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The first thing he sees as he passes the threshold is the bottle of whiskey, half-empty. It’s right next to an empty glass and as his gaze lingers around the room, his eyes finally settle on the man in the corner. It takes him a good second to comprehend that the man is his dad. And it’s totally, completely, irrevocably his fault.
If only he had given up the search for the body. Scott would never have gotten bitten, and he never would have meet 'I am the alpha, now'-Derek, and, and, and. That’s where his train of thought halts. He never would have met Derek. So he can’t really say he regrets any of it.
Which is odd to say considering the heavy feeling in his gut, as he curves his arms around his father, passed out in an alcohol haze. He lifts and pulls until he reaches the couch. He briefly wonders why he was in the corner, when he usually passes out in the armchair Stiles grew up labeling as his. But there’s no real time to put any real effort into figuring it out, because there’s a new threat right around a corner. And oh my, isn’t there always in this godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere and simultaneously at the center of everything ever going wrong in the supernatural universe.
There’s something almost sentient in the air, when he thinks about the balance of it all. Hunters attacking a perfectly normal family and thus causing one of the biggest supernatural shit-storm ever to hit a place. It evens things out a bit, at least in his head, to think of the humans as monsters in all of this.
After all, Gerard and Kate were the two people who orchestrated everything and Gods, they must be laughing from the grave, because their actions have had such far-reaching consequences that all their plans came into fruitfulness. Not laughing, cackling. It’s almost odd to think of evil people laughing. But then again, they are people.
So surely they must have laughed truly at least once in their lives, right? Must have been babies, innocent creatures capable of no harm. It’s hard to think of them as once being innocent though, when you take into account the fact that they murdered actual innocent babies, with no sense of remorse whatsoever.
“What took you so long?” Derek asks as soon as he steps into his room, father safely deposited on the couch, the whiskey poured down the drain, glass washed and empty and somehow still heavy feeling pressing onto his chest squashed.
It’s odd that Stiles is well aware that Derek knows exactly what took him so long, and yet still asks, as if he’s trying to break him out of his own head and focus on the matter at hand. Or just to be an asshole. He wouldn’t put it pass him, at this point.
The thing they have, where they sit in silence and sometimes talk. Derek usually talks about his dead family and Stiles about his dead mother, and that somehow got them on the topic of the importance of consent and things being taken without being offered, because: ‘You can’t know what you want, you’re only 17’.
And even though Stiles is there, enthusiastically offering, he understands that sometimes just saying isn’t enough, but he’s starting to wonder how far he has to go to for his actions to start talking. Because he’s always been the guy with a plan, and he pulled off some near-impossible shit since meeting Derek, but even he is getting a bit winded in this whole mess. It’s hard to woo someone (and really, who even uses that word anymore), when you’re just going from threat to threat trying to keep everyone alive.
He looks over at Derek, who’s just standing there in the corner. All eyebrows and leather jacket, and a displeased frown marring his face, the almost cartoonish depiction of a James Dean/werewolf, living up to the sourwolf nickname. He wishes Derek would smile more. That he could make him smile and laugh and make his eyes crinkle in that funny way they sometimes do when he’s talking about Laura and the way that Cora and him used to be prank buddies. He wonders what is it about corners today.
‘I’m here now. Pass me the laptop and let’s get this over with’, as soon as he says it he feels how tired he is, how much he wishes he could just pass the mantle to someone else just for a moment, so he could breathe easy just for a while. Just, just, just.
A number of indistinguishable emotions pass across Derek’s face before it softens. ‘Come here’-he says, reaching out. As soon as he is at arm’s length, Stiles sort of collapses into him, feeling the softness and hardness of his body, breathing into his neck. He can feel himself calming down as Derek rubs his back in soft circles. He remembers watching a documentary about this type of touch being used to calm down angry and upset cats. He wonders if Derek’s also seen it and thinks of him as an angry kitten.
It’s odd to think of Derek doing normal stuff, like watching documentaries. It’s odd that it’s odd because Stiles has seen him do all sorts of regular stuff. But then he puts his game-face on, the frowny one with eyebrow languages, and it’s hard to look at him as anything other than an alpha.
He hugs Derek close, burring his head in his neck. The circulating motions seem to be working. He composes himself. Reminds himself that it’s all going to be okay. That tomorrow everything will go back to normal. Reminds himself of the potential buzzing in the air. Remembers why all of this is worth it.
He reaches for the laptop. ‘Let’s do this’.