Work Text:
No, Derek wants to say.
I’m sorry, he wants to say.
This shouldn’t have happened to you, he wants to say. It was supposed to be a gift, not a curse.
Please don’t leave, he wants to say.
But he can’t say a word. Boyd is lying in the water, face-down, Derek’s claws are still sticky with his blood, and he can’t do anything to make it right. Can’t do anything to undo what he’s done.
Distantly, he hears Cora scream, and then she’s running right to Boyd, grabbing onto him like it will somehow make a difference.
Derek drops his hands into the water, like that will somehow get the blood off. His chest feels too tight, his throat feels swollen shut, and all he can smell is Boyd’s blood on his hands.
A hand rests on his shoulder, tentatively, like a question. Derek doesn’t even have to look to know it’s Stiles.
He doesn’t shake it off.
It’s just a hand, just the grip of five fingers through his shirt. But it’s more than he’s had from anyone since Laura died.
Stiles squeezes his shoulder, and Derek lets himself cry.