

Stiles heavily doubted his dad was gonna leave him out of his sight for a while and probably wanted to hear Stiles' side of the story— but there was the whole Derek situation.

He didn't want to leave Derek, but he wanted some alone time to process everything. Slowly, he tried to stand up from the couch, but Derek whined and gripped him tighter, and he heard his dad sigh.

"Talia said having something with your scent should help him," something about the way his dad said that made his face heat up, and he wondered what he and Talia had talked about.

Stiles looked down at Derek again and noticed the way he was gripping his hoodie, so that left only one choice. Carefully, Stiles took it off and gently draped it over Derek's shoulder, and slowly, he scooted forward on the couch while moving Derek's to lie on the cushion.

He stood up and watched with a fluttering heart as Derek nuzzled and cuddled with his hoodie. "You ready?"

He crouched next to Derek, brushed his hair away from his sweaty forehead, and gently caressed the bridge of his nose.

"See you, Der."

He stood up again and nodded to his dad, walking together to the front door.

The drive home was silent.

John parked the cruiser in the driveway instead of the curb as he usually did, which meant he was staying the rest of the night instead of heading back to the station.

Made sense... If it wasn't for Sourwolf, he—

"You okay?"

Neither of them made a move to leave the car, and Stiles kept his eyes out the window.

He took a shaky breath in, "...no."

"Didn't think so."

Eventually, Stiles found the strength to get out of the cruiser, and he followed his dad inside the house.

The next few hours were blurry at best.

Stiles vaguely even remembered taking a shower after his dad insisted it would make him feel better, but seeing the dirt and blood washing off of him almost made him go into a full panic attack, freaking out about how such a normal Saturday afternoon had turned out.

He knew he had watched without seeing as his dad made dinner, yet he wasn't sure if he'd eaten any of it. He spent a while sitting on the living room couch, his dad taking the armchair, watching him for a while, telling his dad he was fine at least three more times.

He wasn't fine, but he didn't feel like talking about it.

Stiles couldn't really sleep that night at all, and every time he got up to the bathroom or went downstairs to get a glass of water from the kitchen, he could hear his dad in his office working.

He wondered if everyone knew Gerard Argent was involved in this whole thing, considering no one had asked Stiles what had happened. Did Chris Argent know what his own father...

Lying in bed, he kept replaying everything that happened out in the Preserver over and over again— the images of Sourwolf bleeding out, of Gerard pointing a gun at him, Sourwolf taking a bullet for him, Sourwolf turning into Derek...

"Not only does Derek know I like him, but I've been telling him I love him— well, I didn't know it was him, so— fuck," he rubbed his hands rather roughly on his face, letting out a deep sigh.

After he managed to stop thinking about all the casual I love you's he'd told Derek, Stiles began to wonder why Derek never said anything about him being Sourwolf, and worse, how long would he had gone without telling Stiles the truth.

With all these images and thoughts in his mind, he managed to get some sleep, though it didn't seem to do him any good, his eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, and his whole body ached.

For a second, it took Stiles a moment for his mind to kick into gear and understand why he felt so heavy and in pain. When he did, he hoped all of that had been nothing more than a dream, nightmare, hallucination, or anything else. He wanted to believe nothing had happened.

But one look at his phone and a text from his dad told him it was Sunday. So... everything was real.

"Fuck."

He started laughing, hysterically so, because— what the actual fuck?! Stiles didn't even know if he was mad, sad, relieved, or going insane.

He sat on his bed and stared down at his hand, remembering. Playing with Soruwolf, reading to him, talking with him, drawing him... now every "human" interaction they had made more sense. The sense of feeling like ourwolf understood him— was because he did.

"God," he rubbed his hands on his face and let himself fall back on the bed, wincing at the action when it made his head pound again. So now he knew he definitely wasn't dreaming.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

To Stiles, Sunday went by like that, unsure if he was expecting a text from Derek or Cora or Malia or— anyone, but he got radio silence. No one was reaching out to explain, give excuses, or ask how he was doing. And in return, he didn't reach out to ask about Derek or ask for an explanation of what happened, even if he desperately wanted to.

He tried to distract himself with his mom's journal, but he couldn't focus on anything other than Derek.

But when night fell over Beacon Hills, Stiles slightly panicked at the thought of seeing Derek at school tomorrow Monday morning.

What was he supposed to do? Damn, it seemed like he had no idea how to handle this, how to react, how to... be normal again.