Work Text:
Derek’s numb.
No that’s not true.
He’s so far beyond numb that he’s come back around to some other kind of emotion that he can’t name, something that makes him empty but makes his hands shake too.
He wanted a pack, wanted someone to drive the sight of Laura’s destroyed body from behind his eyelids.
Someone who could drown out the hurt chocked sound he remembers making when Peter stabbed him in the back.
Someone whose scent would replace the stink of rot and decay, moist soil and wolfsbane that still clouds his sense from when he’d dug into the earth and laid his sister his alpha, Laura, Laura, oh god Laura in the ground.
He wanted family again, wanted to feel safe and loved, and warm for the first time in years.
But staring down at Boyd, Erica’s ghost is hanging over his shoulder he knows she is, can see it in the almost smile on Boyd’s face as the light fades from his eyes, he knows that he can’t have it now, not like this.
Kneeling in water, in the place he had tried to make home he just wanted to sleep, just wanted somewhere to be safe, somewhere to feel comfortable, something his instead of having to borrow it from someone else, from bright whiskey eyes and colored bedspreads, he feels ice arch through his veins for the first time instead of fire.
He wonders if he’s burning, if it’s possible to catch fire and burn to ash so bright and hot that it feels cold. Wonders if that kind of flame is possible in this much water.
He thinks it is, thinks that fire might always chase him in one form or another but right now he also feels like he’s drowning.
A hand comes down on his shoulder and it’s firm and large and suddenly he remembers that he did almost drown once, months ago.
He remembers the chlorine scent, harsh and sharp in his nose, the way the water had closed over him, the way he couldn’t move, didn’t really want to for a moment.
He remembers hands wrapping around him, remembers that first glorious painful burst of fresh air.
He remembers being angry and thankful to be breathing again.
He remembers and he doesn’t flinch, just stays still beneath the hand because suddenly he remembers Stiles and it feels like the boy’s fingers are the only thing holding him together, the only thing warm in his life right now.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder as he stares down at Boyd and feels Erica’s ghost over his shoulder and feels the way his own hands slowly start to stop shaking.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder as he sees Cora for the first time leaning over Boyd’s body and realizes that something is wrong there, that something is wrong with her.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder when he gets flashes of memories that he knows he didn’t have moments before.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder when he remembers the way Jennifer tasted and the way her body felt beneath his hands, the way it had all seemed so disconnected and off.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder when Derek takes a sharp ragged breath, the first one he feels like he’s taken in weeks months, years.
Stile’s hand is on his shoulder and then he can feel Stile’s knees against his back, can’t help but let his body twist and turn the way it wants to until his face is pressed against the warmth of Stiles’s stomach.
Stile’s hand is on his shoulder and then his other one is in his hair as Derek breathes him in, takes him deep into his lungs and keeps him there, packs him away, tucks him down into the deepest parts of himself that he can find.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair as he uses Stiles like mortar to patch up the cracks and crevices of his will and his strength and what he has left of his heart.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair when Derek realizes that anger isn’t his anchor anymore, that he’s too far past numb and too tired to hold onto it.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair when Derek lets himself realize that anger hasn’t been his anchor for months now.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair when Derek realizes that Stiles is everything, is everywhere.
Stiles is a Spark he remembers in a flash of clarity and suddenly he doesn’t think it suits him.
Stiles is more than a Spark, is more than some tiny reaction that may or may not become something else.
Stiles is too much to be something so small.
His hands are wide and strong like the earth. His heartbeat is rapid and harsh but rhythmic and soothing like the ocean. His mind is like wind, like a twirling, twisting tornado of thoughts and theories that he spews forth like the debris from a storm. He smells like ash, like fire. Derek knows he should hate the smell like he hates fire but when it’s Stiles he finds that he can’t because Stiles makes him remember that fire also means new beginnings.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair when Derek realizes that Stiles is one of the only things he has left is the only thing left that really holds him together.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair when Derek burrows his face into the warmth of Stiles’s stomach and lets himself cry for the first time since he smelt Kate’s perfume outside the burnt down ruins of everything he’d ever known and loved.
Stiles isn’t the only person left standing in Derek’s life but he is the only one left that is willing to let Derek lean on him like this.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair when Derek realizes that he will kill anything, anyone, he has to in order to keep Stile’s hands exactly where they are right in this moment.
Stiles’s hand is on his shoulder and the other is in his hair when Derek reaches up and cups the curve of Stile’s hips in his hands, latches on and refuses to let go.
Because Derek ….
Derek knows that when this is over, when this is done and he can take a moment to breath …
Derek is going to make Stiles his because he already belongs to Stiles.