Chapter Text
There’s heat beating down on him, with an intensity that makes his skin prickle with discomfort. He opens his eyes, then snaps them closed again immediately against the blazing sunlight. In hindsight, he definitely should have put more thought into that one. He’s not sure how long he’s been standing here, but it’s obviously been long enough that to make his blood feel like it’s starting to boil. When he lifts a hand to block the sun from his eyes before peering out cautiously again, the rays warm his palm immediately. It takes him a moment get his bearings, and realize where he is- his old loft.
The unobstructed sunlight is streaming through it’s massive windows, but the panes are so dusty and streaked that he can’t make anything out through it besides the bright glow of light. It reminds him why, even discounting all the death and chaos, he’s never missed this pretentious dump. Leaving it for his cozy, fourth floor walk-up near the station had been one of the best decisions he’d ever made. He spares a fond thought for the flower-boxes on the balcony railing; the poppy-red blackout curtains; and delightful, elderly Mrs. Goldstein, with her four affectionate cats. It was where Stiles had first moved in with him, and where they’d stayed until they bought the house. Where the loft had been coldly spartan, the apartment had been warm- the first place he’d felt happy in years. He wants to be there, wants to go home, but he keeps ending up everywhere but. He doesn’t know why he can’t find his way back. He knows there’s something more to it. There’s a feeling almost like a scab where those pleasant memories are. Everytime he tries to pick at it though, he’s so quickly distracted. It’s like his own damn mind is working against him. As the sweat that’s built up along his hairline begins to trickle downward, he rubs it away from his eyes with a growl.
Christ, it’s fucking hot.
Sticky-hot; the way that it gets in August, when the air conditioner is on the fritz and the humidity is through the roof. Too hot to think. It muffles everything, like a strange fog of silence. There’s a sharp, distinct smell to it that he can’t immediately place. He rolls the scent around in his mouth for a moment to pinpoint it- ozone. His shirt is quickly plastering itself against his damp back, so he reaches up to yank it off over his head. He turns to toss it in the hamper, but finds the loft has been stripped almost entirely bare. His bed is the only thing left, set squarely in the centre of the cavernous room like a small island. His eyebrows inch up his forehead. An island of debauchery, apparently.
Stiles is stretched out sinuously, unabashedly naked against the thin sheets. He stares back at Derek silently, face half buried in the soft curve of his elbow. His eyes glow molten in the sunlight, the heat in them sending a flush of arousal over Derek’s skin. The image is slightly off though, the lean lines of his body distinctly youthful, in a way that Derek only vaguely recalls. And definitely not in this context.
It should put some hesitation into Derek’s step, but he moves toward him unconsciously, as if drawn by a magnetic force. He lets his shirt fall to the floor, forgotten, as he pads barefoot to the edge of the bed. Stiles pushes against his hands like a needy cat when he reaches out to him, humming with pleasure. He fidgets slightly with impatience as Derek takes a moment to cradle his face, disregarding everything else on offer. It’s sweetly fresh-faced between Derek’s palms, and he stares at it, considering, as he brushes his thumbs across it. The angles of it aren’t the beautifully sharp ones that Derek’s committed carefully to memory, fastidiously distributing kisses along every inch. These are soft-edged, almost rounded, as though they haven’t quite been grown into yet. Still beautiful, but somehow unfinished. Despite of it, Derek finds himself setting a knee against the mattress to climb forward onto the threadbare fitted sheet. Stiles melts beneath him, welcoming, arms pulling Derek in towards a demanding mouth and chasing away any hesitation.
He loses himself in the mindless heat of it, their bodies twisting together, tangling up in the topsheet. It grows dark so quickly here. Or, at least it seems to- the luminous glow of moonlight swiftly replacing the scorching sun in that had warmed them only moments ago. In the darkness, with sweat-slick skin pressing eagerly against him, it’s easy to forget. To put his hands on this Stiles in ways that he had never let himself consider in reality. Not until after he’d returned from his second year at college, newly settled in his skin. This Stiles tastes the same; moans quietly into the heat of Derek’s mouth the same way that he always has. His body squirms against Derek's the same way, searching desperately for friction. Derek wants him so badly. Wants to get inside him and take him apart piece by glorious piece; watch him gasp from it.
This is his darkest desire brought to life: the burn that he’s always felt for Stiles, but never allowed himself to acknowledge. It edges too close to the memory of Kate. It feels wrong. Lecherous and seedy in a way that their relationship as adults never has been. Their age difference will always be there, but it’s negligible now. This is not negligible. Stiles is unquestionably seventeen again, but as far as Derek can tell, none of his own thirty-odd years have dropped off. He looks down and startles to find that his claws are extended, scraping precariously against tender skin.This is just a fragile human boy, writhing in the clutches of a monster. It twists Derek’s stomach; makes him feel sick. He breathes deep to try settle himself before he pulls his hands away.
“Wait. We shouldn’t- ” He sits back on his heels between the sprawl of Stiles’ legs, grabbing Stiles’ hands from where they’re trying to work their way under his waistband. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“ Why not?” Stiles whines in protest, wriggling his fingers stubbornly from Derek’s grasp.
“ Because. You’re too young.”
“No, I’m not.” Something dark and vulpine ripples beneath Stiles’ features as he sits up, his eyes glinting in the streetlights. “I want you,” he insists, moving forward in an attempt to slip his body close to Derek’s again.
“Yes, you are.” He rounds his hands around Stiles’ shoulders and forces a safe distance between them. “Fuck. Just get dressed, okay? Let me take you home.” He clambers away to the end of the bed, and drops his feet to the floor before shoving his hands through his hair. Stiles follows determinedly, snaking his arms around Derek’s shoulders from behind.
“You want it too. Why pretend you don’t?” his voice lifts and morphs as he speaks, growing into something feminine. “Destroying things is what you’re best at, isn’t it Derek?”
“What?” The bottom of Derek’s stomach drops away as he twists and finds Kate, not Stiles, smirking maliciously back. He flinches in revulsion, and tries wrenching out of her arms, but she holds him tight with impossible strength. As she squeezes him close, he can feel the damp warmth radiating from between her thighs, her breasts pressing snug against his back. She nips at his earlobe playfully as she leans her face in close to his. He feels small in her arms; helpless. This was what she’d really gotten off on the whole time. Not him, young and eager, or the things that they did together. It was all about being the predator, and playing with her prey.
“Where ya goin’, handsome? We’ve got the perfect view for the show.”
His heart rabbits in his chest as she grips his chin and forces his face upward at what she wants him to see. The loft is gone; replaced by a painfully familiar clearing within the preserve. Dew-damp grass tickles against the soles of his feet as he takes in the sight of the Hale house, whole and unburnt, nestled silently among the trees. The lights are off, and the moonlight reflects off the window panes like eyes. With the low hum of the forest around them, it’s the picture of peacefulness. It’s jarring for more than the obvious reason; he hasn’t seen it as anything but a dangerous pile of rubble in nearly two decades. As much as he loathes to admit it, he’s almost forgotten exactly what it looked like, the image in his memory hazy and faded. The disorientation leaves him dizzy and nauseated, like getting off a spinning carnival ride. He wants his mother suddenly. To cry out for her, and to be pulled into the safety and comfort of her embrace.
A flash of red in the darkness catches his eye and, miraculously, there she is; just behind the glass of the front window. Across the dark expanse of the yard, her face is somewhat shrouded, but he can see that it’s set in disappointment. As his eyes adjust, Laura and Stiles seem to materialize from the shadows on either side of her, the moonlight edging gradually across their features. Their mouths move, but no matter how hard he strains his ears, he can’t catch the faintest hint of sound. All he can hear is his own harsh breathing, and Kate’s pleased hum against his ear. When the flames first appear it’s almost a surprise. They start slowly; teasingly creeping up the edges of the drapes. They breathe new life into his struggle. He thrashes, trying to break free of Kate’s grasp; to tear himself out of the bed and run to them. But her arms only clamp down harder, and her knees bracket his hips, vice-like, to hold him in place. The fire may have started slowly, but it quickly blazes out of control. Inside, they pound at the glass, mouths gaping in silent screams as their skin bubbles and blackens. He can’t hear a thing, but he can smell it. The thick acrid smell of the smoke; charred flesh with the underlying hint of gasoline. He screams himself hoarse as he watches, tears dampening his face as he begs, pleads with Kate to let him go. Offers her anything, everything, in exchange.
“I want this .” She laughs into his ear. "I love to watch, don't you?"
As the flames reach the roof and begin scorching the eaves black, she lets go. It’s so unexpected that he inadvertently slumps backward for a instant, muscles slack and unprepared. But then he launches himself forward across the lawn to bolt up the steps. He throws himself against the door singlemindedly, breaking through as the last peal of Kate’s laughter rings out behind him.
Inside the strange silence finally drops away, the roar of the fire drowning out all other sound. The front hall is inexplicably untouched, except for the smoke insidiously permeating the air, but to his left the living room is a raging inferno. He screams their names frantically into the impenetrable wall of fire, but the only response is the crackle of the flames licking at wood. There’s no sign of life, or anything else for that matter, but he screams anyways, howling into the flames.
A wet splatter against his cheekbone makes him look up. Despite the heat blazing inches from his face, moisture gathers inexplicably along the ceiling beams. As droplets swell into large enough beads, they drip down, splashing against the hardwood. They swell faster by the second, and as the dribble rapidly becomes a downpour, water wells up between the floorboards. Like a child’s toy suddenly immersed in the bath, water gushes in from every side. Pouring in through the open doorway, and spilling down the hall staircase in a cascade. The swell rises steadily, and the flames hiss as it quenches their terrible hunger. Relief shudders through him as steam replaces fire. Relief that’s immediately quashed as the water begins to recede as quickly as it appeared. As the steam begins to dissipate, it reveals nothing but a blackened husk littered by mounds of dark ash. They’re gone; the only traces left behind swirling away on the rushing water around his ankles. He collapses to his knees and presses his face down against his hands to sob. Once he exhausts himself, he stays put; shivers limply on the charred and water-logged floor. He lets his eyes drift closed just before a sudden noise jars him alert. Footsteps clatter with a frantic urgency on the front steps and through the hall behind him. Derek tiredly turns his soot-smeared face toward it and squints through the thin haze of steam and smoke still clouding the room.
“Derek!” Stiles, his Stiles, bursts into the room. “Jesus, finally,” he pants frantically as he stops to cling to the doorjamb. It’s startlingly ordinary, watching him catch his breath. Stiles and his passionate distaste for running. It throws the strangeness of everything else into vibrant contrast, jarring Derek’s senses. As he stares, he registers a faint, rhythmic beeping echoing through the house. When he tries to focus on the sound, it grows sharper and more distinct.
“Stiles?”
“I would have been here sooner, but seriously- getting through all this crap...” He waves a hand unspecifically toward the scorched walls and ash. “...Was no cakewalk.” Stiles scans the room with a grimace, bracing his hands on his knees as he wheezes. “You really have a talent for self-flagellation, you know that, right? If you ever decide to go Catholic, I’m pretty sure they’ll just canonize you instantly.”
He moves into the room, between Derek and the window, approaching with a hand stretched out the way you would a scared animal. “This is a dream Der.” The beeping is louder now, as clear and distinct as if it were sounding just next to Derek’s head. “It’s just a dream. You just gotta wake up dude.”
“I know that,” Derek frowns up at him peevishly drawing his brows together. He knows he’s dreaming. But regardless, he’s let himself be sucked in by these spectres. Focusing on Stiles grounds him; makes him realize just how deeply he’s been submerged; drowning slowly in the inky depths of his own mind. He has no idea how long he’s been trapped here, or how he lost track like this. “I...what hap- ”
“Just wake up,” Stiles shushes him, reaching down to cup Derek’s face.
The headlights blink into existence, blindingly bright, just before they crash through the glass.