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Stiles is quiet. A peaceful quiet. It’s a good quiet that Derek enjoys.
His hand comes up and lies gently on the black fur at his back, just resting there calmly, still, as Stiles breathes in deep, with honey-brown eyes gliding around the canyon in awe.
He gets the feeling. It’s why he shifts, he thinks. So, he can take in more; absorb the nature, the wonder, the beauty of it all better as a wolf. He feels connected to the world at large. More than he’s had in a good, long while. Since before Paige.
“This is amazing,” Stiles says. Derek knows he’s not looking for a response, or is even sure he knows he said it aloud. He’s just commenting; knowing, seeing, and he can’t help but to say so.
It just so happens Derek agrees.
Derek wanted to stick to the Skywalk, but Stiles being Stiles wanted to venture off; do their own thing. “See it better,” he says to the werewolf.
Derek didn’t know exactly what he meant until they reached Toroweap Overlook, and Derek just… Without even thinking, he shifted; clothes strewn about with Stiles picking them up, holding them to his chest as Derek padded over to the cliff, sat down, and marveled.
Stiles sat down beside him, still gripping the werewolf’s clothes. Derek whined, nervous about him being so close to plateau’s edge.
“Calm down. I’m depressed but I’m not going to jump.”
It’s Sties’ clumsiness that worries him more. He knows Stiles isn’t suicidal. Not if all he wants is to get well. To beat the darkness that clouds over him.
Stiles wants the both of them to get well, but Derek’s not so sure. He thinks it’s too late for him. There’s too many failures. Too many bodies buried. Too much blood on his hands. Too many times he’s had to climb out of bed and start all over, only to come undone all over again.
He shouldn’t have let Stiles come. He thinks this is something other than a ‘goodbye’, and Derek doesn’t have the heart, or balls, to tell him otherwise.
He’s not escaping like Stiles. He’s leaving. He’s not trying to keep from drowning. He’s trying to keep from drowning in Beacon Hills. There’s enough lost souls there already.
“I’m glad we came here. It feels good.”
It does, but Derek knows it won’t last. Not for him at least. Stiles will take it in, remembering this feeling when he’s shaking in the dark and hears screams in his head. It’ll be the thing that settles him, tells him he’s okay, and it’ll be true.
Not for Derek though. He’ll hold onto the warmth of Stiles hand on his coat as a cool breeze whisks over them while the sky turns hues of blue, purple, pink and orange. He’ll remember the crisp, clean scent of snow bouncing off Stiles’ skin as he closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and lets an easy smile grow on his soft, taffy lips.
Derek will cling to this sight, and his scent, when claws slash at his chest and blood coats his hand, clutching at his wounds, then falling to his needs when another four, long grooves open across his throat. He’ll think of this. Of Stiles, and be glad the boy never had to see him so defeated again.
He’ll think of this as his last breath coughs out of his mouth in a bloody burble. He’ll have this. He’ll have Stiles. Not how he wants, but close enough. Happy, and by his side.