Work Text:
Stiles could not sleep.
He sat propped up in bed, computer in his lap, the white light casting harsh shadows across his face, bleaching it of colour. He stared at the tiny blinking line on the empty page as though the words he needed would appear by sheer force of will. He stared until his eyes shifted out of focus, until he was staring at nothingness, the hurt and pain and regret and shame solidifying in his chest.
Stiles blinked slowly, refocused his eyes and bit down hard on his lip.
There was nothing left between them.
Nothing but cruel words and unforgiving eyes and the memory of rough touches like ghosts upon his skin.
And it was all Stiles’ fault.
For the hundredth time, for the thousandth, he thought back to last night. Thought of Derek standing framed and thoughtful and beautiful in his doorway. Until his face had morphed into hurt. Into anger.
Stiles snapped his eyes open, a new thought sparking within his mind.
Why had Derek been there at all?
3 am, and he had just randomly decided to visit?
Stiles could have called, or texted. But he didn’t. He leapt out of bed, dressed, and slammed his door shut behind him. The sound rang in his head long after, a note of finality.
Stiles didn’t sleep that night. Instead he drove.
Stiles edged the jeep up the driveway, gravel crunching softly under the tyres. Before him loomed the Hale House, a magnificent structure of brick and ivy, restored and beloved once more. Although beloved by significantly fewer Hales. The sky above was black as pitch, starless and unforgiving. The clock on his dashboard read 3:45 am.
Stiles breathed and tried to quiet the hammering of his heart, attempted to still the slight tremor of his hands. His lip was swollen where he had been gnawing on it during the drive. Derek had to know he was already here. By now, he must have recognised his scent. What did he think, when he identified the intruder’s heartbeat as Stiles’ own?
Icy grass cracked under his sneakers as Stiles made his way around the house, eyes scanning for the familiar window. His heartbeat was loud in his chest, throwing itself against his ribs in an attempt to escape. Stiles bit his lip again. This time, he tasted blood.
The correct window was ensconced by ivy that curled down from the second floor to cling to the brick at Stiles' feet. It was also wide open.
Cursing himself, his stupidity, and wondering just what the fuck he thought he was doing, Stiles began to climb. A soft snort escaped his mouth. They had come full circle.
Stiles hauled himself through the window with much less dignity than he had hoped for, falling to the soft carpeted floor with a thump. When he rose, he was met by a solitary figure, bathed in shadows and scowls. And Stiles was relieved and disappointed. He wanted to be close to him with a kind of fierce desperation. No matter what it cost them. No matter what it cost him. Mutually assured destruction. But at the same time he needed to run far and fast and never look back. He needed to forget.
Derek’s voice was quiet and hard, “Stiles what are you doing-.”
But Stiles cut across him, “Why were you at my college at 3 am?”
Derek blinked, scowl deepening. “What?”
“You said you were checking up on me, but it was 3 am. Weird time, don’t you think? You could have texted, if you were that worried. At 3 am.”
Derek didn’t respond. His only movement was to switch on the dim lamp by his bedside. The yellow light revealed Derek’s mussed hair, his creased sweatpants. That scowl was gone, replaced by vulnerable eyes and softly parted lips. Stiles swallowed hard past the thickness in his throat as Derek sat heavily on his bed. When he looked up from under his brows, he looked defeated, like the constant war that had been raging between them had finally taken its toll.
“You were watching me, weren’t you?”
A moment of silence, then. “I heard raised voices,” Derek stated slowly.
“Old habits die hard, I guess,” Stiles blurted before he could stop himself. Derek's jaw twitched. Some strange pain of his chest made Stiles drop onto the edge of the windowsill and mutter, “And how long have you been doing this exactly?”
“About three months.”
Stiles blinked slowly and found that he couldn’t meet Derek’s eye. He was ashamed. So fucking ashamed that he wanted to throw himself backwards out the open window. When the two of them were together? fucking? Stiles often thought about the other people Derek brought home, the others that he had made his own. And it tore him up inside like Derek’s claws were ripping through his ribcage. And so he thought of Derek watching, all that time, seeing all those strangers that Stiles had led home. All those strangers with the wrong colour eyes.
But he shouldn’t care why does he care he had his chance damn him.
And what could Stiles say? I’m sorry. You deserved it. Please come back. Please just leave me alone.
Words were wind. Where had he read that?
“I thought you didn’t care,” Stiles whispered.
Derek looked up at him sharply, the lamplight reflecting orange in his eyes, “you thought wrong.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?!” Stiles finally exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. “You knew- you knew how I felt about you! I fucking told you! But you never said, you never gave me anything! How was I supposed to know?”
He had expected Derek to meet his anger, but he remained seated, his voice that calm baritone that vibrated in Stiles’ bones. “You weren’t supposed to know.”
Stiles stepped forward and knelt before Derek. Leaning his elbows on the other man’s knees, Stiles roughly pushed Derek’s jaw so he would be forced to look at him. “You deserve to be happy, Derek. When will you get that through that thick werewolf skull?” Stiles wanted more than anything to stop talking, but he forced the words up like bile, and they burned his throat as they passed. “Those people meant nothing. I’m sorry you had to see that. God! You hurt me so fucking bad when you let me leave. All I was thinking was getting back at you. All I was thinking was that they weren't you.”
Derek clenched his jaw, but made no move to push Stiles away. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. But I thought it would be better for you. You would be safer without me. You would find someone else to love. The things that have happened to me, to the people around me...”
Stiles reached up and chuffed Derek on the back of the head. "You are such an idiot," he murmured as he wound his fingers through Derek's short hair, his thumb brushing over the stubble of his jaw. Derek’s eyes were deep green-grey pits. “I have never been in love with anyone and I never will be. Unless it’s with you.” And then that old hurt came back, that old fear and Stiles found himself saying through a thick throat, “I thought you would never want me.”
Derek leaned forward and pressed his forehead against his. His large palm found the back of Stiles neck and squeezed, “I want all of you, Stiles. I want your snarky smile and your irritating sarcasm and the way your hands can't keep still. I want your pain and your heart and your past and your future.”
Stiles shook his head, breathing fast, and laughed, and sobbed. Derek held him closer, like he was afraid Stiles may disappear, may evaporate into smoke. Stiles’ voice was hoarse, “Can we just kiss like real people do?”
And Derek nodded, and Stiles tasted the smile on his lips. And the kiss was like a blessing, like a knee to the chest, and it promised ruin, and it promised a future.