Chapter Text
Scott watches Stiles drive away, feeling the absolute worst – and not just because he’d nearly been pulverized to death by an ogre. He knows Stiles will forgive him and that he’ll even eventually see that Scott had only been trying to protect him, but he regrets the way he handled it. Stiles doesn’t deserve that.
“He just needs some time,” Scott hears John murmur somewhere over his shoulder. The statement is answered by a pained laugh.
Scott shoots a glare at Derek’s miserable face. He doesn’t notice, eyes tracking still tracking Stiles, even at this distance. His taillights are little more than two red pinpricks now.
“He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you, kid,” the sheriff says soothingly, “He’s just hurt.”
“He should,” Derek mutters, barely audible.
Scott couldn’t agree more.
“Give him time,” John advises again. He gives Derek a small, fatherly smile and heads back inside the warehouse.
Derek stares after Stiles, looking lost. He tenses suddenly, realizing Scott is watching him with murderous intent.
“You,” Scott spits. “I thought I told you to stay away.”
“I did,” Derek says tersely, “Until the situation became life or death.”
“We would’ve been fine.”
Derek raises his brows skeptically. “Okay.”
Bleeding head wound aside, Scott does not appreciate the attitude. He opens his mouth to tell Derek to fuck off, but Derek beats him to the punch.
“I couldn’t let anything happen to him.”
There’s no doubting his sincerity; it drips from his words, almost as sickeningly earnest as they are miserable.
Scott’s mouth works confusedly. He doesn’t understand how this is coming from the guy that had broken his best friend’s heart, or why he’s the one that sounds and smells and looks heartbroken in this scenario.
He hears Allison call for him from inside the warehouse, and Derek uses that moment of distraction to melt into the shadows and disappear like the broody, dramatic asshole he is.
Scott limps back to his pack, still puzzling over Derek’s words.
-
The house is empty and dark by the time Stiles pulls into his driveway, and some of the tension he’d been holding melts away. He’d half-expected Derek to beat him there somehow, jumping at the opportunity to stomp on his heart a little bit more.
Stiles is glad he isn’t, no matter what the sinking feeling in his gut might say.
He drags himself upstairs and sits on the bathroom counter a while, stewing and nursing the hands he’d banged up pretty good on the ogre’s hide. Hadn’t even realized he’d messed ‘em up until he’d had to pry them from the steering wheel. Which sucked, a lot.
He sits an old bag of frozen peas on his fists and mentally berates himself for how stupid he is, trying to physically fight a creature that would be moved by neither werewolf or bullet. And for what?
For Derek?
He thought he was over that asshole. He’s supposed to be over that asshole.
Stiles grunts in surprise as his hands begin to throb around the impromptu ice pack he’s trying to strangle, fresh droplets of blood springing from newly reopened wounds.
He drops the peas into the sink with a sigh. He wishes he could trust himself to call Scott over for a little mystical pain-drain without trying to physically attack him, but unfortunately, he cannot.
In lieu of werewolf magic, he settles for a simple antibiotic salve from the first aid kit and a couple Tylenol after he cleans and clumsily bandages his fists.
He peels off his shirt and tosses it in the trash, not caring to see how well ogre washed out of cotton. He frowns at the loss of another good shirt, strips his pants and crawls into bed, knowing it’ll be hours before sleep takes him.
-
His former best friend shows up on his doorstep the next morning, head bowed and stinking of contrition, and Stiles is abruptly exhausted. Even if he hadn’t already been running on fumes, he wouldn’t up for dealing with this right now.
“I’m an asshole,” Scott greets him, holding out a bright pink bakery box and a large, steaming cup of coffee. It’s clearly meant to be taken as a peace offering. If Stiles weren’t so angry he’d be laughing at how Scott could think it would be enough.
Ignoring the ache of his hands, Stiles stares him down as he takes both the doughnuts and the coffee—because, hey, free food is free food—and leaves Scott and his pitiful excuse for an apology on the porch, kicking the door closed behind him.
He whirls around in a huff, careful not to displace his breakfast, and notices his dad lounging in his favorite armchair, shaking his head.
“Told him you’d be mad,” John says, turning the page on his paper with an air that says he finds this entire situation amusing.
Stiles, on the other hand, does not.
“And you think you’re getting off scot-free? You didn’t tell me either. You let me go around like a jackass, knowing that at any possible moment, I could run into that- that—”
“Guy you’re in love with?” his father suggests mildly.
Stiles feels his face heat with embarrassment.
“I was going to say ‘asshole,’” he snaps, “and I’m not in love with him.”
The silent ‘anymore’ hangs in the air between them, ringing in Stiles’ ears even though neither of them says it aloud.
“Right,” John sighs after a weighted moment, paper falling to his lap as he removes his reading glasses and rubs his eyes. Stiles tenses, already anticipating his next words.
“Son,” his father begins, “I think if you just went and talked to the boy—”
“Yeah, I’m not talking to that prick and we’re not talking about this,” Stiles bites out. And that’s that.
-
He forgives his friends. His well-meaning and too-smart-to-act-as-dumb-as-they-do friends. Not that he can’t see where they were coming from now that the anger and hurt have subsided. Obviously, Stiles can’t be trusted to behave rationally where Derek is involved, and he doesn’t know what he would’ve done if they’d told him earlier, but it probably would’ve been stupid.
Had he done something stupid anyway upon seeing Derek for the first time in six months? Absolutely. But they hadn’t necessarily been at fault for that and Stiles knows their hearts were in the right place, even if the execution left something to be desired.
Doesn’t matter. His anger had faded the moment Scott had said, voice small and plaintive, “I just wanted you to be okay a little longer,” when Stiles was calm enough to ask why they hadn’t told him.
Still, it takes a couple days, several pointed subject changes, and even more just blatantly running away from their subtle attempts at broaching the subject before his friends eventually understand that there is nothing to Talk About, and even if there was, Stiles would Not be Talking About It any time soon.
-
Melissa comes by for a “visit” that starts with food, which is always welcome, and ends with Stiles having his hands checked out.
Apparently, Scott, who is being extra creepy with the amount of attention he’s paying Stiles – especially considering that Stiles had not once, but thrice been kidnapped without him realizing – had noticed the trouble he’s having doing basic things like opening a text book and gripping a pen, giving Scott a friendly tap on the arm without curling into a ball and weeping, and told his mom.
Melissa pulls a chair around to sit in front of him, mouth set in a straight line, quietly disapproving, as she pulls on a pair of disposable gloves. She gently turns his hand, looking at the bruising and pulling up bandages to check his cuts.
“You did a pretty good job of keeping these clean,” she says finally and Stiles preens, until she follows it up with, “Not surprising given how often you manage to hurt yourself. Practice makes perfect, I guess.”
Stiles directs a scowl toward his lap.
“There is a spot here that looks like it’ll need stitches. You see the skin here that’s not quite connecting?” She prods at it a little and Stiles watches it flap around and abruptly feels nauseous.
“Oh, holy shit,” he turns his face away and gags, cradling his free arm to his stomach. “Could’ve just left it at ‘you need stitches, Stiles’ and we would’ve been good. It’s not like I wouldn’t believe you.”
Melissa ignores the histrionics, far too used to them by now to be effected. She lightly applies pressure to the center of his right hand, just below the knuckle, and Stiles lets out a hiss. “Fuck, Mel, can I get a little warning?”
“Language,” she says, reflexive, switching to poke and prod the other hand. “Your left hand will probably be tender for a little while, but it’ll heal up fine. The right is definitely sprained at the wrist and it looks like there might be a little bit of a fracture under that middle knuckle.”
Stiles grimaces and nods like, that’s fair. Explains the swelling. And the stiffness. And the pain.
“Come here and hold Stiles’ hand, Scott,” Melissa calls, digging through her medicine bag. “You know how he gets with needles. Besides, he’s gonna need a little something for the pain.”
Scott pokes his head into the room and glances at Stiles, gauging his rage level. Stiles glares.
“Now, Scott,” Melissa says, threading her humongous hooked needle. Scott ducks his head like a chastised puppy and does as he’s told.
“Traitor,” Stiles mutters as Scott drags a seat over.
“You couldn’t even close your backpack,” Scott protests. “And you can barely write, Stiles. I mean, your handwriting always looks pretty bad, but now it’s just scribbles. How did you even drive to school?”
With great difficulty, but he’s not going to tell Mr. Judgy-Pants and his mother that. Melissa lowers the needle, waiting expectantly for Stiles to answer.
“Well?” she prompts.
Stiles hesitates. “It was fine.”
Melissa shoots him an exasperated look. “Stiles!”
“No one died!” he says defensively. So, he’d lost his grip on the steering wheel for a second this morning and almost hit Greenberg in the parking lot. Almost doesn’t count. And besides, he’s sure no one would’ve minded much besides Greenberg’s parents and maybe Coach.
Melissa rolls her eyes, dousing a swab with antiseptic.
“Jesus, dude,” Scott mutters, “Ease up on the grip.”
“I’m sorry, is it your hand that’s about to be sewn back together right now?” Stiles snaps back, voice high.
“Stop overexaggerating,” Melissa says, cleaning the area around the cut. “It’s not that serious.”
“If it’s not that serious, then why do I need stitches?” Stiles shoots back.
Melissa pauses, needle millimeters away from his skin, eyebrows high. “Do you want this to get infected?”
Stiles does not.
He decides to dial down the obnoxiousness. “Please don’t let me die.”
Melissa nods, that’s what I thought, and continues.
The first push of the needle is always the worst.
Stiles hates getting stitches. It doesn’t matter how many times they’re in this exact same position, it never gets any better. There’s this small pop-ping sound every time the needle pierces his skin and comes out the other side that makes him physically ill. He might be imagining it, but try telling that to his gag reflex.
“How many times have we been here, and you’re still afraid of a few stitches? This won’t even be half as bad as the ones you had to get on your chest. Or the time you jumped out of our tree and had to get twelve on your head. Or the ones you had to get on your foot after you and Scott decided to run naked through the woods and stepped on a broken beer bottle.”
Scott snorts.
“Yeah, decided to,” Stiles scoffs. “Not like we were being held captive by the redcaps and barely escaped with our lives.”
“Still doesn’t explain the part where you were naked,” Melissa comments dryly.
“Mom, we told you they stole our clothes.”
“Mmhm.”
Scott rolls his eyes at Stiles, commiserating.
Stiles hisses suddenly, surprised by a particularly painful jab of the needle. Scott holds onto his hand tighter.
“Halfway done,” Melissa assures him.
Stiles makes the mistake of peeking, and feels faint. He sags a little further into Scott’s side.
“Really don’t like needles,” he mumbles.
“I know, sweetheart,” Melissa says, while Scott squeezes his hand. “You know, judging by these wounds, you’re lucky it’s just a sprain and not a break,” she informs him.
“If I were lucky, it wouldn’t have sprained at all.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, kid, but that’s what happens when you run around punching ogres.”
Stiles goes tense. “Where’d you hear that?” he demands, looking at Scott accusingly.
Scott’s smile is a clear admission of guilt.
“Dude, really?”
Scott lifts his shoulders, eyes wide. What did you want me to do?
“You know she makes me tell her everything whenever she misses a fight,” he says, like she’d missed a football game and not a showdown to the death. “If it makes you feel any better, I made you sound really badass. Totally left out the part where you were crying because you thought-” Pause and side glance at his mother, “-Erek-day was dead.”
Stiles flushes, scowling at him in disbelief. “I was not crying! I was sweating; it was sweat.”
Scott stares at him like he’s dumb. Scott. Who just tried to pass off pig Latin like it was some unbreakable code. “Right. It was definitely sweat and not big, fat tears rolling down your face.”
Stiles jerks his hand away from Scott’s, pain be damned.
“Aw, come on, Stiles.” Scott tries to grab him again, but Stiles smacks at him with his less injured hand until he gives up. Melissa waits patiently for them to stop screwing around before resuming the torture.
“You’re such a dick. Why couldn’t you just say I killed Shrek and leave it at that?”
“It’s okay, honey, it still sounds pretty badass to me.” Melissa ties the last row of stitches off, cuts the thread and pats his leg. “All done.”
Stiles looks at the cut, now closed up neatly, starting at the middle of his ring finger and curving around to his pinky knuckle.
“Thanks, Mel. That looks a lot better,” he admits.
“Glad you approve. Now, let me show you how to wrap this hand so I can get the hell out of here and Scott can get ready for his very important date,” Melissa says, looking at her son through narrowed eyes.
Scott smiles sheepishly.
Right, tonight is their first public date as a throuple.
“You can go now if you want,” Stiles offers, suddenly feeling more kindly toward Scott at the prospect of his hand no longer being in agony. “The bad part’s over, and I don’t wanna make you late.”
It doesn’t take much more convincing than that. Scott goes, promising to be back in the morning to drive Stiles, who, face it, should not have been driving to school. He could probably manage it now, with the wrap and all, but the look on Mel’s face when he says that tells him it’s not gonna happen.
Melissa wraps his hands slowly twice and makes him do it the third time around just so she knows he’s gotten the hang of it.
“How does that feel? Try moving it around and see how it holds up."
"Amazing,” he sighs. “You’re the best, Mel. One day when I’m really rich, or just like, really good at saving money, I’m gonna buy you a boat.”
She hums, considering. “I don’t think any of the lakes around here are big enough for boats. Why not just buy me a new car and call it good?”
Stiles laughs. “Deal.”
She gives him a list of exercises and stretches to do that will keep the nerves and ligaments and muscles in his hands from falling into to disrepair and leaves him, saying she’d be back in a week or so to remove the stitches for him.
Something else to look forward to.
“And hey, maybe next time, just try talking it out? Just a little advice from someone who’s been in a messy relationship. Or twelve.”
“Who? Me and- Derek? We’re not—” Stiles laughs uncomfortably and clears his throat, makes himself say, “We're not anything, not even friends anymore. It’s okay, though. He always was a bit of downer.” He gives her an unconvincing grin.
Melissa pats his cheek and leaves him alone with his lies.
—
Scott greets him the next morning with coffee and a grin. “Feeling better?”
“Yes,” he grumbles reluctantly. “Thanks.”
“No problemo, buddy,” Scott returns cheerfully.
Stiles struggles with the seatbelt until Scott finally reaches over and helps, giving him a sympathetic smile.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Stiles grumbles. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you are, dude,” Scott says encouragingly. He’s laying it on a little thick, but Stiles only sighs and swipes the coffee from him, thinking of how some days, he’d rather find another body in the woods than deal with Scott’s guilt.
“So, how’d the date go last night?”
Scott lights up and goes off on a tangent about the look on the waiter’s face when he had kissed both Allison and then Isaac goodnight. Stiles listens, half-wishing his life was as sweet as Scott’s.
-
Apparently some things shouldn’t be said, even in the privacy of his own mind.
Stiles grimaces down at the dead body they’d found in the woods and fights back another wave of nausea. He’s never been a fan of blood, and the guy sprawled out on the ground with the gaping hole in his chest isn’t helping things.
Allison and Scott crouch by the body, studying it through alert eyes and trading notes – nothing under his nails, no bruising or defensive marks on his hands so he didn’t try to put up a fight; clean wound, definitely not a werewolf.
“Psycho with a knife maybe?” Allison mutters.
Who says television can’t be educational?
Stiles puts his back to them and focuses on keeping down his dinner.
“Stiles, come here and look at this,” Scott calls.
“I’d rather not.”
“No, seriously, I can’t tell if whoever did this carved something on his chest or if it’s just a tear in the skin—” Scott tries again, and Stiles swivels his head just enough to glare at his newly-reinstated best friend.
Scott backs down and calls Boyd over instead.
Lydia is close by, bickering with Jackson in a way that’s oddly sweet. Stiles hates himself just a little for the twinge of jealousy he feels, listening to them. He tunes them out, glancing around the trees.
A twig snaps somewhere in the distance, too far out, he thinks, to be Isaac, who is scuttling around, checking for signs of foul play. Aside from the dead guy, of course.
In theory, Jackson should be helping, but he’s too busy pulling his girlfriend’s metaphorical pigtails to be of much use.
Leaves rustle and another branch breaks. Stiles jumps, then laughs at himself for being such a chicken shit. It could be a bird or deer, or something wholly un-supernatural that wants to eat him, like a bear.
Which, oddly enough, doesn’t make him feel any better. He puts it down to wariness of being out in the Preserve so close to sundown with an apparent heart-stealing monster on the loose.
He moves closer to Lydia, nonetheless, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. When in doubt, stick close to the nearest harbinger of death, that’s his motto.
Boyd steps into his line of sight, a welcome distraction from his paranoia. “How long did your dad say we had before his guys come?”
“About thirty minutes to an hour, and it’s been—” Stiles checks his phone, “—a grand total of eight minutes since we called it in.”
Boyd nods and continues to circle the area, slowly, surveying the ground with shifted eyes, only pausing to tilt his head and sniff the air every few steps. Stiles bites back a dog joke.
“It was pretty nice of the Sheriff, letting us check out the body,” Isaac comments. Stiles jumps, not having heard his approach.
“What do you mean, nice? We’re the ones who called it in,” Jackson protests. “After Queen of the Damned, over here, led us to it,” he adds, nodding to Lydia. She smacks him half-heartedly on the arm and glares at Stiles when he makes the mistake of looking too amused.
He smiles and bumps her shoulder apologetically. Had to be tough, trying to enjoy a meal with her boyfriend only to end up being quietly escorted from a very nice restaurant for shrieking her head off during dessert.
Stiles idly wonders how long the excuse of extreme arachnophobia will hold up.
“Well, it was gonna happen one way or the other; I think he just figured he’d pretend he was in control of the situation,” he responds, shrugging.
“Look at the poor dude’s face,” he hears Scott mutter, and Stiles does – involuntarily, he would like to add – glancing over his shoulder. “He was terrified.” The victim’s eyes are wide and empty, mouth permanently set in a petrified grimace, chest open, blood still drying on his pale blue shirt.
Boyd snorts. “You would be, too, if you knew you were about to die.”
Stiles makes himself look away, rubbing his own chest uneasily. He’s had a bad feeling about this since he’d gotten Lydia’s call. Something’s not sitting right with him. He says as much, and Jackson laughs.
“You mean, aside from the dead human lying here with their heart missing?”
Lydia gives Jackson a particularly unimpressed look and links her arm through Stiles’ in a show of solidarity. “I think that goes without saying.”
“Yeah, thanks, Jackass,” Stiles adds disdainfully. “I meant there’s something wrong here.”
There is. There’s something he’s missing, something obvious, something he should know—
“You’d think a pack of werewolves would be quieter,” another voice says, interrupting his thoughts. “All these years, and you still move like you’re trying to crush every branch and twig you pass.”
Stiles bites back a curse. Well, that would explain the fucking creepy tingles.
Lydia whirls around, taking Stiles with her. Stiles does his best to not make eye contact, keeping his gaze on a random tree and not the asshole in the clearing. It’s an interesting tree. He could look at it all day.
Boyd shakes his head. “And what’s your excuse? I heard you moving about three miles out.”
Stiles makes a face at the ground. Would’ve been nice to know, Boyd.
The response is flat. “I was out for a run.”
Allison casually tucks the knife she’d drawn away and Scott stands, looking at their new arrival warily. “Derek,” he says with obvious surprise. God, they all suck so much at being werewolves. “What are you doing here?”
Jackson wrinkles his nose. “And why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
Stiles looks, despite himself, and finds that Derek is indeed, without a shirt, a light sheen of sweat coating his skin. So gross.
His hair is still too long, like, everywhere, and he seems to have packed on more muscle than Stiles remembers him having. It’s almost too much, y’know? Verging on weird with his abnormally stacked yet somehow proportionate body.
“Like I said, I was on a run. I heard you idiots stomping around, so I thought I’d see what was going on, seeing as every time I find you out here it basically means someone is dead.” Derek turns to the corpse, fake-surprised. “Oh, would you look at that.”
Half of them laugh like Derek is actually funny and Stiles rolls his eyes, muttering, “Christ,” not believing that this asshole has the nerve to come here, insinuating himself into their business with his little quips and his disgusting muscles.
Derek’s gaze flicks toward him and away so quickly Stiles isn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.
“How’d you find him?” Derek asks.
“Lydia,” Allison answers.
Derek nods curtly in understanding. “Is this the first one?”
“Don’t you think you would’ve seen it on the news if there were more?” Jackson retorts.
“Sorry, my cable hasn’t been reconnected yet,” Derek replies sarcastically, “I’m working on it.”
Another round of chuckles. Stiles clenches his fists, trying to reign in his anger, and lets out a quiet curse when they immediately begin to ache.
“You okay?” Lydia murmurs.
“Fine,” he grinds out.
His eyes flit towards Derek. He’s staring at Stiles’ damaged hands openly, brows furrowed. Stiles shifts closer to Lydia, definitely not trying to hide behind someone who’s a good foot shorter than him. She slides her hand into his – thankfully – less injured one, quietly reassuring, and Derek looks away.
“So, do you have any ideas about what did this?” he asks seamlessly, nodding to the dead guy.
Scott shrugs. “Nothing solid yet. Just that it’s probably supernatural if Lydia led us here.”
Derek lifts his eyebrows like he’s biting his tongue, which drives Stiles crazy, but he’ll be damned if he engages. Luckily for him, Jackson picks up on it, too.
“You’ve been here a grand total of five seconds and you think you got it figured out?” Jackson scoffs.
Derek crosses his arms and does the half-shrug, head tilt combo. “Witch.”
Stiles snorts, but the rest of the pack goes strangely introspective. He gets annoyed. “What? Don’t tell me you actually think Mr. Unabomber over here is right?”
Isaac lets out a short burst of laughter, looking mildly guilty as Derek’s expression shutters.
“Unabomber,” Derek repeats flatly.
“I think it’s the hair,” Boyd says, “And the beard.” Isaac laughs again.
Derek does the nostril flare thing, obviously irritated, and Stiles hates the surge of longing he feels stab him in the gut.
“There are plenty of rituals and spells that require a human heart,” Derek points out through gritted teeth.
Even Scott looks like he’s considering it. Stiles rounds on him.
“Come on, you’re not buying this shit, are you?”
Scott hesitates. “Well, it kinda makes sense.”
“How does it make sense? There’s no obvious spell work, no trace of pentagrams or candle wax or evidence in general. Hell, there’s barely even blood!”
“Stiles,” Allison begins, placating. But Stiles will not be placated.
“Oh, no, but this guy shows up, crying witch, and suddenly everyone’s on board,” he rants. “Because he has such a great fucking track record.”
There’s a very awkward silence, tension hanging thick in the air.
“I know, I don’t exactly love it either,” Scott says, shooting Derek a look, “but it fits. Didn’t the other one try to, you know,” he makes a carving motion, “cut your heart out, too? Maybe they’re working the same spell.”
The missing piece of the puzzle falls into place with a nauseating thud.
“Fuck.”
He lets go of Lydia’s hand and turns away, the air somehow thinner than it had been seconds ago. He pushes his fingers through his hair and immediately regrets it. “You don’t think it’s her—”
Scott steps in his path and stops his manic pacing. “Of course not,” he assures Stiles, both hands on his shoulders, squeezing. “Deaton would’ve told us if she’d escaped from Eichenhouse.”
“Right,” Lydia replies, sounding bored. “Because he’s always so forthcoming.”
An excellent point. Not a helpful point, but valid all the same.
“Don’t worry; it’s not her. We would’ve recognized the scent,” Boyd says, pointing out the obvious, and Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the relief he feels.
He rubs the unwrapped hand over his face. “Not gonna lie, don’t think I’m ready to see her again,” Stiles says, a little weak, “after she tried to ritual sacrifice me and all.”
“Understandable, buddy,” Scott tells him, clapping him on the back.
Stiles wheezes in a little breath. “Yeah, I think I need to go.”
Scott looks disappointed, but accepting. “That’s fine. I’ll catch you up later.”
Stiles nods, doing his best to seem interested when he is anything but just now. “Cool, cool, cool.”
Lydia stops him from beating a hasty retreat. “I could go with you?”
Stiles shakes his head. “Thanks, though.”
She hesitates.
“I’m fine,” he insists.
“Okay,” she says, not quite able to keep the worry from her eyes.
“We’ll go with you. It’s getting a little crowded around here anyway,” Jackson says pointedly, grabbing Stiles by the arm and all but dragging him back to their respective vehicles. Lydia latches onto his other arm and follows.
“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles.
“You looked like you needed to get out of there,” Jackson explains with a shrug. “And so did Lydia. We did our part. Besides, I don’t think the presence of every werewolf in Beacon Hills is necessary to search for clues. Those idiots can figure it out on their own.”
Jackson being thoughtful, who would’ve thought?
“Wanna come over?” Lydia asks. “We could watch a movie, order some dinner...”
“We are not. I repeat, Not. Watching The Notebook,” Jackson says. “I am putting my foot down.”
Lydia gives him an angelic, yet somehow patronizing smile and Stiles knows enough about their twisted version of foreplay now to recognize that his presence is not necessary.
“Thanks,” he says again as they reach their cars. “But I’m gonna head home and take a little siesta. I’ll see you guys later.”
Lydia gives him a quick peck on the cheek and Jackson squeezes his shoulder and grimaces in what could be sympathy. Too weird.
—
Derek had broken up with Blake before he left. After he’d stayed the night and asked Stiles not to shut him out, he thinks. He’s no detective, but he’d put the pieces together: the sweatpant/hoodie combo Blake had sported for days following Derek’s hasty departure, the puffy, red eyes. The awkward silence between him and Ms. Blake that had ensued for weeks until she’d finally held him after class and—
Blake closes the door, effectively trapping him inside her classroom.
Stiles looks around nervously, not sure what he’s in for just yet. Accusations, screaming, threats of failing English or detention for the rest of his life.
Not, “How are you doing, Stiles?”
It takes a second to collect himself. “I’m doing good,” he chirps. “Really good. Living life, dreaming big.” Sobbing my eyes out every night on a certain dickhead’s ugly couch, talking to an empty room…
Blake manages a twitch of a smile before blurting. “Derek dumped me.” Stiles flinches. “But you probably already knew that,” she adds, the way she says it makes it seem like it’s not a big deal, but it is. Derek had broken more than one heart when he left.
She babbles to fill the silence, and Stiles sees the familiarity. They’re kind of similar, aren’t they? She’s way more pretty, but they both have moles and brown hair, both talk too much when they can’t deal with the quiet.
“I’m taking it way harder than I should be, I know. Especially given that he made it pretty clear he wasn’t super interested in anything serious.” She blanches. “Not that- he wasn’t taking advantage or anything! I think it was just pretty obvious that he was already hung up on someone else.”
That confuses him, but again, she doesn’t really give him a chance to process.
“I mean, we hung out for weeks without him showing interest, at least romantically, even though I made my intentions clear during our first date. Or what I thought was our first date.” Stiles wonders if it was the movie he’d caught them at. Or maybe the time he’d helped Derek bake a cake. “But he seemed content to just be friends. Until one night, we’d had a bit of wine, and he was walking me out to my car and he kissed me. You were there.”
Stiles remembers. You don’t forget a punch to the gut.
“You two are close,” she says, casual. Knowing. “He was so upset after you left, and I couldn’t figure out why. It took me a while to put two and two together, but I realized that the only time he seemed to be truly focused on me was when you were around.”
He feels a sting of horror. It hits him in the chest and spreads and spreads until he’s frozen with it.
He’d used her. Derek had been using her to keep Stiles at a distance.
Oh god.
She squeezes his arm, not realizing that she’d given Stiles all he needed to know. “I told him it was okay.” Like she’s giving them her blessing.
Stiles has said it before that he’d forced Derek into something with him, but had he? God, what if Derek was so disgusted with how he felt for Stiles that he’d thrown himself into a relationship just to keep himself away?
Stiles feels sick.
“We’re not together.”
She seems surprised.
“Look, I don’t claim to know what Derek wants,” he starts. “I don’t think Derek knows what Derek wants. But he liked you. More than you know.”
She gives him a grateful smile. “I liked him, too.”
Since that day, they’d seem to reach an understanding. They wouldn’t talk about Derek and Stiles wouldn’t avoid her like the plague.
They haven’t really spoken much since Stiles had moved into his senior year, but he sees her sometimes in the hallways, and he definitely notices the moment she spots him today. He tries not to panic when she waves him down, picking her way through a throng of chatty students.
“Hey, Ms. B,” he greets her weakly.
“My favorite former student,” she grins.
“How’s it going?” he asks, not wanting to be rude, but also having a sinking feeling as to where this conversation is headed and trying to figure out how to get out of here intact.
“It’s going alright. I saw Derek yesterday,” she says casually. And there it is. “Didn’t know he was back in town.”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. For a couple weeks, I heard.”
“You heard?” she repeats. “So you two haven’t had a chance to...catch up yet?”
Stiles tries to keep any hostility he might be feeling off his face. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s happening.”
She lifts her chin in understanding. “Ah.”
He wants to ask what he’d said, what they’d talked about, but that would reek too much of caring. So he just shrugs his shoulders and gives a little smile.
Blake seems to get it. “He looks a little...under-groomed, huh?” she offers, conspiratorial.
“The world’s angriest hobo.” Stiles confirms, and she laughs. It almost makes him feel better.
—
Scott sends out a group text the next afternoon letting everyone know to meet at his house a couple hours after school.
Fortunately, along with Lydia, Stiles gets out of school well before the rest of pack. Perks of being an over-achiever.
Unfortunately, Stiles doesn’t wake from his afternoon nap until well past the time Scott had asked everyone to be there. He reads through his messages with sleepy eyes and shoots out of bed, cursing and throwing on the first semi-clean outfit he can find.
“Scott, buddy, we really gotta talk about the last minute plan-making,” Stiles calls, stumbling through the front door and tossing his hoodie at coat rack by the door. “I need five days notice, at least— Whoa, weird vibe.”
He cautiously steps into the living room, where his friends had all jumped up to greet him with way too much enthusiasm.
“What’s, uh, what’s going on, guys?”
The excessive cheerfulness dissipates and they all exchange uneasy glances, clearly hesitant to answer.
Scott bites the bullet.
“We were thinking about calling in some extra help.”
Stiles frowns. “Chris?”
Allison grimaces. “He went to Japan with Deaton for supplies.”
Supplies? Worrisome.
Stiles frown deepens. “So who, then? My dad?”
“Uh, well, no—” Scott begins.
“It’s Derek, and we already texted him,” Isaac blurts.
“Babe,” Scott mutters. The what the fuck is implied.
Isaac lifts his shoulders helplessly, mouthing ‘sorry.’ He offers Stiles a weak smile, a little nervous and mostly apologetic, and Stiles doesn’t care how cherubic the guy’s face is, he wants to punch it. He won’t, would never, but the urge is there.
“He’s the one who figured out it was a witch,” Isaac says, defensive, almost like that should be enough to absolve him.
Stiles’ expression must tell him it’s not.
Isaac scrambles to explain himself, “He saved our asses with the ogre and you saw that body; whoever’s doing this is dangerous. And Derek’s good at this stuff—”
Stiles doesn’t want to hear any more of that. He takes a step back, trying to wrap his head around how quickly the day had gone south. He hasn’t even been awake twenty minutes. Lydia catches his eye, expression communicating that she hadn’t been on board with this either.
“He can help,” Isaac insists, expression asking him to just be reasonable, just this once.
But reasonable has never been Stiles’ strong suit. He turns to Scott. “And you’re just going along with this?”
Scott lifts his hands, “He’s not my first choice either, trust me.” He hesitates. “But—”
“But what, Scott?”
Scott sighs, seeming regretful. “Look, you know we’re not exactly solid on our own,” he says, tone calming. “We didn’t even know Courtney, or whatever her name was, wasn’t a normal human until she kidnapped you and tried to use you for spare parts. And you must’ve brought her around all of us half a dozen times!” he adds. “And this witch, if it is even a witch, seems to be a lot better at the murder thing than she was. So maybe an extra set of eyes wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know?”
Stiles is good at following multiple lines of thought, so he can recognize and be proud that Scott has grown enough to put the good of the pack and town ahead of his own feelings, and still hate him a lot for being so damn diplomatic.
They’re probably expecting him to have another meltdown, throw around accusations, cry and yell, but he will not. He will have his breakdown in the privacy of his own home like any other self-respecting person, thank you very much.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, ignoring how the motion makes his wrapped hand ache. “Fine; whatever. Do I have to be here?”
“We can’t force you to stay,” Scott says. “But maybe you should?”
Stiles knows that. And he even wants to be here, wants to help and try to keep his friends from doing something stupid. But the thought of being in the same room as Derek just puts a pit in his stomach.
He looks to Lydia. Her expression tells him to do what he needs to, and Stiles is grateful because Scott’s is pleading with him to stay.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go. I’m tired. And I’m hungry, and I just remembered I told my dad I’d meet him for dinner,” Stiles lies.
“Little early for dinner,” Boyd comments.
“I will confiscate your friendship bracelet, Vernon,” Stiles snaps and Boyd gives him one of those dead-eyed sunny smiles. “Besides, my dad’s like a million years old. If he had it his way, he’d take his dinner at 4:30 sharp and be in bed by 5.” Deflection and wit. If he wasn’t surrounded by a pack of supernatural creatures, he’d be getting away with his lies.
Scott looks disappointed, but he does his best to hide it. “It’s okay. I understand. You go get some food and get some rest, buddy.”
Stiles dips his head, ashamed of himself.
“Yeah, see you later.”
Lydia follows him to the door, looking regretful. “I did try to call you and give you a heads up.”
Stiles pulls her into a hug and puts his nose in her hair, sighing heavily. He’s tired and she smells good, as always.
“I appreciate that.”
Lydia pats his cheek and releases him. “Call me later?”
“Course,” he scoffs. She smiles and leaves him.
Stiles waves to the rest of the group and grabs his jacket. He can hear his friends’ quiet murmurs as he shrugs it on, possibly speaking about the witch, but more likely discussing him and his well-being.
It’s sweet.
It’s aggravating.
Stiles shakes his head and pulls the door open to let himself out.
Derek is standing on the other side, hand tensed to ring the doorbell or knock or maybe punch a hole in Stiles’ chest, who can tell with that guy, right?
He stares at Stiles with wide, panic-filled eyes, like Stiles’ sudden appearance had surprised him, too.
It fills Stiles with an ungodly amount of rage. What good are super senses if no one. fucking. uses them?
They stand there for an unfortunate amount of time, taking each other in, watching each other through wary eyes. Or maybe that’s more Stiles. Derek just looks kind of scared.
He’d groomed. Stiles hates how quickly he notices, but there it is. Derek had trimmed the serial killer beard and cut his hair and it takes way too much effort for Stiles to drag his gaze away. He’s positive this is the result of the comments he’d made the day before and wishes he could go back in time and punch himself in the throat.
“Uh, hey,” Derek says after about a minute of Stiles standing there, unable to move for the life of him.
“Shit,” he hears someone hiss from the living room.
Stiles tells himself it’s not a big deal, people have to deal with their exes all the time—and he and Derek had never really been together in the first place. Just a mistake that went too far.
“Excuse me,” Stiles mumbles stiffly, voice and limbs finally working. He moves past Derek, careful not to touch, leaving the door hanging open behind him because the last thing he wants is to give Derek the impression that he should follow Stiles.
Stiles makes a beeline for the jeep and Derek makes a sound of surprise.
“Wait, you’re leaving? Hey—”
Derek follows him, of course. Stiles can hear his familiar heavy tread coming down Scott’s porch steps after him.
Fuck, he doesn’t want to deal with this today, any day. Why him? Why him, why him, why—
Derek cuts in front of him, blocking his path. Stiles stumbles to a stop before he crashes into him, but it’s a close thing. They’re so close Stiles can feel the warmth radiating off him. He quickly backs away.
“You look good,” Derek blurts after a painful pause.
Stiles glances down at himself, unimpressed. He really doesn’t. He hasn’t showered in a day or three and he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and possibly the ugliest of the over-sized sweaters Lydia had allowed him to keep.
Derek shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “So, what happened?” Stiles blinks in confusion. “To your hands. They’re...” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Stiles stares down at his fists, the bandages and the faint bruises and slow-healing cuts marring them. Right, Derek wouldn’t know about it because Derek had been unconscious when Stiles had flipped out on Shrek, the Ding Dong loving ogre. He pushes them into his pockets. Which hurts like a bitch and fills him with so much regret.
Derek gets squirrely at Stiles’ lack of response.
“Look, I just wanted to say, about the other night…. I may have overreacted.”
Stiles’ incredulity is a physical thing.
“Okay, definitely overreacted,” Derek backtracks. “I was out of line,” he says, sounding reluctant to admit it but not insincere. “I’m sorry.”
Stiles looks him in the eye, finally, more out of genuine disbelief than anything else. Derek’s staring at him, expression somehow earnest and guarded and hopeful all at once.
Maybe it’s not the right way to go about it, the proper, adult way to go about it, but Stiles can’t handle this right now. The tentativeness and the hair and people apologizing for the wrong thing. It’s too much.
It’s insulting is what it is, actually, and his chest grows tight and his skin begins to crawl with anger.
“Go fuck yourself,” Stiles says calmly.
Derek’s eyes widen in shock. He stands, frozen in place, as Stiles makes a wide arc around him and crosses the street.
He’s nearly made it to the jeep by the time Derek snaps out of it. “Stiles, wait—”
He snorts loudly, digging around in his pockets for his keys. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Derek grabs hold of his arm and tries to stop him from leaving, expression desperate. “Come on, Stiles— just talk to me.”
“Get the hell off me.”
Derek does, looking like he’s been sucker punched.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for—” His face, his voice holds no trace of the aloofness he’d shown yesterday in the Preserve, that carefully cultivated mask he wore for everyone else.
Stiles almost prefers it to this vulnerable display.
“Can we talk? Just for a minute,” Derek says. Pleads, really.
Stiles stares at him like he’s trying to puzzle him out, genuinely wondering how his brain works, or if it even does.
“There’s nothing for us to talk about.”
Derek doesn’t try to stop him this time.
—
The pack watches uneasily as Derek stands in the middle of the street where Stiles had left him for an excruciating amount of time.
“Damn it,” Jackson mutters, cutting through the thick silence, “I really thought Stiles was gonna hit him.”
“I could hit you, if that would make you feel better,” Boyd offers.
Jackson bares his teeth. Boyd blinks at him slowly, unbothered.
“He’s coming back,” Isaac hisses.
They all back away from the windows and quickly take their seats as Derek finally comes back to life and trudges inside.
“That looked like it went well,” Jackson says brightly.
Derek fixes him with a glare. “Let’s get this over with,” he growls.
He leans on the wall at the furthest edge of the living room, expression devoid of emotion as the pack fills him in on their tentative plan to find the witch.
Which is basically Lydia to take another look at the body at the coroner’s office and see if she can use her “spidey-senses” to dig up anything on the witch. It’s a long shot, but they don’t have much else to go on; even on the Sheriff’s Department side, the crime scene had been pretty clean.
In the meantime, the rest of them will keep an eye out. Boyd suggests they patrol the Preserve, which seems like a sound decision, but Scott side eyes Derek, waiting for his input.
Derek hasn’t interrupted once, hasn’t made a single, cutting remark, hasn’t offered any werewolf wisdom in the form of a sarcastic commentary questioning their intelligence, nothing.
“Any, uh, helpful suggestions?” Scott asks him hopefully.
Derek doesn’t answer, and it doesn’t take much to figure out that he isn’t listening. It’s probable he hasn’t been the entire time.
Scott sighs.
“Guys, give me a minute with Derek.”
The pack immediately disperses, eager to get away from Derek and his black hole of misery.
“Jackson and I will head down to the coroner,” Lydia says, looking as if she’s very much not looking forward to it.
Scott squeezes her hand in thanks as she passes.
The click of the door swinging shut seems to snap Derek out of it.
“Is this over, then?” he asks.
Scott ignores the question, much like Derek had ignored the entirety of the meeting.
“You got here fast,” he hedges.
Derek looks uncomfortable. “I was...nearby.”
“Why?
“You’re not stalking him, are you?”
“...No.”
Convincing.
“I came into town for groceries,” Derek says, looking angry, “Do you need to see the receipt?”
“I guess not,” Scott replies, somewhat skeptical. “Anyway, about the witch—”
“He’s okay, though. Right?” Derek asks. “I mean, he won’t talk to me, so it’s not like I can ask him.”
Scott bristles. He’s about go all in, tell Derek that Stiles has never been better, that he’s living his best life and getting more ass than he can handle, but the desperation on Derek’s face pulls him up short.
“Why do you care?” he asks, baffled.
Because Derek does care, he realizes, so much that it’s a wonder no one saw it.
Derek can’t look at him all of the sudden. “You’re right. It’s none of my business. I’ll go.”
It’s like he’d forgotten the reason he was invited in the first place. Or as if the only reason Derek had inserted himself into the whole murder-y situation and came when Scott called was because of Stiles.
Scott has a feeling that just might be it.
He puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder and stops him, trying to get a good read on him. Chemo-signals have never been his strong suit, but he knows enough to recognize the strong waves of misery and longing that are coming off of Derek.
“You’re in love with him,” Scott realizes. Derek hunches in on himself. “You’re in love with him?” he repeats, angrier this time.
Derek’s eyes dart around like he’s looking for the quickest escape route.
“Oh, God, you are.” He can’t quite manage to hide his disgust. Not for loving Stiles, no. For being such a goddamned coward.
Derek’s expression crumbles to dust. He quickly puts his walls back up, blank mask sliding back into place, but the damage is done.
“Why the fuck did you leave then?” Scott hisses, shoving him. Derek doesn’t even try to stop him, doesn’t so much as give a weak growl. “You really fucked him up, you know that? It took months for him to stop acting like a pod person.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
Scott cuts him off. “That’s not the right answer, you fucking prick,” he snarls, shoving him again, and Derek finally reacts.
“I don’t know why I left, Scott,” he snaps, “I don’t know! Maybe because he was seventeen and I’m not, and I thought he just had a crush or something. Maybe I didn’t want to be there when he figured that out.”
Scott’s eyebrows draw in on themselves.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Derek says defensively. “You know how Stiles is, he sees something pretty and he falls all over himself. I kept telling myself it wasn’t anything serious; I mean, for one he wouldn’t shut up about Lydia and her stupid strawberry-blonde hair. I thought—” he breaks off with a frustrated sound. “I thought I was doing him some good. Maybe I hoped if I left, he’d see how bad we’d be for each other and get over it, I don’t know.”
“Why?” Scott asks, mystified. “If you knew there was a possibility that both of you felt the same then why—?”
Derek barks a laugh. “Jesus, Scott, have you even been paying attention to my life? Have you learned nothing? Everyone I lo— everyone I care about either leaves, or dies. I can’t let that happen to Stiles. I won’t,” he says, suddenly resolute. “It’s better that he hates me.”
Scott lets that sink in for a minute before hesitantly putting a hand on Derek’s shoulder.
“Dude,” he says, patting him awkwardly, “You’re so damaged.”
Derek snorts.
“Luckily for you, I don’t think Stiles really minds all of your issues and whatnot.”
Derek sets his jaw. “That’s not what I came back here for. I don’t want him to forgive me.”
“Then why did you?”
“I just want to be near him. Even if—”
“Even if he hates you,” Scott finishes for him. “Jesus. You really are a self-sacrificing asshole.”
Derek says nothing.
Scott takes a moment to think.
“Look, I’m not saying I like you again or anything, but Stiles. Stiles is what matters here. And he needs to forgive you or he’s never going to move on. So do what you have to do to get him to stop long enough to have a conversation with you, and maybe I’ll try to nudge him in the right direction, too.”
Derek nods, eyes far away. He turns, suddenly. He takes a step towards the door and stops, probably realizing it’s rude to walk out in the middle of a conversation. “I- I should go. My milk is probably half-spoiled by now.”
An obvious lie, but Scott leaves it alone. “Okay then.”
“And Scott?”
He looks up, expectant.
“Don’t tell anyone, okay? He’s better off. Please.”
Scott agrees, albeit reluctantly.
“Thank you.”
Scott grimaces, not quite knowing what to do with his gratitude, but it doesn’t matter. Derek’s gone before he can come up with a reply.
A thought occurs to him and Scott groans into his hands. He’s so stupid. How is he supposed to keep this from Stiles when they just renewed their vows to never keep secrets from each other again.
Isaac comes back inside, frowning. “I saw Derek leaving. What did he say? Did you guys figure out a plan?”
Scott curses, realizing they never did get around to talking about the witch.