Chapter Text
Can we have
One more night
To say goodbye
One More Night - Josef Salvat
No one noticed the losses. Well, almost.
Lydia kept nervously glancing around, as if he could appear out of nowhere at any second. The clock marked his lateness with every passing moment. He wasn’t picking up his phone, let alone replying to messages. She had even managed to text the others, but no one had seen him that morning. Math class didn’t feel nearly as interesting as it always did when he was around.
It was only Tuesday. Nothing supernatural had happened since last Thursday. Some nasty gnomes had decided to rob a house, so they went to eliminate them. Though afterward they had to explain to the owners what a group of teenagers was doing inside their home. They promised not to call the police, and the pack promised not to "clean houses" out of the goodness of their hearts anymore. That night Stiles had looked especially pale, but everyone blamed it on adrenaline.
Then Thursday passed in silence. Surprisingly, Scott was the first to notice when he wasn’t at morning lacrosse practice, and then not in class either. The pack just shrugged too, continuing to text him almost until noon. After school, they all piled into his house. At least he had a heartbeat — steady, heavy, and too deep. He was simply sleeping, buried in his pillows, and didn’t even stir when the pack loudly discussed his condition right there in the hallway.
"Just burned out," Scott had said then, closing the door to his room. But "just" never applied to Stiles.
Derek was the last to find out, because no one told him that one of the pack members regularly disappeared during the week. Their argument was: "Well, he’s alive." He found out while sitting at the Saturday pack meeting when Stiles didn’t show up. His usual seat was empty, and the entire living room felt too quiet despite the buzzing TV, loud videos on Isaac’s phone, and the chatter of the rest of the pack. Something felt wrong, making Derek’s wolf growl nervously somewhere deep inside him. Even though Stiles was safe — everyone knew that. He was just sleeping.
Of course, their distraction was understandable. They had only recently started behaving like a real pack. All their meetings, training sessions, supporting one another. Considering everything they had been through, it was hard to keep track of another pack member. Everyone was still trying to process what they had survived, to learn how to live with the ghosts of the past and with themselves. But it felt like a very important part of the pack had simply fallen out. At least, that was how Derek felt.
That Saturday he gave them a lecture about how important it was to look after each other, not just read someone’s pulse. Pulse was important for life, sure, but mental state mattered just as much. The entire pack watched him guiltily for the rest of the evening — and they should have felt that way about Stiles..
///
He had no choice but to check on him himself. He made sure everyone got home safely, then headed down familiar streets, stopping a little farther from the sheriff’s house.
He was genuinely glad that Stiles no longer lied to his father, and that the latter no longer saw Derek as a criminal. Now they had fairly decent relations; Derek had even come over for dinner a couple of times. And the pack regularly invited the sheriff and Melissa to holiday gatherings. But how would Noah Stilinski react if he learned that the black Camaro — the only one in this godforsaken town — stood outside their house at night while his underage son was alone? Derek didn’t want to test how far the sheriff’s connections and professional curiosity could go.
So he walked the rest of the way on foot, carefully listening and watching for every rustle and movement, unwilling to be seen. Even from the driveway he heard the desired heartbeat — but not in its usual rhythm. It was beating too slowly, almost dully, sending unpleasant chills down Derek’s spine.
Following his usual routine, he slipped onto the property, glancing around several more times. Then he climbed the tree that gave him a view into part of the teenager’s room. The desk was buried in papers and books — very much in Stiles’s style. At least he hadn’t lost his mind. Derek quickly but quietly moved onto the ledge and climbed through the open window. For someone who knew the supernatural world better than anyone, he wasn’t exactly cautious.
Even in the same room as Stiles, his heart still beat too dully. Derek shuddered, as if he could shake off the strange sensation, as though it were something consciously unpleasant. But it was only his own worry for a pack member who, apparently, had fallen ill.
The room remained a reflection of the boy: the desk still messy, the computer in sleep mode, as if Stiles hadn’t planned to go to bed but had simply shut down halfway there. Clothes and countless books were scattered everywhere. The scent was familiar — like after rain, coffee, and a hint of cinnamon. But a deeper breath revealed the sticky smell of exhaustion, which irritated the wolf’s nose. The kind of exhaustion that turns chronic, as if the boy were working himself to the bone. Yes, it had always been that way — but now it felt different. This exhaustion seemed lodged somewhere in his chest, making even the simplest breath draining.
He frowned at the sensation. It promised nothing good, only confirming Derek’s fears about the boy’s mental state. But why hadn’t he told anyone?
Stiles had fallen asleep in his street clothes, not even taking off his sneakers, while the blanket lay on the floor. He lay only halfway on the bed, his torso hanging off the other side. As if he had simply collapsed and never moved again. He had tried to hide his face in the edge of his hoodie, probably trying to warm himself. Even in the dim light of the desk lamp, Derek could see the pallor of his skin.
The wolf inside him scratched unpleasantly at his ribcage, accusing him of doing nothing when Stiles needed him. An Alpha had to take care of his pack — and of the humans in it twice as much.
He carefully removed the boy’s sneakers, then slowly pulled off his hoodie, leaving him in just jeans and a T-shirt. Of course, Stiles began to stir in search of warmth. Derek quickly lifted the blanket and covered him, making a mental note to close the window before leaving. He also knew the student had been working on something, so he saved everything open on the computer, shut it down, and plugged it in to charge. Doing the same with his phone.
And it seemed like his mission was complete. The wolf had confirmed he was fine and simply sleeping. But something wouldn’t let him leave the house.
Derek let out a quiet growl of surrender and closed the window. After turning off the desk lamp, leaving only moonlight as a faint source of light.
It would have been strange for an adult man, even just a few years older, to lie down beside a teenager. So he did the only thing he could. Walking to the chair, he shrugged off his jacket and began pulling off his shirt to shift, when a rustling came from the bed.
Stiles rolled onto his back, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and barely opened one eye. His gaze was blurry, clouded with deep sleep. He was looking straight at the half-undressed Hale, but in his mind reality had already mixed with dreams.
"Hey, sour wolf…" Stiles muttered. His voice was hoarse and barely audible. "At least ask me out on a date first…"
Stiles immediately fell back asleep, convinced that this Derek in the half-dark was just another hallucination of his overworked brain. Derek froze with his shirt in his hands, feeling heat rush to his ears. He huffed, trying to mask his embarrassment.
This time he turned his back so that, just in case, he wouldn’t create an awkward situation. A second later he was stretching in wolf form. His joints ached familiarly, returning strength to his body. He promised himself he would shift more often.
Coming closer to the bed, he began sniffing around. Even though he had done it just a couple of minutes ago, the scents had changed significantly for the better, which couldn’t help but please him.
Carefully jumping onto the bed, the wolf began to settle more comfortably. Though the bed was small, there was enough space. Probably because Stiles had wrapped himself in the blanket, lying in a soldier-like pose, which allowed the animal to comfortably place all four paws and his large body. He tried to lie as close to the boy as possible to share warmth. Because that was his plan, right? To warm Stiles and make sure his heartbeat wasn’t so slow.
The wolf settled on his stomach beside him, his tail automatically covering any part of the young man’s body it could reach. Meanwhile, he shamelessly placed his head on his chest, listening to his pulse. One paw ended up draped across his stomach. Even through the thick layer of fur, he could feel how cold Stiles was. An unpleasant association with a corpse passed through him, but he pushed it away as quickly as possible.
After a couple of minutes, he felt Stiles begin to stir and press closer. Apparently, the living heater in the form of Derek suited him just fine. The boy turned onto his side, fully hugging him like a toy, and buried his fingers in the fur at the scruff of his neck. Derek felt him press his forehead against the top of his head. He froze, listening as Stiles’s pulse beneath his head began to even out, becoming steady and strong. The sticky scent of exhaustion gradually gave way to the fragrance of peaceful sleep.
The wolf inside him purred contentedly — a sound vibrating deep in his chest that in the human world would be called purring. Stiles was safe, resting in warmth and security. What more could a wolf need to be happy?
The main thing was not to miss the moment when the sheriff’s key turned in the front door lock.
After Saturday, everything normalized. Stiles looked more rested and less gray in the face; the familiar spark returned to his eyes.
Jackson spent almost the entire Sunday with him, doing homework. Which greatly surprised Stiles, because… since when did Jackson Whittemore, instead of his usual activities, show up with a bag of junk food and a backpack full of homework? Didn’t he have self-admiration and parties to attend? What did rich kids usually do instead of homework and worrying about the future? Scott was no less surprised to see them together. He froze in the doorway, unable to understand how these two — eternal enemies — were sitting and studying. Scott was surprised because no one had asked Jackson to come and sit with the guy. Just like no one had asked McCall, but at least he was his best friend. Stiles asked them a million questions while both werewolves communicated silently with a single glance. "Werewolf crap," Stilinski concluded then, returning to the assignments. In the end, they spent the rest of the day together, barely distracted by internet nonsense.
On Monday, Isaac took over the relay. Stiles stared at him for a long time, trying to explain to himself such strange behavior from guys he had once had strained relations with. Lahey justified himself by saying that Derek and Peter had left on business, so he didn’t want to sit alone in the loft, which he’d also have to walk to. In the end, Stiles gave in for a pack of spicy Cheetos. Isaac didn’t mind at all. They spent the whole evening playing console games. And as hard as it was to admit, they had a good time.
Derek picked him up at eight o’clock. The older man stared at Stiles standing on the porch, awkwardly waving at him. The thought pounded in his head: "i'd dream about you". In the form of a huge beast, warm and reliable. Looking into the eyes of the real Derek after that was almost physically difficult.
But Derek saw everything. He noticed that Stiles had grown stronger, but his scent still carried the bitterness of old exhaustion.
In truth, when Isaac texted him that he was going to Stiles’s, he had been genuinely surprised, returning to his reading in the loft armchair. Though this time they had told him the others had started taking care of him. But Derek hadn’t expected such scale. Deep down, he was proud and glad that one conversation had been enough for the pack to become more attentive to one another. It strengthened them. Stiles strengthened them.
It seemed their Stiles especially loved Tuesdays — or rather, not waking up for school on Tuesdays. So Derek came on Monday night into Tuesday. The moon had already risen fully into the sky, probably the only witness to his actions.
This time the room was tidier than on Saturday. Perhaps Stiles had cleaned before the new week so that by Sunday it would be upside down again. But that was his thing, right? In all that chaos, he always knew exactly where everything was. Maybe it could be considered a metaphor for their lives.
Stiles was lying almost in his usual pose: half hanging off the bed, though this time already in pajamas; one arm braced against the floor as if supporting the rest of his body, not letting himself fall completely.
Derek rolled his eyes, more out of habit than anything. Closing the window behind him, he carefully approached the boy. As quietly as possible, he lifted and repositioned the teenager into something resembling a decent sleeping posture so nothing would hurt in the morning. Or at least not hurt as much. Sometimes Derek worried he might break his neck in his sleep, judging by the positions he found him in. Usually that happened when something was going on in their lives and the boy simply passed out without caring about comfort.
He didn’t want to jinx it, but for a week now everything had been calm. On the one hand, giving them time to rest; on the other, making them more anxious with each passing day, as if it were the calm before a storm. Or was something happening that only Stiles knew about?
This time, his undressing went without commentary. Quickly shifting and stretching, he climbed in beside him as before. Stiles suddenly moved, making Derek freeze so as not to wake him.
Stiles shifted slightly, trying to settle more comfortably, but four powerful paws prevented him from moving to the desired spot. Half-opening his eyes in his sleep, he made out a wolf’s muzzle far too close to his face, warm breath brushing his skin. The nighttime guest drew an involuntary smile from him.
"Oh, I missed you, sour wolf," he whispered, licking his dry lips. "I still don’t know how or why my brain generates you. I’m probably just too tired, and you give me strength."
He hummed quietly, reaching out to the muzzle, gently scratching behind the ears, making the tail wag happily from side to side. Even as a harsh and terrifying wolf, you couldn’t resist such unguarded tenderness.
"You’re also very warm and soft, like a plush toy. I like it when you come," he finished just as quietly, pulling the wolf closer so he would finally lie down. He left a fleeting, weightless kiss somewhere atop the beast’s head and immediately slipped back into sleep, hugging the wolf tightly by the neck.
Damn, Derek could get used to touches like that. If he had been human, he would have probably burned with embarrassment or fled through the window. He simply didn’t know how to behave in moments of confession. Laura had always said he was a rock, but in reality he was just awkward. In wolf form, everything was easier — much to his relief. He didn’t have to answer; none was expected. But Stiles’s words and gentle strokes deeply inspired the wolf, who couldn’t stop wagging his tail happily.
He almost mechanically assumed his usual position, resting his muzzle on the boy’s chest, practically climbing onto him with his upper body. But Stiles seemed not to mind at all, just like the previous night, tangling his fingers in the thick fur. His breathing was calm and even; apparently even the heavy body of the wolf couldn’t interfere with his sleep. The heartbeat was livelier than the first time, though the scent of exhaustion still dominated.
But Derek firmly decided to fix that. Even if he had to "come to him in his dreams." It was even better that Stiles didn’t realize it wasn’t a dream. Because Derek wouldn’t be able to explain that the wolf inside worried too much about him. No one wanted news of a dead Stiles. Let him think it was just the imagination of his tired brain — as long as he slept well and didn’t freeze.
And so they both drifted into peaceful sleep. Though Derek was more dozing than sleeping; he was still in the sheriff’s house, who wouldn’t hesitate to use his weapon and status to eliminate the wolf in his son’s bed.
He didn’t even notice how the night passed, somewhere between sleep and reality. Stiles barely moved all night, only toward morning letting Derek go and turning onto his side. The sun began to paint the sky, filling the room with golden dawn.
And the wolf relaxed too much, missing the sheriff’s arrival — but don’t blame him. The quiet breathing beside him held all his attention.
The bedroom door creaked softly, making the wolf jerk his head up and turn toward the sound. Stiles was too small to completely conceal the body of a huge wolf on his bed. And the muzzle gave him away entirely. Of course, it was the sheriff standing in the doorway. He looked exhausted after a night shift. Even though the supernatural no longer bothered them, the most terrifying monster remained — human — so the elder Stilinski worked overtime.
He stood silently for a long moment, looking at the enormous black beast occupying half his son’s bed. Derek tensed, ready to bolt if the sheriff reached for his holster.
Noah only sighed heavily and said quietly, almost in a whisper:
"Wake him up for school, son."
The wolf gave a small nod of his muzzle, letting him know he understood. The sheriff nodded back and closed the door, heading to his own room.
The wolf stared at the closed door for a long time as the sun rose higher. He wasn’t entirely sure how to react to this encounter. Should he explain himself the next time they met? And would he even survive that meeting?
Stiles stirred beside him again, trying to press against the missing warmth. Derek huffed softly, making the hair on the boy’s forehead twitch amusingly. The teenager brushed it away in his sleep.
In the morning, already in human form, Derek shook Stiles awake. He even made him a healthy breakfast. Stiles looked like a walking zombie, moving on autopilot and barely understanding what was happening. The wolf even had to steady him as he descended the stairs so he wouldn’t, God forbid, fall.
But even in the morning, Stiles didn’t ask why the Alpha was in his house so early. He silently placed his plate in the sink, finished his coffee, and left. His movements were too automatic, making Derek genuinely worry whether he would make it to school. But when he stepped onto the porch a few minutes later, the blue Jeep was already gone — Stiles had left behind only a faint scent of cinnamon and a finally even heartbeat.
Isaac later texted that Stiles was at school and almost didn’t look like a corpse.
Derek drove back to the loft to prepare for his own day. His hand kept leaving the steering wheel, touching the spot where Stiles had left his kiss. Yes, better that all of it remain a dream. Even if that dream turned into a nightmare for Derek.
The following week passes calmly. Stiles doesn’t even miss a single day of school. Lydia spends all of Tuesday and Wednesday with him. She insists that he needs to “catch up” on the lessons he happily slept through. He doesn’t resist at all, but in the end they never actually study math, dedicating all their free time to researching the supernatural world. Peter gladly handed him the books that survived the fire. But Stiles didn’t have enough free time to go through all of it alone. Working four-handed, they managed faster, filling an online document with important notes.
On Tuesday and Wednesday, and on Thursday as well, the big wolf didn’t come, to his disappointment. It was a strange feeling of emptiness for Stiles. Even though he understood that it was far from reality, could you miss a person — or rather, a wolf — from your dreams? Probably not, but who was going to forbid him, right?
So he showed up to classes, turned in the assignments he had missed, and stretched a smile for his friends. Fully aware that each of them could sense the falseness in his behavior. But either he was a good actor, or they tactfully chose not to point it out.
Friday passed him by, just like everything the teachers tried to pour into him. He shouldn’t have been falling apart like this in his final year, but what could he do? As soon as the supernatural world stopped bothering them, everything returned to normal. Although now the lacrosse captain and the coolest girl were sitting with a suddenly much prettier girl with seizures, while her equally quiet boyfriend pressed close to her. Nearby sat the asthmatic who had suddenly become one of the cool players, his ADHD friend, and another strange blond with his scarf. But yes, everything was normal. Stiles listened as each of them shared their good grades, plans for the future, and other nonsense, while he himself tried not to fall asleep yet again.
He wanted to recover as soon as possible, but he simply didn’t know how. For two weeks now he had been sleeping almost every day for more than twelve hours. Deaton promised he would feel better in a couple of days. And Stiles wanted to believe that he hadn’t lied to him.
As soon as the final bell rang, he immediately jumped from his seat, shouting a goodbye on the go. The werewolves surely heard him even through all that noise. He also texted the first contact he saw — which happened to be Isaac — that he was going to sleep until tomorrow, so they wouldn’t lose him.
He parked in his usual spot near the house. The sheriff’s car stood in the driveway, already telling Stiles that his father had a night shift today. In truth, he felt awful about it: his father worked like damned so that Stiles would have everything, so he could get into college, and he, in turn, skipped classes so easily, fell asleep during lessons, and in general didn’t give his parent enough attention. He was already guilty in the whole mess with the sheriff’s suspension, so he felt a hundred times worse. They were both running on fumes.
Gathering his last strength, he tossed his things into his room and went down to the kitchen. If he couldn’t spend some time with his old man, he could at least take care of him — specifically, of his meals. He completely lost track of time while cooking: the hiss of the frying pan, the smell of berries, the methodical slicing of ingredients almost put him into a trance. By the time the food was portioned into containers, the older Stilinski appeared in the kitchen doorway already in uniform.
"Smells good, what is it?" Stiles, completely lost in his thoughts, didn’t even notice his father’s arrival and flinched so hard he almost dropped the spatula.
"Damn it, Dad! Why do you have to scare me like that…" he exhaled shakily, pressing a palm to his chest. He had lost his edge too quickly once all the magical crap stopped bothering them.
Noah shot him a displeased look — a mix of disapproval at the swearing and a shadow of deep worry over his son’s pale appearance — but said nothing. Taking a deep breath, Stiles set a couple of containers on the table, putting the rest into the fridge.
"Vegetarian pancakes with berries and Greek yogurt, and also pasta with broccoli and asparagus," he explained quietly, proudly placing them into his father’s dissatisfied hands. "I know perfectly well how much you love snacking on disgustingly greasy burgers when I’m not watching you, but I have eyes at the station."
The sheriff only snorted, pushing the food away as if it had personally offended him. Meanwhile, Stiles was already pouring him a mug of energizing coffee.
"I can always fire Parrish."
"And who said it was Parrish?" the boy smirked slyly, sliding a plate of equally disgustingly healthy sandwiches along with the mug of coffee toward him. Noah gave him a questioning look but, without protest, began devouring his breakfast.
Stiles gladly joined him, though for his part it was dinner. The casual conversation almost soothed his conscience. But it wasn’t nearly enough.
When his father left for his shift, closing the door behind him with that familiar click, Stiles felt himself finally crash. The exhaustion now felt stronger than ever, as if he were the one working overtime instead of his father. And he wasn’t even getting paid for it, you know.
The shower didn’t help him wake up; the hot water relaxed his muscles completely, turning his body to cotton. He barely managed to pull on his pajama pants before collapsing into sweet sleep. No thoughts troubled him at that moment, as if he were sinking into some kind of trance. The only thing he felt was the unpleasant cold wind from the open window, but he had no strength left to get up or reach for the blanket. So he simply let sleep take him completely.
///
Derek honestly doesn’t even know why he keeps coming. The guys said he had started to look better, smile more often, and almost never lose the thread of a conversation. But Stiles either lies too well, or he really is much better now. Derek tries to negotiate with his conscience that today is the last day — more precisely, the last night — he checks on the boy.
In his usual manner, he crosses the sheriff’s lawn, climbing into the open window in a couple of leaps and immediately closing it behind him.
Darkness fills the room. Almost everything remains in its place since the last time he was here. The backpack lies near the desk, where a closed laptop tells Derek that the boy hadn’t even intended to sit down to study. Though, knowing Stiles, he studied in every spare minute, still stretching deadlines to the last possible second.
For the first time, Derek glances at the corkboard the boy often used when they needed to solve something. He was good at it. But considering the quiet days, the board is almost empty, with only photographs displayed in one corner.
In the lower right corner hang printed photos of the pack: a smiling Erica hugging Boyd on the worn couch in the loft, Scott and Jackson posing with red plastic cups, Lydia disapproving of Peter and Isaac’s whispering, Derek turned with his back to the camera to pour something.
Derek didn’t even know that Stiles had photographed them all that evening.
What stands out most is the photograph pinned above that small collage — it was Derek’s photo from the police station, where his eyes ruined the entire picture.
Why does Stiles keep that photo? Pictures of a happy pack warm his soul, the Alpha inside him glad that someone shares such a strong love for the pack. But why his photo from a murder case file?
Derek turns toward the sleeping boy, as if he could answer his questions in his sleep. But he simply freezes. This time Stiles has also fallen asleep on his stomach, though no longer trying to fall off the bed. The blanket is tangled at his feet while he tries to warm himself in the crook of his elbow. He is wearing only loose pajama pants, which hardly keep him warm. In the cold moonlight, his bare back looks like a map of constellations.
He takes a cautious step closer, afraid to disturb such an intimate moment. His gaze catches on every mole he forbade himself to think about. Because there were too many moments when he could have properly looked, yet always turned his eyes away, not allowing himself. But now the Wolf takes over, wanting to get everything this strange situation could give.
Stiles’s entire back is scattered with moles, as if someone had carelessly splattered dark paint over him. They stretch from his neck to his lower back; Derek would bet his head that they could be connected into different shapes. A predator’s vision allows him to see every detail: on the shoulder blades there is a cluster of moles that almost form a perfect circle; somewhere near the ribs you could find the constellation Cygnus, and a little lower — Taurus. Along the spine the skin is especially thin; Derek can practically count every vertebra. Stiles shivers too often from the cold air, and the sight makes the wolf’s heart tighten.
This boy, always loud and noisy, constantly throwing sarcasm around, now looks as if one careless touch could break him. Too fragile and too precious.
Derek doesn’t even think about his actions, stripping too quickly. The shift takes only seconds, and he is already leaping with all his grace onto his usual spot.
As before, he covers most of the boy’s back with his body. Derek completely gives control to the Wolf — or perhaps the Wolf simply takes it — because he isn’t even aware of what he is doing. The next second he runs a wet nose from the hollow between the shoulder blades up to the hairline at the nape, inhaling deeply the mixed scent of shampoo and his own. He still smells of exhaustion, even more than the last time they met, which makes the Wolf snort involuntarily. That scent definitely doesn’t suit Stiles.
He drags his wet tongue over one of the constellations first on the shoulder blade, then on the shoulder, where a slightly crooked heart can be traced. The Wolf begins to purr with pleasure. Though the cold trails make Stiles’s body break out in goosebumps.
The contrast is overwhelming: Stiles’s icy skin and Derek’s burning, thick fur. Finally the Wolf calms, laying his heavy head on the boy’s back, right between the shoulder blades, covering that very map of moles.
Stiles lets out a sound in his sleep, like a quiet sigh of relief. Feeling the heavy, living warmth, he stops trembling. You can feel him relaxing under the wolf’s weight, accepting all the warmth Derek can give him. His breathing becomes deep and steady; the skin beneath the fur begins to heat up as Stiles stretches contentedly, no longer afraid of freezing.
The unpleasant scent of exhaustion slowly dissolves, giving way to sweet calm.
The Wolf closes his eyes contentedly, enjoying the quiet snuffling of the boy. His tail habitually covers his ankles, trying to warm him completely. He likes nights like this. There is nothing to worry them, nothing to disturb them. No threats of attacks, no tests, no prying eyes. Just the two of them, one moon for two, and one shared warmth. Derek would definitely like this to become their habit.
But with dawn this fragile moment will shatter with the sheriff’s arrival, with Stiles’s certainty that it was all a dream. Tomorrow Derek will frown again and roll his eyes at the pack’s shouting, and Stiles will once again be a hyperactive teenager, forever speaking in sarcasm.
But maybe that’s not so bad — they remain themselves under any circumstances. And the moon is the only witness that they can be different.
///
This time he doesn’t lose his vigilance, even though Stiles’s quiet breaths lull him. It takes tremendous effort not to stay here another hour. On days like this, the room feels like another world, one Derek would like to be stuck in forever. There is no place for exhaustion here, only the boy’s tender skin beneath his fur, the scent of cinnamon that always grows brighter in the morning, and peace.
But the sky outside the window is already filling with pink mixed with gold, lighting most of the teenager’s room.
It is Saturday, which means the boy can sleep a little longer. So Derek slowly rises, careful not to disturb his deep sleep. The shift happens quickly; only the quiet sound of bones cracking breaks the silence. Stiles frowns in his sleep at the loss of warmth and curls into a fetal position. Trying to replace his warmth, Derek lifts the blanket and wraps the boy in a tight cocoon. The Wolf can’t resist and runs his fingertips over a couple of moles on his shoulder. The skin there is velvety and tender. He has to clench his hands into fists not to reach for that soft skin again.
He doesn’t know when he will see those lovely moles again — or whether he will ever see them from such closeness. But it is one of those little details that draw Derek in, making his heart beat in some new rhythm.
He leaves the same way he came — through the window, closing it behind him so Stiles won’t get cold. The air is fresh and cool, as it should be at that hour. Derek lands on the damp grass, pulling on his jacket as he goes, and prepares to slip away along the familiar path. But a surprise waits around the corner of the house.
By the hood of the patrol car, leaning against the door, stands the sheriff. Dark circles sit under his eyes after a hard shift, and in his hand is a paper cup of already cooled coffee.
Derek freezes mid-motion, trying to adjust his jacket collar. Silence hangs in the air, broken only by the singing of early birds. Derek doesn’t know what to say or whether he should start justifying himself immediately, just like that night when Noah first saw him in his son’s bed. The sheriff looks more relaxed than Hale. He takes a sip of coffee, studying his face carefully.
"You look like you didn’t sleep either," Noah says quietly. His voice sounds tired, without a trace of hostility.
"Was looking after him." Derek replies softly, as if he could still wake the boy on the second floor. He sees no point in lying to a policeman who can sense lies no worse than any werewolf.
The sheriff nods in understanding, setting the coffee cup on the roof of the car with a heavy sigh and reaching into his pants pocket. Derek watches expectantly, not quite sure whether he is free to go. Then the clink of metal sounds, and Noah tosses him a set of keys, which Derek catches one-handed with the same jingle.
He glances at them in his hand, then looks at the older man. The latter shrugs and picks up his cup again.
"I don’t want to keep getting calls from the neighbors screaming that someone’s trying to break into the sheriff’s house. Or hoping you won’t break your neck jumping from that tree one of these days." Noah explains simply, finishing his coffee and giving Derek time to process what is happening. The keys suddenly feel too heavy in his hand. It is official permission to be near. And Derek appreciates this highest degree of trust.
"One key is for the front door and one for the back," Stilinski adds, tossing the cup into the nearest trash can. "Come and go like a normal person… And, Derek, thank you."
Derek can only nod. In truth, his actions don’t need gratitude — not even from Stiles — because he does it first and foremost to calm the wolf inside him. The sheriff pats him on the shoulder as he walks past, leaving him alone in the driveway.
The moon has long since disappeared, allowing the new day to fully begin. Yet Derek stands there for a long time, clutching the cold metal in his hand.