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The first night after they excise the Nogitsune from Stiles’ body, he doesn’t sleep. Stiles shivers fitfully, falling between hazy memories of hurting people, hurting his friends, dark rooms and long hallways, screams, iron bars and fire. John holds his son close, grateful he’s alive, wipes the sweat from Stiles’ brow, clutching him close to his chest until Stiles falls into a restless sleep. Stiles’ eyes still twitch underneath his eyelids, and his body writhes like he’s in pain, but there’s not much John can do aside from hold him. It’s not unlike ten years ago when a seven year old Stiles crawled into his bed after Claudia’s death, trying to keep the nightmares at bay.
Unfortunately a few nights later John is on the night shift again, and he can’t stay, even though he wants to. “I’ll be fine, Dad, just go,” Stiles says. He still looks too pale, drawn, the skin dark around his eyes, but it’s nowhere near that hollow, empty look his body had when he was carrying the Nogitsune inside. Stiles is healing. Slowly.
"Just call me if you need anything, okay?" John says, and after a hug, he leaves in the cruiser.
It’s a quiet night, not a bad patrol, just breaking up some would-be exhibitionist teens at the lookout point near the Preserve; nothing compared to the chaos of the previous weeks. It’s nearing 2 a.m. when John’s cell phone beeps, and his heart suddenly starts pounding when he sees the security system on his home has gone off. Is Stiles sleepwalking again? Worry and fear spike through him, and John quickly clicks to the camera footage. The worry changes to confusion when he spots Stiles sprawled out in his bed, eyes closed in the semblance of the weary thing that passes for sleep nowadays. Stiles is safe. So why did the alarm go off?
John gets his answer when he sees the window opening and a figure stepping through. “Damnnit,” he curses, and turns the engine on the cruiser, intending to hightail it back home, but, wait— is that Derek Hale?
Derek slips into the room quietly, and doesn’t seem to do anything other than watch Stiles sleep for a few moments, a frown lingering on his face as he watches Stiles toss and turn.
John doesn’t know what this is; what Derek is doing in Stiles’ bedroom, watching him sleep, and a fierce wave of protectiveness rushes over him, because this is Stiles, his son, and he only just got him back—
What is he doing? Derek is slowly approaching the bed, like he’s made his mind up about something, and then he cautiously places a hand on Stiles’ arm. Trails of black run slowly up Derek’s arm, from Stiles to him, Derek’s face contorting in a spasm of pain. Stiles’ face goes from tense to relaxed, his whole body sinking back into the bed, the chest that was heaving with erratic breaths before, now slowing to an even, calm pace.
Oh, John thinks.
He turns the cruiser off, but keeps watching the feed, just in case. Nothing else seems to happen, though, just Derek pulling up a chair and watching Stiles sleep for awhile, until he starts twitching again, and Derek gets up and touches his arm gently, the black swirling up Derek’s arm until Stiles eases back to sleep.
The next afternoon John shows up at Derek’s loft, and Derek greets him with a quizzical eyebrow. “Sir,” he says.
John walks in, clapping Derek on the shoulder, his eyes dancing around the place. It doesn’t quite look like a home, it’s large and bleak, more space than furniture. “Relax, I’m just here for a friendly chat.”
He can see Derek tense up, nervous, so he just goes right for it. “So. You know I have a surveillance system on my house.”
Derek blinks. “I’m sorry, I just—”
John fixes him with a look. “The touching thing,” John says, wiggling his hand, “Is it healing? Are you fixing him?”
"I’m not—Stiles is—" Derek takes a breath. "Stiles is healing on his own, slowly. I was just taking his pain."
John steps forward, and he can see when Derek freezes for a moment, unsure, right before he sweeps him into a hug. “Don’t be sorry,” John says softly, pressing the man close to him. Derek swallows and shuts his eyes briefly, patting John’s back awkwardly, and John wonders briefly when the last time Derek’s had a proper hug. He lets him go, but holds on to Derek’s shoulders. “This morning Stiles told me he had a great night’s sleep for the longest time. I just— thank you.”
"You’re welcome. Sir," Derek says quietly.
"Here," John hands him a key. "Don’t use the window next time." He gets up and walks towards the door, turning back to look at a stunned Derek. "Keep in mind, those cameras run all night. And Stiles is seventeen.”
Derek’s ears go red. “I don’t—it’s not like that,” he insists. “I just—he deserves a peaceful nights sleep, that’s all.”
"Uh huh," John says, though he’s pleased to note Derek’s embarrassment and the clenched fists he’s currently making. "Have a good day, Derek," John says, leaving and smiling to himself. It’s nice to know that his son is cared for.
He doesn’t check the camera feeds often, whenever he does it’s all the same, Derek sitting by Stiles bed in that chair, touching his hand once in a while, a pensive and guarded expression on his face. It softens every once in awhile, and John snorts to himself, because he sure as hell knows what that look means, even if Derek doesn’t yet.
Stiles in the meantime is getting better and better, a healthy glow returning to his cheeks, gaining back the weight that he lost and no longer seems to have that haunted look in his eyes.
John definitely knows things are coming back to normal (whatever that is) when Stiles bursts into his office one day while John is drinking his coffee, and Stiles scowls at him, pulling the cup away. “Decaf, Dad, what do I always tell you?”
"Stiles!" John scolds, reaching for the cup, but Stiles has already poured it out.
"Hey, so did the Smiths say anything about what they saw yesterday?"
John snorts. “Yeah, I managed to convince them that they should eat organic and that pesticides have been known to cause hallucinations. I don’t think they’ll be running to the press about leprechauns anytime soon.”
Stiles grins. “Oh good, I was worried that they might have gotten pictures or something.”
John grabs his empty cup. “I’m going to make a new cup. Don’t make a mess of my case files.”
"Decaf, Dad!" Stiles calls after him. John rolls his eyes.
He gets sidetracked a little after he gets a fresh coffee refill, talking to Parrish about the Smith case, and then he has to sign for some new inventory, and then Parrish comes in with some new evidence and they talk some more.
John returns to his office to find Stiles staring down his computer, a strange look on his face. “Dad, when were you going to tell me you had a camera in my room?”
"Stiles, it was just when you started sleepwalking, it was only for your protection—"
"It’s fine, Dad, I get it, I just…"
John approaches his desk now and he can see what Stiles is looking at; there’s a history of videos that Stiles has probably skimmed through in the last hour, video footage of Stiles’ bedroom from the last month, right next to the open window showing Derek looking down on Stiles, drawing his pain as usual, small trickle of black flickering up his arm. Except its not really the usual hesitant touch to the hand or arm, Derek instead is holding Stiles’ hand, lightly stroking his thumb over Stiles’ skin.
Stiles look up at him. “You knew about this,” he accuses. “You’ve seen this—”
"Well, not that,” John waves at the screen, “But yeah, I knew he was helping you with the pain.”
"Almost every night, Dad, and you couldn’t tell me?" Stiles gets up, his voice pained as he grabs his backpack.
"Stiles—"
"I’m done with everyone walking on eggshells around me ever since the possession, okay," Stiles mutters as he storms out the office. "I’ll see you at home."
John groans, rubbing at his temples with his hands.
He gets home early, no night shift tonight. There’s a familiar Toyota in the driveway, and he can hear yelling from the living room before he even gets in the house. John pauses on the porch, Stiles’ shrill voice carrying through the door.
"I can’t believe you weren’t ever going to tell me about playing Nurse Nightingale, Derek!"
"You weren’t supposed to find out! It’s not—I just—wanted to make sure you—"
"Make sure I what, Derek? I’m not made of glass, you know!"
"I can’t, you can’t—"
"Can’t what? Ooh, gotta be careful around Stiles, skinny defenseless human—yeah, Ethan told me you said that, little breakable Stiles, got himself possessed, only nobody wants to talk about it, about what happened, how everything was all my fault, and everyone feels sorry for me—”
"I don’t feel sorry for you Stiles, ugh, shut up, you just don’t get it—”
"What, what don’t I get, Derek, just tell—mmf!"
There’s the muted sound of something scuffling, a thump, and there’s a wet noise that John recognizes. He takes a deep breath and counts to ten, no, five, he’s not that generous, and opens the door.
It’s almost comical; Stiles freezes, his face turning beet red, and Derek immediately lets go of Stiles’ t-shirt where it was fisted in his hands earlier.
"Stiles," John says slowly. He nods at Derek. "Derek."
"Sheriff, I—"
"Dad, this isn’t—"
John coughs. “So nice of you to join us for dinner, Derek,” he quips. “There’s a game on tonight, and I think I’m ordering pizza. Stuffed crust, to be exact.” He watches Stiles open his mouth to protest, and then quickly shuts it, glancing back at Derek, who blinks in surprise.
"Yes, sir, thank you, that would be great," Derek says nervously.
John walks to the kitchen, pulling open the drawer where Stiles hides his junk takeout menus, but not before he mouths, “Seventeen,” at Derek, and gives him the subtle ‘I’m watching you’ gesture with his fingers.