Chapter Text
His pants are soaked. His shoes are soaked. His socks are soaked. His feet are so cold they’re practically numb. And Stiles might give a shit about any of that if he wasn’t staring at Boyd’s lifeless body in Cora’s arms. He’s not entirely sure how it happened, but the look on Derek’s face and the way he’s holding his blood soaked hands turns a knot in Stiles’ stomach.
No one knows what to do, how to move forward from this horrific tableau. For a while, they all simply exist because it’s all they can manage; Isaac and Lydia holding a still frightened Ms. Blake, Cora running soothing hands over Boyd’s cheeks. Stiles too, is unable to fathom what he could possibly do other than stand there with his hand on Derek’s trembling shoulder.
Finally, the desire to know what happened becomes too strong, and Stiles turns towards the open doorway, to Isaac. “What did they do?” he says quietly, knowing Isaac will hear him well enough.
“They were shocked—weak,” Isaac says, each word drenched in anger and grief. “The… the twins forced his hands to… forced him to… and Kali held Boyd…” For all that his explanation is fragmented, Stiles manages to fill in the blanks. The Alphas killed Boyd, only they used Derek’s claws as their weapon of choice. Stiles shudders.
“This isn’t on you, Derek,” Isaac adds, but Derek doesn’t show any signs of hearing him.
Stiles squeezes his shoulder. “Derek?” Still nothing. This isn’t good. They need to get out of this disaster area.
“We can’t stay here. None of us,” Stiles says. “Lydia? Can you take Ms. Blake home?”
Lydia nods, but Ms. Blake pulls on her arm. “No. Derek—I should… I should stay,” she says, struggling weakly to push past Lydia into the apartment.
Stiles breathes a little easier when Derek quickly says, “Go,” even though it sounds fractured and raw. At least he’s still in there. At least he hasn’t gone completely catatonic like Peter. And at least it means Ms. Blake will go with Lydia now. Of course that means…
“We’ll take care of Boyd,” Isaac says, already next to Cora, reaching into the cold water for Boyd’s legs.
“Stiles,” Cora says, “Can you take Derek somewhere? Please. Just stay with him… until I get back?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he says, even though it terrifies him. Where is he going to take him? What is he going to say? What could he possibly say? Derek’s devastated to the point of being in a trance, and Stiles isn’t exactly one of his favourite people in the world. What if he only makes things worse?
Well, fuck. If his options are keep an eye on a traumatized werewolf or bury a dead body, Stiles will take door number one. He’ll muddle through.
Lydia and Ms. Blake slip out. Cora and Isaac carry Boyd away, trudging through the shallow water like it’s tar. The only ones left now are Stiles and Derek. And the only thing left to do is get Derek to actually move.
Stiles should face him, he decides. So he finally takes his hand off Derek’s shoulder and moves into his line of vision, which is still aimed where Boyd’s body lay moments ago. He hunches over and Derek’s eyes flicker in response to being confronted with Stiles’ face, then fall to his own blood-stained hands. Stiles forces himself not to look. He focuses on Derek’s face, which isn’t much better, considering there’s some blood on that too, only mixed with tear tracks. “Derek? I can’t let you stay here, buddy,” Stiles says.
Miraculously, Derek nods. Maybe this won’t be as hard as Stiles thought it would be. He straightens, and waits for Derek to get up.
Derek doesn’t move.
Or maybe Stiles should stop making assumptions about anything in his life being easy.
Manhandling is the next viable option, and it terrifies Stiles a little bit. Derek just killed someone. Sure, it wasn’t his fault, but the guy can’t exactly be emotionally balanced right now. And even when he is—well, relative to Derek at least—he’s still been known to threaten Stiles with bodily harm. It’s strange. Because on the one hand Stiles is worried for his own safety, but on the other he can’t help but be worried about Derek too. It turns out, though, that his concern for Derek actually outweighs his concern for himself, which… might be a first. And so he steels himself and reaches for Derek’s arm.
Derek’s skin is wet and freezing. “It’s okay,” Stiles breathes, pulling gently, like he’s the Werewolf Whisperer or something. Derek allows himself to be led, rises slowly from the water, glancing at the hold Stiles has on him with a furrowed brow like he’s not sure why any of this is happening. Which is a valid sentiment. Boyd didn’t deserve this. And as much as Derek’s screwed up in the past, Stiles is pretty damn sure there’s nothing he could have done to deserve this either. It just sucks.
They’re half-way to the door when Stiles realizes Derek’s going to need some dry clothes; his are completely drenched, and his shirt has Boyd’s blood on it. The last thing Derek needs is a constant reminder of what happened tonight splattered across his chest.
Stiles leads Derek as far as the front door, says “Stay right here, okay?” All Derek does in response is press his forehead against the archway, which seems sedentary enough, so Stiles wades his way back across the flooded apartment, over to the dresser next to Derek’s bed. Reaching for the top drawer, he feels his phone vibrating in his back pocket.
It’s Scott.
—Just talked to Lydia. You still with Dk?
—Yeah. Deaton okay?
—Yeah. Derek?
—Not great. Trying to get him out of apt.
—Good. Call me in AM.
—K.
Stiles shoves his phone back in his pocket, glances back at Derek, who’s still hunched against the door frame, his arms hanging on his sides like he’s afraid to use them. And Stiles can’t help being a little pissed off at Scott for not dropping everything to come help him. Then again, he’s not sure what went down at the bank exactly. Maybe Scott needed to stay with Deaton. He’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
Derek’s clothes are folded and organized with military precision, which seems to fit with the whole Spartan lifestyle. Luckily, that means it doesn’t take long for Stiles to find a clean henley and pair of jeans. Cringing with embarrassment, he bravely snags a pair of boxer-briefs and stuffs it in between the folds of the jeans. When all this is over, he’s definitely applying for Sainthood status.
“Good to go,” Stiles says, once he’s splashed his way back to the door with Derek’s clothes tucked under one arm. Another tear streams down Derek’s devastated face as he looks back towards the site of Boyd’s death, and it fuels Stiles’ desire to get out of there even more quickly. He throws an arm around Derek’s back and herds him down the hallway, slamming the door behind them.
By the time they get to Stiles’ Jeep, Derek’s whole body is wracked with shivers. Stiles isn’t sure if Werewolves can go into shock, but he sure doesn’t like how convincing Derek’s impersonation of it happens to be. He leads him into the passenger seat and then heads for the trunk.
He has to shake a few dead leaves (and possibly some old Doritos crumbs) off of it, but otherwise the old wool blanket is basically clean. He holds it up for Derek’s approval, but the way Derek stares at it blankly, it might as well be a piece of shitty abstract art.
“I’m sorry, but you’re freezing, dude,” he says, daring to first coax Derek into leaning forward, then wrap the blanket around his back and fold it over his chest. Derek is pliant, unfazed, and Stiles isn’t sure if he should be grateful or just more worried.
He stops to rub his hands up and down Derek’s arms without thinking, then catches himself, stills. Derek looks at him, his expression unreadable. “I—I’ll get the heater going…” Stiles stammers, and shuts the passenger door.
This particular corner of Beacon Hills is still in the early phases of gentrification. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure Derek is breaking ground as far as that goes. An eclectic array of shitty cars (a couple with plastic bags for windows) dot the sidewalks, a few bikers are busy smashing beer bottles against a concrete divider at the end of the block, and somewhere, a very angry sounding dog is barking. Stiles jumps into the driver’s seat and tries to think. He needs to figure out where the hell they’re going. Especially if he doesn’t want to stay in Grand Theft Auto Land any longer than he has to.
He could drop Derek at some roadside motel and go home, but that seems cold. He could take him to the old Hale House, but it’s probably too dangerous. Or he could ditch him with Scott—who probably isn’t even home yet.
Stiles sighs and turns the ignition, wonders why the universe keeps landing Derek Hale, of all people, in the Stilinski house. Then he looks at Derek, huddled under the blanket, eyes shut tight, still trembling. Stiles’ needs to stop feeling sorry for himself. Clearly, things could be a lot worse. He could be Derek.