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Derek knows bad days. He remembers what it was like, him and Laura on their own just after the fire, and the days he didn’t get out of bed. They didn’t talk much, and fought a lot when they did – they were both open wounds, back then.
Laura doesn’t have bad days anymore.
The low times were worse when she was gone. There was no one left to mourn with, no one to remember his childhood, playing hide-and-seek in the garden while the adults sat around the bonfire, waiting for the moon to rise. There still isn’t – Peter was around the fire, and Cora was too little, tucked up in bed.
Back in California, after Laura died, he would hole up for days at a time in places he had no business being – the old house, the train station, the loft, before it had heating or windows or a roof. He tried to sleep it away, to wait out the feeling, but he always ended up restless and pacing, working out until his arms gave out, and still he couldn’t sleep. With the pack, he would disappear for days at a time, only adding to their confusion and resentment. With them gone, it’s been easier to drift away when he needs it, never gone long enough for anyone to care to come looking for him.
With time, he’s found he needs it less, too. The bad days are less frequent, less intense. He’s not sure how he feels about it – not sure he should be allowed to move on from any of it.
Derek knows bad days, intimately, so he can recognize when Stiles is having one. He’s in the chair in front of the computer when Derek comes by, looking for help with research. His hair looks unwashed, and he’s got dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept for days. He smells like sleeplessness, too, and sadness, wrapped in dirty laundry, stale and exhausted.
“Stiles,” Derek says, by way of greeting. He waits by the window to be invited further in.
“Hi, Derek,” Stiles sighs. “What’s up.”
“Needed some help with this pack from down south,” Derek says. “You up for it?”
“Yeah,” Stiles blinks, and rubs his hands over his face. “Yeah, but. Maybe later, okay? Today’s… not the best day.”
“Okay,” Derek says, because he gets it, doesn’t want to make a big deal out of whatever it is that’s got Stiles this way. It’s not his place, either – they’re friends, but not like this. They don’t trust each other with big things like this.
They don’t trust each other, yet, Derek thinks. And maybe that’s why he does it.
“Stiles.” Stiles looks up at him, bleary-eyed and pale. “What do you call a werewolf who doesn’t know he’s a werewolf?”
“What–”
“An unawarewolf.”
“What the fuck, Derek,” Stiles says, shaking his head, but he’s laughing a little, an incredulous half-smile on his face.
“Tomorrow,” Derek says, smiling back, and ducks back through the window.