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There is so much smoke.
It clogs Derek's throat, makes his eyes water. He can't see, doesn't know where he is. Panic claws the inside of his chest.
He has to save them.
Hands reach and grasp from metal grates, Peter's fangs gleam wicked in the moonlight, Kate laughs with her fingers wrapped around the handle of a gas can.
Her fingers.
Six on each hand.
Derek jolts awake, and his hands are clench tight around pale flesh and fragile bone. Stiles grimaces, looking down at him.
"Sor-sorry," Derek says, his voice sleep-hoarse. Screaming-hoarse. Smoke-hoarse. He lets go, sees the skin on Stiles's forearms go pink in fingertip shapes. Derek tries to count them, but his vision is blocked by Stiles's hands, his fingers splayed out.
His fingers.
Five on each hand.
Derek blows out a breath and sits up. The back of his shirt is damp with sweat, and he plucks at it, cool night air seeping under. Stiles fumbles with his phone, turning the flashlight off and tucking it into the pocket of his sweatpants. The clearing is quiet, the tents dark. Stiles fold himself up next to Derek, his knee sharp where it presses into Derek's thigh.
"I have them still, too," he says, and slides a glance in Derek's direction. He's tapping his fingertips together in an odd pattern, like he's counting them. He does that a lot. "Nightmares. Or flashbacks, or." He leaves off in the middle of a sentence, another thing he does a lot. Derek nods, but he doesn't know if Stiles is still looking at him. His forearms have ten ovals of pink among the whorls of hair and smattering of moles. They look garish in the brightness of the moon.
"Sorry," Derek says again, and Stiles covers one set of marks with his palm.
"Nah, no big. I've had worse."
He's had worse from Derek himself, and with actual intent. But Derek isn't supposed to feel guilty about those things anymore. Stiles had made him promise. So he doesn't. Or at least he tries.
"What was this one about? If, uh, if you don't mind me asking." Stiles goes back to tapping his fingers. Derek looks around the clearing, at the place where the Hale house once stood, at the big oaks and the tents and Stiles's face. He has a pillow crease on his cheek.
"The fire."
"Shit." Stiles's hands flex and he sighs. "Fuck, Derek, I'm sorry. This was, I should've told Scott this was a dumb idea."
"Camping was a good idea, Stiles. I like camping."
Derek loves camping. He loves campfires, and food that comes in cans, and peeing on trees. He even endured numerous dog jokes that night because he loves peeing on trees so much. And he loves sleeping outside. He prefers damp grass and the smell of soil to a mattress and laundry soap.
"Yeah, but we could've gone anywhere. North a ways, or out to the coast."
"Stiles, it's fine. I sleep better here, where things smell," not like his family, not anymore, but like home, and history, and Scott's pack, "familiar."
Stiles nods, but he puts his thumb to his mouth, tugs on the skin with his teeth.
"I have them at home, too," Derek says.
"About the fire still?"
No. About Kate. And Peter. Mexico. Allison. Boyd and Erica. Kate again. Peter again. "Other things. Plenty to choose from."
Stiles snorts, a harsh sound in the delicate quiet of the preserve. "I'm lucky, mine are only ever about one thing anymore."
The nogitsune. "No one's lucky to have nightmares, Stiles."
"Guess not." Stiles shrugs. "You're lucky you didn't wake anyone else up, though. You were yelling pretty loud."
"They're awake." Derek can hear their heartbeats. Not slow and even like they are in sleep, but quick and strong. He can hear murmuring too; Kira, he thinks.
"Oh. Huh." Stiles looks like he's going to stand, legs unfolding, but then he settles back. "You gonna be able to get back to sleep? Because I'm awake anyway, and I brought cards."
Fun. Normal. That's what Scott had been aiming for when he suggested camping. It's what he was aiming for the week before when they'd all gone out for ice cream. Nightmares may be their normal, but they're definitely not fun. Cards are both.
"Kings' Corners?" Derek asks, and Stiles slaps his palms on his thighs, pushes to his feet. He brushes leaves from his butt as he walks towards his tent.
Derek presses his hand to the ground, blades of grass tickling his fingers.
Five of them on each hand.