Archive of Our Own

Derek's arms ache with strain.

"Well uh, big guy," Stiles says, feet propped on Derek's desk as he lounges in the loft's only other empty chair, "when you're a dedicated gym meathead, that's kinda what happens."

He ignores him and starts his next set of reps, curling free weights as agonizingly slow as he can manage. Sun pours through the windows, blinding. It all burns.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I woulda figured your wolfiness would magically keep you in shape. There's gotta be a perk in there somewhere." He's picking at a hangnail and crossing his ankles like he belongs here, and in a few seconds he's gonna belong to the floor.

"I like it," Derek replies, instead of throwing the hand weight at his face.

Stiles visibly recoils. "But exercise is terrible."

"Spoken like someone who never does it," he says. The burn is getting worse. It's spreading, into his chest, stealing his breath. He focuses on the clank of metal from the weights instead.

"Dude, I'm on, like, three varsity teams, bite me. Exercise is still terrible," Stiles says, then pushes away the desk and stalks toward him. The bay window radiates behind him, casts him in blinding light. "It hurts, right?" he asks.

It does.

Sweat beads on Derek's brow, stinging his eyes before it drips to the concrete at his feet. He sets the weights down and ignores a sharp spike of pain in his arms, at his wrists like hot iron. "Why are you even here?" he asks wearily.

Stiles is standing in front of him now, peering down with his arms crossed. Slowly, like a sinking ship, he crouches in front of him.

"Don't let go, okay?" He looks serious, all the humor gone from his face, and it's not right. "We didn't live through all this just for you to let go, so don't, please."

Derek opens his mouth to reply, but it hurts, like a vise now around his wrists and a knife through his gut.

Stiles fits a warm, steadying hand on his shoulder. There are seven fingers on it. "Hey," he says, "I'm here."

When he closes his eyes, he doesn't hear her laugh.

"It's more like a cackle, though, right? She used to perv on Scott and it was so creepy, oh my god."

Derek rolls over, contentedly tugging the sheet he's wrapped himself in with him to stare at Stiles. He's perched on the actual desk instead of in the chair, flipping through Derek's stack of books with flagrant disregard for the fact that some of them are a century old.

"Put that down," Derek says.

"So not intimidating," Stiles replies. That's fair; right now, Derek is a burrito. "And no. Some of this stuff is interesting. Also: you're a nerd."

"Am not," Derek grumbles. He sprawls onto his back, gazing up at the skylights with their gentle sun. He's too tired for Stiles' shit right now, and he knows he should check, just grab his annoying hand and count, but the slip-slide of sheets against his skin is comfortable and the warmth is comfortable and if he's honest with himself—as honest as it's limitedly possible to be—Stiles is comfortable.

The outside noise of traffic drowns everything else when he stretches his senses and his body. He'll just lie here for a while longer.

"You can stare at me all you want, Stiles," Derek says, exasperated, "but I can't make it work."

The key won't turn. It's like the starter is stuck or something; Derek doesn't really know cars, but that sounds right. He can insert the key, and the lights and the ignition ding come on, but it just won't turn. He frowns at it.

Stiles scrubs a hand down his face. "Oh my god, it's like you majored in incompetency." He's staring pointedly out the window like Derek's the dumbest person he's ever met, because apparently he's never looked in a mirror.

"If you would stop talking, maybe I could figure it out." It's getting hot inside, with no air circulating. He could force the key again just to shut Stiles up, but the Camaro's key is more high-tech and flimsy than the Toyota's, and it's expensive to replace.

"Or," Stiles counters, "and hear me out, you could could try not being terrible at life and admit your car sucks."

Derek tries the key again anyway.

Stiles groans. "We can just take mine, dude. It's not a big deal."

"Yes, it is." Stiles doesn't understand. This isn't about the car. "I have to talk to Scott. It's important, I have to talk to him."

"So we'll take my Jeep!"

"No," Derek insists. "No, I have to…" He's breathing hard through his nose, one hand on the steering wheel where the leather creaks under his iron grip. In the other, the key finally snaps.

Stiles snatches the broken fob out of his palm, but it's too late, Derek's hands are already shaking and his vision is blurring.

"Derek," Stiles starts, but the panic has already set deep in his bones.

"I can't do it," he says, under his breath so Stiles might not catch the hysteria creeping in. "I can't make it start, I can't get to Scott, I can't get out of here—"

"Derek!"

Derek looks up from where he's curled in on himself.

"Be cool," Stiles says, and sure enough there's no pity on his face, just understanding, and not for the first time. Derek buries his head in his hands.

"Scott's coming," Stiles says today. "It's not like he's gonna leave you here."

Derek is in the produce aisle at Ray's Food Place, staring longingly at the fresh kale. "Yeah, I know," he replies. He's not sure what they're talking about, but he's sure of Scott. It's hard to put a timeline on how they got there, how Derek went from untrusting to wary to envious to admiring, but that's where they are and he wouldn't trade it for all the power in the world.

He shivers against the cold grocery store air. Should've worn a jacket. Not really sure why he didn't. It's November—Beacon Hills gets cold in winter.

Stiles snorts and drops the turnip he was fiddling with. "Not really winter down here, dude."

"Shut up," Derek replies.

"Dick. Make me." He leans back long against the banana display, hands shoved in his plaid pockets. He's practically asking to be shoved into it, so despite Stiles' squawks of protest, Derek isn't being rude when he accepts the invitation.

Derek smiles as Stiles tries and fails to extricate himself from bunches of bananas. It almost distracts him from the growl of his stomach.

"I don't understand why greens are so expensive," he muses aloud, even though there's not really anyone else around.

"Supply and demand," Stiles supplies as he finally liberates himself from the fruit with a dirty look. "Only food nerds buy collard greens in California."

Derek huffs. "I'm not a nerd. And it's not my fault your generation doesn't know how to feed itself, Stiles."

"Holy god, I want you to rewind and listen to yourself because you are a gold medalist in pretension right now."

"Says constant Dorito breath." Stiles gapes, and Derek smirks. "Maybe you can't smell it, but everyone else can."

"Not fair. Werewolf." Stiles points an accusing finger at him, attached to a hand that has one too many of them.

Damn.

"You're right," Derek concedes with a shaky exhale. "It's not fair." The cold of the grocery store is sinking into his bones and his gut hurts, he's so hungry. Stiles bumps his shoulder, lingering.

"He's coming," he says.

Over the desperate rumble of his stomach, Derek replies, "He should come faster."

"That's definitely not what she said."

At least he gets in a laugh before—

The loft's shower isn't much the better than the abandoned train station, which, for the money he paid for it, is criminal in Derek's opinion. It pulses unevenly and takes forever to heat up—way too long to stand in it and wait, usually.

Stiles' presence on the other side of the plastic curtain is the only reason Derek's putting up with it.

"You sure this isn't weird? 'Cause this is kinda weird. You remember who I am, right?"

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and focuses on keeping his balls from retracting into his body. "It's fine," he snaps over the shriek of the spray. "I don't care." He was fighting all morning; there's a lot to wash off, and he's never been very modest anyway.

But christ, the water's like ice.

"Whoa, bro," Stiles says, "I think there's something wrong with your pipes."

Yeah, Derek thinks, he's been impaled on one. He should say that out loud, it'd be a good sharp response, except his teeth are chattering and his breath feels frozen along with any words it might have carried, and now the moment's passed. Shame.

He folds in on himself, arms hugging tight and hair sopping frigid water down his front. When he stares down at his feet, the shower looks like cheap acrylic, but it feels like old stone.

"Derek," Stiles' voice cuts through. "You need to call a plumber or something. Electrician? Whoever does water heater stuff, because something's wrong."

It's cold, it's so cold, the water is beating down now and every pulse is knives against his naked skin. His knees give out and scrape against stone, but he barely has time to process it before the much more familiar scrape of the shower curtain drawing back drowns it out.

"Derek," Stiles says again, and then there's a warm body plastered against his back, winding arms around him, shielding him. He still can't see his face, but Stiles' voice is as firm as his weight. "Hold on, okay? Just feel me."

"I can't, Stiles," Derek rasps, "I can't—"

"Yes, you can."

"I can't, I wanna go—"

Stiles slips his hand over Derek's mouth, warm like the rest of him. "No, come on, don't say it. You're home right now. You're upstairs, in your loft." With his other hand he grabs at Derek's green loofah and body soap. "See? This is home."

Shudders wrack Derek's whole body even as Stiles grips him tighter. "Scott—" he chokes out.

"Scott's coming. We talked about this. Repeatedly." His breath tickles against Derek's ear, a gentle flutter, and that's that.

"I'm home," Derek repeats. "I'm home."

He wakes up flat on his back on the floor of the locker room showers at BHHS. It's dirty, moist. He can't really move.

Stiles plops down crosslegged next to him, water soaking into his khakis.

"I had a dream," Derek says.

"Yeah?"

Fingers card their way through his hair, and he can't help but lean into the comfort. Stiles' wise profile is soft—he's the only soft thing here. "A lot of dreams, actually. Nightmares. Kate's in them."

Stiles sighs as he brushes errant hair behind Derek's ear. "Are these literal or allegorical dreams?"

Derek shrugs. "She's laughing at me. I'm not sure where I am—it's underground, but it's not the tunnels at home. She…" He coughs, and Stiles strokes along his temple. "She laughs at me. Hurts me, sometimes. I want to wake up."

"Well, duh. Torture sucks, I'd wanna wake up too."

"Just stop for a second," Derek says through gritted teeth. He's trying to tell Stiles something serious, but everything's a joke to him.

"Stop what, our kinda homoerotic head touching?"

"Jesus, Stiles—"

"'Cause I gotta say, you're not exactly fighting the feeling—"

"Keep it up, Stiles. I'm gonna make you pay."

"For what, dinner?"

Derek stares up at him. "I'm going to smash your face into this floor. Right now."

Stiles laughs as he tugs Derek's head and shoulders into his lap. "You'll be alright," he says softly, and Derek doesn't protest any of it.

"Torture sucks," he agrees instead. "I don't… You should tell me how you're doing. After everything."

"Keep dreaming," Stiles says with a tight smile.

But tonight, when he lifts his head from the ground, he sees stars through a dusty window. He's alone.