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He's huddled in the corner of his dad's bedroom because that's where the gun lives, and also because it smells like his dad and this may be the last time he gets that. Maybe in a minute he'll get up and swap his clothes with something from the hamper, that way he can hold onto that smell a little while longer, but whatever he wears will just be covered in sweat and dirt and God knows what else by the end of the day.
Speaking of the end of the day, the sun is dipping lower and he needs to figure out what he's doing, where he's going. But he's finding it hard to think about anything right now. Or, anything other than—
The floor creaks just outside the bedroom door, the spot Stiles learned long ago to step over if he wanted to sneak out without alerting the troops. It's too controlled to be a walker, too deliberate to be a runner, but Stiles knows there are worse things out there than the undead.
Namely, people.
He clutches the grip of the gun tighter wondering if he'll be able to take the shot.
The door handle turns with a click and Stiles shoves his back hard against the wall, bracing himself. When the door swings open he has a moment of panic, then nearly cries in relief.
"That's—out back," Derek grunts, deep frown on his face; Stiles has never been more relieved to see that grumpy wolf face. "That's your dad. He—"
"Yeah." Stiles' voice is wrecked from all the crying he's already done.
Maybe that's the real reason he didn't cry in relief. Maybe he's just run out of tears.
"We shouldn't leave him like that," Derek says, but he doesn't sound very sure of himself. "Were you—did he—?"
"He didn't bite me," Stiles snaps. "He locked himself out there before he turned. He wanted to—" Stiles looks at the pistol in his hands and it makes him want to hurl. "But I didn't let him. I was scared. I couldn't—"
"Stiles." Derek interrupts him before he bursts into hysterics. "I get it. Do you want to now?"
Oh, great. Here come the tears again. Stiles can't even think about it without crying. Guess there are still some left to cry.
"I don't think I can do it," he admits softly.
Derek nods once, then holds out his hand. "Give it here. Then go pack. We're going to the house."
Stiles doesn't argue. He doesn't have the energy. He stands and hands over the gun and heads off into the too silent house to find a duffle bag. His ears are ringing and his head is buzzing and when the shot rings out, it barely registers.
"Let's go," Derek commands when he makes it back upstairs. He hands the gun back to Stiles. "Others will have heard that. We need to move."
Stiles is fine with that. He takes one last look at his room, tries to remember what normal feels like. He fails.
He follows Derek out of the house, bag slung over his shoulder.
~
The Hale house is only half finished and there aren't enough bedrooms to go around. Stiles ends up in Derek's room, and he doesn't know what to do with that because all he wants is some place he can curl up and cry. Derek is not exactly known for his shoulder to cry on.
"Isaac is next door and Lydia is across the hall with Melissa. The closer we stay together, the better."
"Mrs. McCall's here?" Stiles wasn't even aware she'd made it.
After he'd caught a glimpse of Scott tearing down the street, one arm hanging by a thread, he'd assumed the worst. He's glad she made it—so, so glad. But he can't even imagine what she must be going through, and he doesn't have any comfort left in him to spare.
Thinking about Scott hurts too much, so he changes the subject. "Guess I'm camping out on the floor?"
Derek looks at him like he's an idiot, and for a moment everything feels so normal it hurts. "We'll both fit in the bed. Isaac should be back soon with supplies. I'm going to check the snares and hope they caught dinner."
Stiles is expecting to be doled out some task, but Derek just leaves him to settle in on his own. He can't tell if it's because Stiles needs the space right now or because he's afraid Stiles is going to start crying.
It doesn't matter either way.
Most things, he's coming to find, don't matter much anymore. Not when it's the end of the world.
~
Dinner is subdued. The pantry is stocked with plenty of canned goods, some of which came back with Derek from the Stilinski kitchen. Even more from Isaac’s recent run. But Derek’s snares have also panned out, and he wants to make the cans last.
Stiles has never eaten rabbit before, much less squirrel. Mrs. McCall is the one to turn it into stew, enough to feed a small army even though it’s just the five of them. It’s probably pretty good, but Stiles barely tastes it. He eats half a bowl before his stomach starts turning and he excuses himself to turn in early.
It’s less awkward this way, anyways. He doesn’t have Derek’s eyes on him as he slips into bed with his sneakers still on. Even as tired as he is he thought he’d have trouble sleeping, but the next thing he’s aware of is Derek sliding into bed behind him. It jars Stiles from a dream where he had to tell his dad he failed Chem.
A month ago, that would have been a nightmare. Now it just makes him wonder—how long until his mind’s picture of his dad fades? How long until he can’t remember the sound of his voice?
Stiles doesn’t realize he’s crying until a strong arm wraps around his waist and pulls him in tight.
He forgets sometimes that Derek’s not the robotic killing machine they’d made him out to be in the beginning. It doesn’t help that, most of the time, Derek prefers it. But he had a family once, too. He knows. He knows.
~
Despite it all, the sun still rises and the sun still sets. The world keeps turning. They pick up a few more strays. Boyd shows back up, covered in blood but otherwise unscathed. They break out the canned peaches in celebration, and they’re as sweet as any dessert Stiles has ever tasted.
Some more rooms end up cleaned up and repaired for their growing party, but Stiles never ends up leaving Derek’s, not even with two rooms sitting empty. He doesn’t feel safe anymore, can’t sleep anymore without Derek pressed against his back. If Derek’s not there, if he’s out on a hunt, Stiles doesn’t sleep.
Everyone notices. No one says a word.
It turns into more around what he’s pretty sure is his 18th birthday, and oh, the irony. If things were still normal he doubts his dad would have approved. But Derek had kept him alive, and Stiles doesn’t mean Derek saved him from some stupid zombies. He means he—
He means, it was rough. Those first few months were awful, and then winter came and all Stiles wanted to do was lay down outside and let the cold take him.
Derek didn’t let that happen. Derek had held on for him when Stiles couldn’t. They’d huddled under the blankets during the bitter late January nights, wind and cold sneaking in through all the cracks (Derek’s first project once it was bearable to work outside again). And bit by bit, in the dead of winter Stiles began to thaw.
~
Summer hits, and Stiles sits on the porch with a can of coke that was flat before he opened it, a lucky find in some stranger’s basement beer fridge. He watches Derek and Isaac as they reinforce the perimeter and take care of anything that’s wandered into the traps.
He should be thinking about college right now, about how to spend his last summer of freedom. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.
Some things, he thinks, eyeing Derek as he takes off his shirt to wipe away sweat from his body, Stiles can even appreciate.
Isaac heads back into the house when they’re done, but Derek sticks around, sitting on the step next to Stiles. He runs a playful, dusty hand through Stiles’ hair, then steals the last sip of soda.
It still hurts to think of what they lost, and who knows how tenable their situation is long term, but it’s something.
Derek brushes a kiss against the corner of Stiles’ mouth and throws a sweaty arm over his shoulder. They watch the sunset and lean into each other, and for a moment Stiles lets himself think about the something between them that’s growing, thriving. It feels a little less like survival these days, a little more like living.