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Derek tells Stiles he’s leaving. He keeps failing. People keep dying, and nothing in Beacon Hills ever gets better.
Stiles agrees. Which is why he packs a duffel bag, grabs his laptop, cellphone charger, heads over to the loft with dark circles under his eyes, 15lbs. lighter, and shoulders slumped like the he’s been carrying a whole other person on his back for months.
It’s guilt. Shame. Fear and loathing. Derek knows that look. So he doesn’t fight him. He doesn’t tell Stiles he has to stay for his father, and Scott. Instead, he tosses Stiles’ bag into the trunk, tells him not to touch the radio, and stops for gas at the edge of town.
Derek gets a road map, aspirin, some first aid supplies, and a couple bottles of water. Stiles buys beef jerky, Twizzlers, and a 2 liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. He also pays for the gas.
Its twilight, between dawn and sunrise, and the sky is the perfect shade of blue when they past the sign: You Are Now Leaving Beacon Hills.
Stiles doesn’t even notice. His head is down, staring at the map.
They don’t have a route, or destination for that matter. The plan is just to go. To leave, and not look back. Not for a while anyway.
“Go south,” Stiles finally says. So Derek turns onto the freeway headed that way.
»»»
Stiles touches the radio. Derek growls, but lets it be. Stiles’ choice in music is similar to his own of indie acoustics, classic rock, some mainstream hip hop, and a few “hipster princesses,” like Rosie Lowe, Chela, and Elizaveta. So he keeps his eyes on the road, tapping his finger against the steering wheel while Stiles goes on a rant about infrastructure. Shitty roads with pot holes and crumbling bridges.
He quiets for a song. A Fleetwood Mac song.
Derek notices the pools of tears that swim in his eyes and the choked sound he makes at the chorus.
The song is over and Stiles shuts the radio off. They listen to the wind whipping around in the car through the open windows.
Derek keeps driving south. Following all road signs leading him to Sacramento.
“My mother. She played that song a lot. Sang it to me sometimes,” Stiles says at the 40 mile mark.
“I like that song,” Derek tells him, because he does.
“…Yeah. Me, too.”
»»»
It’s been 6 hours on the road when they reach the San Andreas Fault.
Stiles gets out of the car and takes pictures with his phone.
Derek watches him atop the hood of the camaro, finishing half the burger Stiles couldn’t eat at the greasy spoon 80 miles ago.
He never finishes anything anymore. The front seat is already littered with barely touched junk food. He gets halfway through it and gives up with a queasy, sick look on his face. Like his food has suddenly become a plate of maggots and curdled milk lumps.
Stiles is weakening. And Derek knows that kind of weakness, all too well. It’s the kind that makes it hard to sleep, plaguing you with nightmares of horrible truths you accept, feeling like acid in your gut, and turning to ash in your mouth. It’s why Stiles can barely eat.
It’s why Derek is worried, and just finishes what Stiles can’t.
»»»
They’re in San Francisco when Stiles shuts off his phone.
He turns the volume all the way down when it wouldn’t stop ringing. Then completely off when it wouldn’t stop vibrating.
Derek chances a glance in his direction.
“I left a note.”
Derek rolls his eyes.
“A long note.”
Derek’s phone is ringing now.
“Jesus!” Stiles grabs both their phones, takes off the backs and removes the batteries.
Derek raises an eyebrow at him.
“I’ll put it back together later. I just need… I need… There’s too much noise. There needs to be less noise. Talking to them is all noise.”
Derek nods. He feels the same way.
»»»
Stiles orders soup. It’s the only thing he can keep down without looking pained while he eats it. Derek polishes off a chicken pesto salad when Stiles yawns, big and wide.
They check into a motel. One room, two beds. Derek insists on the bed closest to the door.
Stiles drops his bags on his bed and heads into the bathroom. Derek hears the shower running after a couple minutes.
He turns on the TV. His options are limited, so he settles on Days of Our Lives instead of Judge Judy. He’s near sleep when two men on the TV screen start arguing. They’re both young, and handsome, like all actors, and they’re fighting over another guy, which surprises Derek. He knew little about soap operas, but had no idea they had gay storylines.
He keeps watching, curious amid the overly dramatic swell of music and expository soliloquies of vengeance the characters think aloud. The sweet-looking, boy-next-door guy, with dark hair, is married to a guy with sandy brown hair and constant bitchface. ‘Bitchface’ is in hot water. He cheated on ‘boy-next-door’, and ‘boy-next-door’s’ ex-fiancé, who’s got arms the size of canons, apparently knows that, and wants ‘boy-next-door’ back.
He should be resting, but there’s a gay love triangle playing out before him, so it’s kind of difficult to nap at the moment.
The shower turns off and Derek scrambles for the remote, turning to Judge Judy.
Stiles walks in, wrapped in one towel, drying his chestnut-colored hair with another. “I think I used all the hot water. You might have to wait a couple minutes.”
Derek nods, trying hard not to stare at the droplets of water that run down Stiles’ forehead from his damp hair and get lost in too long eyelashes, crescent over amber-colored doe eyes.
“What are you watching,” Stiles asks, slipping a pair of boxer briefs on under his towel.
Derek shrugs. “Courtroom drama.” He tosses Stiles the remote. “Watch what you want,” he says, peeling off his shirt and heading for the bathroom.
“There’s no hot water,” Stiles reminds.
“I don’t mind a cold shower,” Derek responds through the closed door.
»»»
Stiles wakes up screaming in the middle of the night.
Derek wraps strong arms around him. “Stiles. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe. I swear,” he whispers into the human’s ear.
Bellows into the dark turn to sobs. Wet tears drip on Derek’s neck and lean fingers dig into his back.
He just holds him. That’s all he can do, despite the itchy need to do more, to aid. But there is no more. There is no comfort. Just what’s felt, and what isn’t. There’s no cure, no antidote, no magic spell. Fear doesn’t work that way. It takes over completely, possesses, and leaves you powerless, and in even more fear because of the utter helplessness you’ve suddenly become aware of.
“It’s not okay. It’s not,” Stiles cries.
“I know, and I’m sorry I said it was.”
»»»
They’re in the same bed now. Derek’s bed. Stiles is curled around him, breathing softly on the back of his neck. He can tell by Stiles’ heartbeat that he’s not asleep.
“You should try and get some rest.”
“Yeah, because that worked out perfectly an hour ago.”
“Just…close your eyes and try not to think.”
“Is that your best advice?”
“It’s better than lying awake at 2AM and giving me shit.”
“I beg to differ,” Stiles laughs. “I can feel you roll your eyes. It’s hilarious.”
“Watch TV or something.”
Stiles draws quiet at Derek’s dismissal.
The werewolf doesn’t know what to say. He’s just as lost. No one gave him a guidebook for how to handle this much damage.
Stiles rolls over, back-to-back with Derek. “…I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“…Me neither.”
“How do you feel?”
“…Guilty,” Derek says, fighting back the stinging tears in his eyes and the lump in his throat.
“I feel scared.”
“I know.”
“How do we fix us?”
He doesn’t know. He has no real answer. Just a blank phrase that comes to mind. Something his mother used to say when things seemed too much. When it felt like the walls were closing in, and she needed just a second to take a breath. “One day at a time. We fix us one day at a time.”