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Derek doesn’t talk much during his psych eval.
Maybe that’s why the therapist calls him, and says she’d like to see him again, maybe set up some regular sessions.
“The Department will always be here,” the Sheriff tells him gravely, a fatherly hand on his shoulder that Derek fights not to shrug off, “You just get yourself healthy.”
There’s nothing wrong with him, but he can’t go into work until the therapist agrees with him, so he schedules the sessions.
…
Criterion A: Stressor
…
“I’d like to talk about some of the things you touched on the last time I saw you,” the doctor says, her head tilted to the left. She had held it there for the entirety of their last session, until Derek’s neck had ached in sympathy, but he supposes that she thinks it makes her look compassionate. Everything about her is carefully engineered to feel ‘sympathetic’ and ‘safe,’ from her bland sweaters to her calm voice. The roof could cave in around her and she would still sit in her overstuffed chair and calmly ask Derek to explain how he felt about that.
Derek would honestly rather do just about anything than talk more about his past with this complete stranger. He’s actually been impaled, and he would rather relive that experience, probably. But it’s long past time for him to become a functioning member of society, especially with the pack away at college and the supernatural threats dying away, leaving him nothing else to do.
And sitting—not lying, thank fuck—on this squeaky leather couch is apparently the only way that he’ll be allowed to go to work at the Sheriff’s Department. He would consider switching doctors, maybe, but Beacon Hills is small enough that the Department’s list of approved therapists is a list of exactly two names. The other doctor was an elderly man whose office smelled so strongly of mothballs that Derek had taken one step in, sneezed twice, and then walked right back out.
So now he has to tell Dr. Baker (“Call me Tamara, Derek,”) all about his tragic past. Or at least, the vaguest possible version of his past that he can reveal without exposing himself as a werewolf. He suspects that it’s going to require some careful and possibly colorful editing.
Dr. Baker clicks the end of her ballpoint pen. “Let’s start with your home life,” she says.
…
(the person was exposed to:
death or threatened death
actual or threatened serious injury
actual or threatened sexual violence)
…
[Kate pushes for sex early in their relationship. She’s older, and more experienced, and though Derek is too ashamed to admit to her that he’s a virgin, she probably knows anyway. It’s not that he doesn’t want to have sex with her—she’s beautiful and confident and sexy, and he should want to have sex with her. But that’s the problem, isn’t it. He should want to have sex with her, but he doesn’t. Not really.
He’s probably sort of a girl about the whole thing (at least, that’s what Kate calls him—a pansy, a sissy, a bitch), but he had always thought, hoped, maybe, that he would have sex for the first time with someone who loved him back. And though Derek loves Kate (thinks he loves Kate), and though she may want to have sex with him, she certainly doesn’t love him.
And maybe it’s because she’s so beautiful, or because he doesn’t want to be the last kid in school who hasn’t had sex, maybe because she’s human and fragile but also cruel or because he’s so confused about how to say no to a woman like her—maybe it’s any of these things that keep him from pushing her away from him when she undoes his fly. Maybe it’s the thought of how mocking she would be that keeps him from bucking her off when she pins him down, rolls the condom on, and slides down to ride him hard and fast.
He cries, afterwards.
He doesn’t really know why he doesn’t stop Kate from taking his virginity, after the fact. But he didn’t stop her, and he doesn’t stop her again, and though the sex never makes him feel any better, it makes him feel good, and he doesn’t quite know if he wants it or not.
He never says yes.]
…
Stiles calls him, every Sunday morning like clockwork. It’s weird, for Derek, that they’re closer now than they ever were when Stiles still lived in Beacon Hills. Not friends, really, but… Stiles called them ‘friendquaintences’ once, and Derek supposes that that’s about right, as much as he objects to Stiles’ creation of that word.
Stiles doesn’t really want to be calling, Derek’s sure. But nobody else in the pack does, except Scott, who’s notoriously horrible at actually keeping in contact like he had promised, so Stiles probably feels like it’s his responsibility.
Derek doesn’t really like being the object of Stiles’ pity, but he does like their weekly calls, so he doesn’t tell him that.
“So what’s new there?” Stiles asks breezily. Last week, he had been so hungover that he’d only lasted ten minutes before he’d had to hang up to go be sick in the wastebasket for the third time, but he sounds much better today. Derek’s glad that he’s enjoying college, at least.
“Nothing, really,” Derek says.
“Didn’t you start at the Station this week?”
“I…” Derek says, because of course Stiles knows about the job, but Derek’s embarrassed, suddenly, that he failed his psych eval. Not that Stiles would be surprised that Derek failed something else. “No, not yet.”
“What happened?” Stiles asks, and actually sounds concerned, “I thought it was a done deal. Should I call my dad?”
“No, it’s not… I just… something came up. I’ll start soon.”
“Derek, what’s going on? Did something happen? Is there something… you know, odd going on?” Stiles has become particularly good at letting Derek know exactly when he means ‘supernatural bullshit’ without cluing his roommate in.
“Nothing like that. Everything’s fine. I have to go.” Derek hangs up before Stiles can protest. He’ll probably just call his dad and get the full story from him, anyway, but Derek can’t… he can’t admit it to Stiles, yet. How he was stupid enough to ruin even this, the job that Stiles had helped him find, before the month was even out.
…
Criterion B: Intrusion Symptoms
…
Dr. Baker (Tamara) sits him on the couch and explains, sympathetically, that he has post-traumatic stress disorder.
“I’m not sick,” he tells her, though it seems rude to contradict a professional, because werewolves can’t get sick.
“You’ve survived some very traumatic experiences,” she tells him, “That’s not something to be ashamed of. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. This is something that you can overcome, and this is something that I will help you overcome, and something that your family and friends will help you overcome.”
But then, Derek doesn’t really have any family or friends.
…
(the traumatic event is persistently re-experienced in the following ways:
recurrent, involuntary, and intrusive memories
traumatic nightmares
dissociative reactions (e.g., flashbacks)which may occur on a continuum from brief episodes to complete loss of consciousness
intense or prolonged distress after exposure to traumatic reminders)
…
[Laura likes to leave the TV on in the morning when they’re both getting ready—him for high school, her for her college classes. It’s a hollow echo of the bustle of their family home on school mornings, but anything is better than the aching silence.
Laura leaves for her morning class while Derek’s brushing his teeth, and yells at him to shut off the TV before he goes, to remember to pick up milk on the way home from school.
It’s some procedural crime drama, this morning. Laura never cares what’s on, only that something is. But this morning, it’s a couple of cops in a room with a woman. Derek can hear it even over the running water in the sink and through the wall.
“I didn’t rape him,” the woman says, “We had sex, but of course it was consensual. He’s a man. I can assure you that he liked it.”
“Of course you want to have sex,” Kate tells him, “You’re a teenage boy. All you want to do is have sex. I can tell you want me.”
It’s true, he’s hard in her hand, and his hips buck up into her fist even as tears prick his eyes, because he hates feeling powerless like he does with her in front of him. They’ve had sex before. Good sex, even. But he feels cornered here, in public, out behind this dumpster (“if your parents knew, Derek, they wouldn’t let you see me anymore. They don’t understand us. They don’t understand that we’re in love”) and helpless, unable to stop her without hurting her, and so confused about the whole thing.
“Come on, Derek,” Kate says. “The boys at your school would kill for a chance like this. I know you’re nervous. I’ll help. I’ll make you feel good.”
“No,” Derek says, but her perfume’s in his nose and her hair’s tickling his thighs where she’s kneeling and then her mouth is on him and it feels so good but he’s not ready, hasn’t been ready, should have stopped her before, he doesn’t want this, not now, not here, but he can’t pull her off, can’t grab her hair, can’t hurt her, and he’s flushing, embarrassment and shame and sick-sweet arousal, and he says, “No,” again before he comes in her mouth.
“I told you that you would like it,” Kate says, after she spits on the ground. “You wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t liked it. Now you owe me. I’ll come over after school. You can show me around.”
By the time Derek realizes he’s standing in front of the sink in a tiny apartment in New York with a snapped toothbrush in his hand, shaking apart, and not cornered on the dirty asphalt outside his old high school, he’s late for first period.]
…
“My dad told me you had to go back in after your psych eval?” Stiles doesn’t sound mocking, so that’s… something.
“That’s private,” Derek says stiffly. It’s a lot to take without even a hello. Especially after the week he’s had, the things he’s been told.
“Well, he didn’t mean any harm by it. But why didn’t you tell me? It’s not like I have a problem with shrinks, or something. I saw one for, like, a really long time after my mom died. So did you have your session yet?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, after debating whether or not to lie to Stiles.
“And? You all good? You can start work soon?” Stiles sounds distracted, and Derek can hear typing through the phone. He’s probably working on homework, which means he’s not paying Derek full attention, which means that Derek could probably get away with lying to him.
But he already has his first assignment from Tamara.
“I can’t… I can’t start yet. I have some stuff to work through.”
Stiles hums, like he’s still listening, but he maybe doesn’t quite hear what Derek’s saying.
“She says maybe soon, after some more sessions. I have… well… she said that she thinks that I maybe have… PTSD?”
The line goes so dead that Derek almost thinks Stiles hung up on him. He waits eight very quiet seconds, and says softly, “Stiles?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles says, breath whooshing back over the phone line.
“I have PTSD,” Derek says more firmly. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, not as a question. It hasn’t really seemed real, until now. He’d spent the whole of his last session arguing that Tamara was wrong about him, and saying it out loud is like admitting it’s true. “Post-traumatic stress dis—”
“I know what it means,” Stiles interrupts, “I just didn’t think I’d heard right. Oh my God.”
Derek bites his lip. He’d hoped… well.
“Maybe I should just go,” Derek says, “You sound busy.”
“No, Derek… I’m sorry. That didn’t. I didn’t react well. I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m glad you’re getting help, you know, I just wish we’d known before now. I mean, how long has it been?”
“I don’t know,” Derek says, “Since New York, probably?”
“Well.” Stiles says. He sounds sad, maybe. “Like I said. I’m glad you’re getting help. You’re one of the strongest people I know, I mean, you’ll get through this. Did she give you meds, or something?”
“They wouldn’t work on me anyway. She’s trying something called behavioral therapy, or something like that? It’s basically just talking, I guess. But she thought it would help.”
Stiles gives a little laugh. It echoes in Derek’s ear. “You must love that.”
“She actually…” Derek takes a deep breath. “She actually told me to tell someone. That was, like, an assignment she gave me. I was supposed to tell someone that I thought would understand.”
“Wow,” Stiles says, “And you picked me. That’s really big. I’m glad you told me, dude.”
“Don’t tell anyone else, okay? I just. I just don’t really feel like I want anyone to know.”
“If that’s what you want, it’s your decision. But you know that nobody else is gonna be… I mean, they’re all gonna be supportive, you know?”
Derek doesn’t know, actually.
“Just don’t tell them. Not Scott, not your dad. Okay?”
“Fine, if that’s what you want. Hey, listen, I really am glad that you told me. I’ve gotta run though, I’ve got this meeting—”
“Stiles,” Derek says, before he can lose his nerve, “I’m supposed to… I guess it’s supposed to help if I have someone I can talk to. Besides the therapist.”
Stiles stays quiet, which is always a bad sign. “Look, dude, I’m more than happy to have you call me, you know that. And I’ll definitely… I mean, I’ll totally listen, and all. But you know that I’ve got just a crazy schedule this semester, and I don’t even live in the same place as you… I just don’t want you to have to rely on me, you know, in case something happens and I’m busy, or something. Maybe it would be better for you if there was someone else? Maybe someone closer to home? I don’t really… I don’t really know how to help you.”
“Fine,” Derek says woodenly. Because it is fine. Stiles shouldn’t have to baby him, shouldn’t have to make Derek a priority when they don’t even live in the same zip code anymore.
“But like I said, call me whenever. And we’ll talk next week, for sure. Sunday morning. I really do have to go, now, okay? I don’t really… is it okay to say good luck? Good luck, I guess.”
Stiles hangs up the phone without saying goodbye.
Derek drops his forehead onto the cool countertop and breathes deeply.
…
Criterion C: Avoidance
…
“You were very quiet last week when we discussed your diagnosis and treatment, Derek,” Tamara tells him. Her sweater this week is an extremely ugly green color.
Derek shrugs. “I read some of the stuff online that you told me to. I don’t really feel like those people. I don’t think that I have a problem living a normal life.”
“You’ve been living with your symptoms for so long that you’ve adapted,” Tamara says, “You’re very good at adapting. This life has become your normal.”
Derek looks down at his hands. This place tests his control. He wonders if Tamara would still be calm if he flashed his claws at her.
“I’d like to discuss the trauma, if that’s alright with you,” Tamara says. It must be a rhetorical question, because Derek certainly doesn’t want to ‘discuss the trauma’ and he doubts that anyone else would want to, either.
“I’m not really sure that I know what you’re talking about,” Derek says. “If you mean Kate…”
Tamara doesn’t say anything. She just pushes her glasses up her nose.
Derek sighs. “We met when I was fifteen.”
…
(persistent effortful avoidance of distressing trauma-related stimuli after the event:
trauma-related thoughts or feelings
trauma-related external reminders (e.g., people, places, conversations, activities, objects, or situations))
…
[“I need go back to California,” Laura says over dinner. It’s pizza, which was Derek’s choice. Laura prefers Chicago-style.
Derek thinks about California, about the people who were there when he left, about the person who might still be there. What if he sees her? What if Laura does, and she tries to finish the job? Derek’s blood runs cold.
“I’ve had a weird feeling about it, lately,” Laura says. “Like Beacon Hills needs me. I need to go back, even if nothing’s wrong. Even if it’s just for closure.”
And Derek… well, Derek throws a fit. He’s a grown man, and he throws a tantrum.
If Derek could get further east than New York City, then he would. And Laura going back to California… he has the worst nightmare he’s had in months, that night.
They’re still fighting about it when Laura heads back west. She doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t want her to.
And a week later, when he feels the pack bond snap like a rubber band, when he loses his second alpha… he leaves his lecture in the middle of class to be sick in a trash can in the hall.
And he knows what he has to do.
But he also knows where he has to go, who he might have to see.
And it takes everything he has to start driving.]
…
“How is therapy?” Stiles asks.
“It’s fine,” Derek replies, stiffly. He almost wants to say more. To tell Stiles how it had felt to suddenly realize, years after the fact, that maybe he had been raped. That it—the whole abusive sham of a relationship—had scarred him deeply enough that even now, years later, he’s still running in survival mode. That everything that had happened since—losing his family, Laura’s death, seeing Kate again, everything with Peter, losing his second pack, Jennifer—had only compounded and complicated everything.
Tamara had used some long, complicated name that basically meant that everything from the fire to Jennifer had re-fucked him up. Told him that he’d probably been triggered, and that was why the nightmares, the moodiness, the memories and flashbacks had all gotten so much worse every time something else bad happened.
Apparently, Derek’s not actually doing that badly for a PTSD victim who’s been re-traumatized so many times, hard as that still is for Derek to believe.
But then, there’s really no normal for cases like these.
Kate had gotten what she’d wanted in the end—she’d changed (stolen) the rest of Derek’s life, and as long as he’s alive, what she did to him will never go away. She changed his brain.
And Derek almost wants to tell Stiles all of this. It’s supposed to be good for him. It seems like it would feel good, like he’d maybe understand.
But then, Derek had thought that he’d understand last week. And it’d hurt more than he knew what to do with when Stiles… well, when Stiles had rejected him.
And he’s still a little hurt.
So he changes the subject, and then fakes a laundry emergency, and hangs up the phone.
…
Criterion D: Negative Alterations in Cognation and Mood
…
Tamara tells him that they need to identify his triggers.
He has a lot of them, it turns out.
The smell of smoke, or of Chanel No. Five. The way certain people talk or laugh. The brush of someone’s long hair on his bare skin. Hearing certain words and phrases and ideas. Seeing his old high school, the spot on the pavement where she used to kneel in front of him, the model of the Toyota she used to drive and fuck Derek in the back seat of. A thousand other little things.
It feels like everything, in some way, is damaging—is related to her, reminds him of them. His enhanced senses certainly don’t help.
And other things, things that Tamara assures him are perfectly normal for victims of sexual assault. For rape victims, and Derek almost protests, because he still doesn’t quite connect with that idea, that someone, a human woman, could have victimized someone like him, someone who can’t be hurt, even as he logically knows that it’s true, that what Kate did to him all those years ago was rape, both statutory and otherwise.
He doesn’t trust anybody, can’t stand it when people admire his body, or tell him he’s desirable.
He hasn’t wanted sex since Kate, hasn’t had it, except for one ill-fated attempt outside a Manhattan bar with a beautiful young boy who was unlucky enough to be the first one kneeling in front of Derek since Kate, who was pushed away as soon as Derek felt hot breath on his cock and was left to watch Derek bolt down the alley, chest heaving. And Jennifer, of course, but honestly… honestly, he doesn’t remember that, not really. Almost like he was drugged, except he wasn’t, obviously. Couldn’t have been, except… except with magic.
And then Derek has something of a meltdown, right there, in front of Tamara, who talks him through it (calmly), and who, when Derek tells her upon calming down himself that he was date-raped (for that’s the closest he can get to it, in human terms) by his second sexual partner, sets her jaw. And tells him that they’ll work through it.
But that’s why. Kate, and maybe Jennifer, and that’s why he doesn’t like people looking too closely at him, why he stays in the shadows so people won’t notice him, that’s why he hates more than anything, more than threats or torture, hates it when people use his body against him.
That’s why he really doesn’t like people touching him, anymore.
…
(negative alterations in cognitions and mood that began or worsened after the traumatic event:
persistent (and often distorted) negative beliefs and expectations about oneself or the world
persistent distorted blame of self or others for causing the traumatic event or for resulting consequences
persistent negative trauma-related emotions
feeling alienated from others
constricted affect: persistent inability to experience positive emotions)
…
[“You should be happy,” Stiles says, and nudges him with a shoulder. Derek flinches. “We got the guy, no one got hurt.”
And he’s right. Derek should be happy. But he also should have been there when Scott was clawed and hadn’t been, had almost been too slow to keep Stiles from being slammed up against that tree…
He knows how they talk about him, this little pack of Scott’s. Call him broody, grumpy, sour. And they’re right.
But it’s just not that easy for Derek. He hasn’t been happy in… well, in a long time. Feels like he never will be, most days. He barely remembers happiness, all these years later.
It’s like he’s just incapable of it.
Like it’s a curse.]
…
Stiles comes home for midterm break in early October.
He’s home for the whole week, but it’s Saturday night, late, when he finally knocks on Derek’s door.
It’s still a little awkward with them, in person, though they talk every week on the phone.
Derek doesn’t really know what to do with Stiles in front of him, doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he’s oddly attracted to Stiles in a way that he’s maybe never been attracted to anyone before.
But it doesn’t matter, really, because Stiles certainly doesn’t feel the same, and besides, if there’s one thing that therapy has helped him realize other than his utter vulnerability it’s that he is certainly not in a place for any sort of relationship. He’s still learning to treat people other than pack in a different sort of way than Kate, the first person he’d really known outside the family, had treated him.
But knowing that Stiles doesn’t care about Derek that much, knowing that Derek can’t currently care about Stiles in that way, that doesn’t really make it any easier when Stiles is standing in front of him, looking solid and almost adult and a little nervous.
“Hey,” Stiles says, in that distinctly Stiles way of his. It’s just different, not being on the phone.
Derek opens the door the rest of the way, so Stiles can come in. It’s both flattering that Stiles had bothered to visit at all and a little hurtful that he’d waited six days when he has nobody else to see in Beacon Hills besides his father, since the rest of the pack has different school breaks.
It’s a strange mixture of emotions that Derek doesn’t really know what to do with.
“How’s being home?” Derek asks automatically, since Stiles asking him how he’s doing is a subject that Derek doesn’t want to touch.
“It’s good, it’s fine. You know, relaxing.”
Stiles looks around. He’s antsy, all wide eyes and a tapping toe. “Wow, this place hasn’t changed at all,” he says after another awkward minute.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “But it’s… it’s good to see you. I’m glad you came by.”
“I wanted to—I probably should have come sooner.”
“You were busy,” Derek says, in what he hopes is a neutral tone of voice. It feels flat and expressionless, like his face, and he hopes Stiles can’t tell how flustered this sudden visit has made him.
“I really wasn’t,” Stiles says, which just makes the whole thing worse, and then he adds, “I just had to sort of work up the courage to come by, I guess.”
This time, Derek can feel the hurt on his own face. He’d hoped that what he’d told Stiles—that his disorder—wouldn’t have changed anything. He hadn’t wanted Stiles to treat him like… like there’s something wrong with him. He’d thought that Stiles, of all people, would understand.
Stiles must notice this, too, because he immediately flushes and holds his hands up, placating, and says, “No, no no no. Nothing like that. I just, I need to apologize, okay, and that’s really hard.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” Derek says, “I know I asked too much.”
“No, that’s the thing,” Stiles answers quickly, “I did some reading, okay, I did some research online, and what I did to you, that was really bad. I could have—I probably did—really hurt you. I mean, you’re not supposed to just brush someone off like that anyway, but I know that you were really brave, telling me that you… what you did, and there’s even a name for it, they call it secondary wounding, that’s what I did to you. That’s really bad, Derek, and I’m just really sorry for it. I’m supportive, okay, I want to help you through this, and I just want to let you know that I’m sorry, and I’ve been looking up stuff about family and friends and support and everything else, and I know that it might be hard with me at school, and you here, but I will always pick up the phone, okay, and I will always listen and help as best I can. I just… God. I just reacted really badly, and I hope that I didn’t hurt you anymore than everything else even though I probably did, and I might not be able to make that up to you, but I’m going to try, and I’m going to be here. Always. And we’re going to get through this.”
Derek takes a moment to blink at him and just process, because that’s a lot. “I—” he starts, but Stiles interrupts, “And don’t say that it’s okay, because it’s not.”
Derek huffs. “I accept your apology, is what I was going to say. But… thanks. That. It’s nice.”
“Good.” Stiles says. “Okay. We’re good.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and almost smiles. Almost feels happy. “We’re good.”
…
Criterion E: Alterations in Arousal and Reactivity
…
It’s a week before Halloween, and Derek’s at the grocery store, debating with himself whether or not to buy any of the jumbo bags of candy on display. He doesn’t really anticipate trick-or-treaters, but he would feel bad on the off chance that someone rang his doorbell and he didn’t have anything to give them. Besides, he’s supposed to be socializing. It’s part of his therapy.
He throws one—but just one, even though they’re buy one, get one half-off—into his shopping cart, on top of all the real food for the week, and stands in line for the checkout. He can give the leftovers to Stiles.
It’s a slow night, and the matronly cashier rings up all his purchases, he hands over his debit card, firmly refuses to have the bag boy walk him out to his car, and even smiles at the woman, for Tamara’s benefit.
And then she says, “Have a nice evening, sweetie.”
He feels a hot tongue lave up his abs, a whiskey smoked voice in his ear, calling him beautiful…
He releases the handle of his shopping cart when the cheap plastic cover shatters under his hand, the metal rod suddenly bent unnaturally, and he looks up to find the cashier staring at him, horrified.
It wasn’t a long flashback, he doesn’t think. He probably didn’t lose that much time.
But it was a trigger he never anticipated, never identified, can’t deal with, and it feels like everything’s over, like he’s back where he started, like all of that progress has been for nothing…
“Thanks,” he says, when he realizes that the woman, and the bag boy, and Mrs. Porter at the next register are all still staring at him and the little pile of red plastic bits at his feet, “You too.”
And he wheels his shopping cart out to his car, ignoring the mess.
(He skips his session with Tamara that week.
He can’t face his Sunday call with Stiles, can’t admit that he regressed so badly, and then bailed out on his therapy, which he knows he shouldn’t do.
He doesn’t get one trick-or-treater, even though he sits on the couch all night with a bowl full of candy.
It’s a very bad week.)
…
(trauma-related alterations in arousal and reactivity that began or worsened after the traumatic event:
irritable or aggressive behavior
self-destructive or reckless behavior
hypervigilance
exaggerated startle response
problems in concentration
sleep disturbance)
…
[Derek has a hard time, at his new high school.
The counselor tells Laura that this is normal, that any child would have a hard time adjusting, especially his senior year, especially coming from such a different environment, especially considering what had happened with the family back in California…
And it’s very lucky, really, that Laura was eighteen already, could be registered as Derek’s legal guardian, because the kids that go into the care of the state… well, they almost never come out the same.
Derek’s not supposed to hear any of this, of course, but the guidance counselor doesn’t know that parking him in the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside her tiny office while she has her meeting with Laura, who dressed in her best (only) skirt for the meeting to impress the school administrators, does absolutely nothing to keep Derek from hearing everything they’ve said about him so far.
But regardless, she continues, it’s really quite unacceptable to just punch a boy like Joey Montane in the nose, an attack that was, from everything that the bystanders told the teacher that pulled them apart, quite unprovoked. And Joey is such a good student too, never caused any trouble, a pillar in this community like his father before him.
And of course, the counselor says, after Laura has apologized on Derek’s behalf twenty or thirty times, it is a first offense, and considering extenuating circumstances (the lack of a parental figure at home, though I’m sure that you do your best, my dear), nothing as drastic as suspension is necessary… but he will serve his detentions the next two weeks, and please try to talk to him, Miss Hale, nothing anyone else says seems to get through to him. And though his transcript was quite good, his grades do seem to be dropping…
Laura’s not upset with him. She understands how hard it is now, to control the wolf, to control the anger, without a pack bond to rely on. And she hasn’t been sleeping, either, and how could Derek really be expected to prioritize the War of 1812 right now, suddenly an orphan.
She doesn’t even tell Derek off about the Joey Montane incident, except to tell him that if anyone’s giving him a hard time, for any reason, well, punching him during school hours certainly isn’t smart, but there are other ways.
But Derek doesn’t have the heart to tell her that while Joey is a complete jerk, he didn’t actually do anything to Derek. Didn’t attack him, didn’t say anything.
It’s just that Derek’s so tired, walking around all day, feeling like he’s constantly on the lookout for an attacker. That he startles at the smallest noise—a dropped pencil, a sudden sneeze—and barely reins the claws in each time. That Joey got punched in the nose solely because he happened to startle Derek, walking up behind him and slamming his locker door while Derek was rifling through his English notes before his quiz.
It’s embarrassing enough to admit to Laura that he didn’t notice Joey coming up behind him, but that he startled so badly… and he doesn’t know why he’s like this, either. Why he’s so jumpy all the time.
Why he just doesn’t care that he’s even in trouble. He was always a good kid, before. Never broke any of the rules. But now…
So he just nods his head, and lets Laura tell him all about the girl in her Econ class that makes Laura want to punch her in the nose.]
…
Stiles doesn’t push it, when Derek refuses to tell him why he didn’t answer the phone last week. He sighs once, but he moves quickly on to the frat party that he attended on Friday, and his theories on the social impact of beer pong.
They have a stilted talk, worse than it’s been since Derek first picked up the phone in August when Stiles called him for the first time and neither of them had a thing to say, but this time, it’s mostly because Derek is being admittedly dense. He’s ashamed of himself, of everything that happened.
Derek goes to hang up, when he can’t take it anymore, but Stiles stops him.
“So, we’re all coming home for Thanksgiving,” he says, “It’ll be the first time that we’re all back together since this summer.”
“I know,” Derek says.
“I thought that you maybe didn’t have plans?” Stiles asks, “Not to assume anything,” he adds hastily, when Derek stays silent.
“No,” Derek admits grudgingly, “I hadn’t. That is, I don’t have any plans. Currently.”
“Well, that’s great, actually. Not great, because you don’t have anywhere to go. Any plans, I mean. Obviously. Just—”
“Stiles,” Derek cuts in.
“Okay, yeah, sorry. Just, usually my Dad and I just go over and eat with Scott and Mrs. McCall, kind of like a quasi-real family thing, and I figured since that’s like half of us anyway, you and Isaac could just come along, make it a pack thing.”
“I—” Derek starts.
“I already asked, and it’s okay,” Stiles assures him. “I actually pulled some real strings, here. I traded you for Isaac. I mean, I said that if Scott got to bring Isaac, I got to bring you. Not bring you, like bring you, just invite you. So this is me. Inviting you.”
“Fine,” Derek says, a little too harshly considering that he’s actually a little flattered (happy?) that Stiles thought to ask him. “I haven’t really done the Thanksgiving thing for a while. Should I bring something?”
“Just your sparkling personality,” Stiles says, and almost sounds glad that Derek accepted, “I am the mashed potato master, but Mrs. McCall does the rest.”
“Great,” Derek says. “Well—”
“I think you should tell him,” Stiles blurts, before Derek can hang up the phone.
Derek opens his mouth once, but nothing comes out, so he closes it again.
“It’s totally your choice,” Stiles babbles now, trying to fill the silence, “Obviously, don’t do anything you don’t want to. But I really think that you should tell Scott. He’s your alpha, or whatever, and I think it could be helpful for him to know. And I think he’d want to. Know. And I think he’d be, you know, good with it, and I can help him when he freaks out because he doesn’t know what to do or say. But it’s like, his instinct to help take care of you and make sure you’re alright, isn’t it? Or at least, it should be? Anyway. Just… consider it. Or tell Isaac. He’d definitely understand, you know. Or my dad? He’s probably gonna find out, because he’s going to be your boss soon, once Tamara signs you off. And Mrs. McCall is a nurse, you know, she—”
“Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “I’m not. I’m not going to make some announcement at dinner, or something. Okay?”
“Yes,” Stiles says. He sounds vaguely out of breath. “More than okay. It’s totally up to you. Your choice. I got majorly carried away there. I just meant to say, on the whole, this isn’t something you should feel like you have to hide. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”
“I know,” Derek says, because he’s starting to. “I… it’s just hard. To admit weakness. It goes against everything in me. And don’t tell me it’s not a weakness, okay? Because I’ve been told that, over and over, and maybe I believe it. But in front of Scott… It still feels like that.”
“Okay,” Stiles says softly. “I get it. I’ll drop it. Really, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you can come for Thanksgiving, you know. I really am. I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”
“Stiles,” Derek says again. He takes a deep breath. “If I told… If I did tell Scott. You would help?”
Stiles gives a little chuckle. “Yeah, dude,” he says, “I’m here for you.”
…
Criterion F: Duration
…
Behavioral Therapy, it turns out, consists largely of Derek acknowledging and digesting the trauma, over and over, in as many different ways as possible.
He tells Tamara the story (stories) in as many different ways as possible. He draws pictures. He writes about it. He sees her eyeing the dolls in the corner that she probably uses for children, and panics a bit.
She uses his triggers, too, in an attempt to desensitize him.
It’s exactly as awful as it sounds.
(Throughout the whole session, Tamara says nothing about him skipping last week’s. Everything goes exactly as normal. She has a knowing look in her eye, though, when Derek tells her he’s identified another trigger.)
…
(persistence of symptoms (in criteria B, C, D, and E) for more than one month)
…
[Derek graduates from high school, Joey be damned, and he goes to college, and he has a lot of sleepless nights.
Long after Laura starts sleeping through the night again, Derek lies awake a room over, staring at the ceiling. He can see it, even in the dark, and he knows the cracks on the ceiling so well that he starts to see them when he closes his eyes.
Even Laura’s steady breathing, her scent, the thump of her heartbeat, even that doesn’t help him sleep. He wants to climb into bed besides her some nights, like they did right after the fire, like they did when they were children, but they’re in their twenties, now, and even for a wolf, tactile by nature, he’s too old to be sleeping with his sister.
Twice a month or so, he gives in, swallows half a bottle of sleeping pills. It would kill a human (a tempting thought, on his darkest nights), but he metabolizes them so quickly that it’s barely enough to knock him out for ten hours, the first time, and it works less and less well every time.
Laura doesn’t know.
The bottle looks tempting, more often than not, but Derek resists because that… that’s a dangerous path to walk down. The thought of getting something stronger, something he knows must exist on the supernatural black market that he’s heard whispers of… even more dangerous. Even more tempting.
But twice a month, he allows himself. He’d never sleep, otherwise.
It’s no way to live, but then, he’s not really living.]
…
Thanksgiving is… Well, it’s not exactly an unmitigated success, but it goes about as well as can be expected.
The Sheriff seems almost glad to have Derek there (tells him it’s been too long, wants to catch up, reassures him that there’s still a spot at the department for him whenever he’s cleared to work, which makes Scott throw Derek a sharp glance), Mrs. McCall—Melissa—is welcoming, and Scott even shakes his hand.
It’s an awkward arrangement they have, the two of them, but it works. Barely.
Isaac hugs him, which is gratifying, even though Stiles panics over it, a bit, since he knows all about Derek’s touch aversion, but it’s different for pack. Almost like they don’t count, really.
It’s hard to explain something like that to a human, but Derek tries anyway. And then, when Stiles asks him very carefully if he can hug Derek, Derek lets him.
It’s one of the first times that he’s touched—really touched—a human in a very long time. Or anyone, really, since… well, since Laura, maybe. It should be terrifying, and it is, a little, but it’s also… nice. It feels good.
He sits down with Stiles before dinner, sharing a couch, with Scott across the room from them. He looks confused, and not a little wary, and after Derek says, “I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD,” he mostly just sits back and lets Stiles explain away the panic on Scott’s face.
“What do I do?” He asks, and Derek finally says, “You don’t have to do anything, I just thought that I should tell you.”
And then they sit down to dinner, and even though Scott still looks kind of blank and unsure, he dutifully recites what he’s grateful for. It’s a family tradition, apparently.
Stiles says he’s grateful for his family and friends, and the way he looks right at Derek when he says ‘friends,’ and gives him a little wink after they’ve moved on to the Sheriff makes Derek feel something strange and warm inside.
Derek says that he’s grateful for shelter and food, for being invited over for a Thanksgiving meal, and then, after a long moment of hesitation, adds, “And I’m… I’m grateful for my friends.”
And Stiles maybe blushes, just a little.
The mashed potatoes are the best Derek’s ever had.
Stiles finds him on the porch, after dinner, where Derek escaped when the sound of Melissa’s laughter as she bullied Scott and Isaac into cleaning up started to feel a little too familiar—a little too much like his own mother, handing him a dish towel and sending him off to the kitchen with a hand through his hair and a kiss on his forehead.
“You okay?” Stiles asks, after clearing his throat to announce his arrival, though Derek heard him coming.
“Yeah,” Derek says honestly, “It’s just… a lot.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Stiles says. “The holidays are rough.” There’s a sadness in his voice that Derek knows all too well, and he remembers that Stiles has lost a mother, too.
It’s cold enough that Derek can see his breath in the air, and Derek watches the plume of Stiles’ long exhale, before he says, “Thanks, for helping me. With Scott.”
“I think it went okay,” Stiles says. “Is it okay if I…” He motions an elbow—hands tucked in pockets—in Derek’s direction, like he wants to come closer, and Derek nods.
“It was. I mean. I think it went as well as I expected. Better, maybe.”
“You didn’t expect him to kick you out, or anything,” Stiles says, with a little smile.
“I don’t really know what I expected,” Derek admits. “I don’t really know how somebody is supposed to react to something like this.”
Stiles hums. “They’re supposed to be understanding. Supportive. If they aren’t…” He shrugs. “Who needs them?”
“Maybe,” Derek says. He’s working on accepting that it’s not always his fault, the way that people react to him. To knowing about his past, or who he is. That sometimes, it says more about them than it does about Derek. But it’s a work in progress. In the worst case scenario that Derek had dreamed up on the drive over tonight, the bottle of wine he brought Melissa bundled up in his jacket in the front seat of his car, Scott had laughed in his face, told him that he was trying to escape blame for all the harm he’d caused, and then told everyone he knew about poor, broken Derek Hale, loser of the century. So it did go better than that.
“And Isaac seems good,” Stiles is saying. “I think he’s missed you.”
“Maybe at Christmas,” Derek says, and turns to face Stiles full on, “Maybe then we can… tell him? Together?”
Stiles turns, too. They’re standing closer together than Derek had realized. Stiles has still got his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, but it’s unzipped, and his cheeks are flushed pink.
Derek reaches out to zip the jacket up before he can overthink it, before he can stop himself, and Stiles’ mouth falls open, in surprise, reddened lips and a darting pink tongue. Derek swallows hard.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, after a moment. “And sure, Christmas. Christmas sounds… it sounds really great. Maybe we can do dinner again, or something.”
Derek agrees.
And before Stiles leaves the porch, he asks to hug Derek again.
This time, Derek holds on.
…
Criterion G: Functional Significance
…
Derek talks about Thanksgiving at his next session, and maybe it’s because he’s talking, actually talking, or because he talks about people—friends—or because he can’t stop… well, not smiling, really, but looking fond, maybe… Tamara looks proud of him.
And tells him so.
And even though he’s never been one to worry much about pleasing other people—his mother excepted, maybe, and Laura always called him a ‘mama’s boy,’ and pushed him around for it, in her teasingly loving way—it makes him feel good. To have finally, finally lived up to (surpassed) someone’s expectations.
“It sounds like you had a good weekend,” Tamara says, and Derek agrees with her.
“I’m thinking of moving,” He tells her towards the end, only five minutes left on the glass clock on her desk, and he didn’t know that it was true until he said it, hadn’t even thought about it, but once it’s out in the air, it feels right. “I want a better place for me,” he continues, when her head quirks slightly to the left, which is basically her way of telling Derek to elaborate. “Somewhere to start over. Somewhere where bad things haven’t happened. The old place… it’s kind of shabby. Run down. I want someplace nice.”
He calls a realtor on the way to his car.
…
(significant symptom-related distress or functional impairment (e.g., social, occupational))
…
[“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Scott asks him, sprawled across his couch on a Thursday afternoon.
“If I did, you couldn’t show up here all the time and eat my food,” Derek snipes back.
“Seriously,” Stiles chimes in, “We’ve barely even had anything spooky go down here in months. Scott and I, and even Isaac, are going off to college in the fall. Don’t you get bored?”
“Only of listening to you speak,” Derek says around the lump in his throat, because he hasn’t always been like this, hiding inside all the time because he can barely walk around this town without seeing something that reminds him of her, without the paralyzing thought that she might come back, though he saw her body, that somehow she’ll appear in front of him again.
He was different, back in New York. Not normal, maybe, but functional. On his last year of classes, internships shiny and new on his resume, with a respectable job lined up for him upon graduation.
And then Beacon Hills had dragged him back, like he always feared it would.
Stiles is looking at him expectantly, and Derek raises an eyebrow because it’s easier than admitting that he wasn’t listening to a word that Stiles said, and Stiles rolls his eyes and says, “You’d actually be really good at it.”
Scott snorts, or maybe laughs.
“No, really,” Stiles pushes, kicking at Scott, “My dad’s still looking for new deputies. And there would be training or whatever, but I could totally see it.”
“You want me to be a cop,” Derek says in a monotone as the implications of what Stiles said sink in. “Are you trying to make some crack about the K-9 unit?”
“No!” Stiles says, though his heartbeat accelerates. “I just. Look. I’ll talk to my dad, okay? It’s just weird, dude, you do nothing all day.”
And Derek nods, but his own heart is racing. What if he can’t hold down a job? What if something bad happens? What if he ruins this, too?]
…
“A new place?” Stiles whistles. “Dude, it’s been a long time coming. Hey, Christmas break starts in like three weeks, Thanksgiving was so late this year, if you’re still looking at places when I’m home, maybe I could… I don’t know, come along? Keep you company?”
Derek opens his mouth, and then closes it, fishing for something that says, “Yes, please,” without sounding quite so desperate.
“I mean, I don’t want to impose,” Stiles says, laughing nervously now at Derek’s silence, “I just… you know, somebody has to make sure you picked a good spot for pack headquarters, right?”
“Yeah, of course,” Derek says, grateful for the out, “You can come. Of course you can come.”
“Cool,” Stiles says, and laughs, and tells Derek about the annoying guy next door with the loud girlfriend, and the classical music he always plays too loudly when she comes over. “Like that disguises anything.”
“Stiles,” Derek asks before he hangs up, heart in his throat, “Why do you. I mean, why do we talk like this? Why do you call me? Did Scott tell you to?”
“God, no,” Stiles blurts, and then hastily says, “Not that Scott doesn’t, you know, totally care. Communication’s not really his forte. I guess I just wanted to keep in touch, you know?”
“But the first time,” Derek presses, because he’s been wondering since Thanksgiving, he has to know why, if this is some twisted, charity thing or whether Stiles could actually… “Back in August. I mean, we weren’t close, really. So why did you bother?”
“I… I don’t know, Derek,” Stiles says, and Derek is so used to hearing him sound confident and over-cocky that this new, unsure version of his voice resonates wrong in Derek’s ears, “I guess, I mean, I thought you’d probably be lonely. Which sounds bad, but it wasn’t like, a pity thing, really, but. I know what it’s like to be lonely, you know.”
“Yeah,” Derek says softly. “I know.”
“And later… I hope you don’t think that I’m just doing this, like, because of how we talk about your PTSD sometimes, Derek. I mean, that’s part of it, obviously, but you’re not the only one who gets something from this, you know. I really like talking to you, it turns out. I tell you stuff I don’t tell, like, my dad, or Isaac, or even Scott, sometimes.”
Derek closes his eyes, and breaths, like he can take these words into his lungs and make them a part of himself. Like he can use them to feel better.
“I really… I really care about you, Derek,” Stiles says softly.
“I. Yeah, I know,” Derek says, but his voice comes out think and slightly strangled.
“Do you? I just, I just want you to know that, okay? I care about you. A lot.”
“I care about you, too,” Derek says, almost a whisper, and the words feel strange, almost too sweet, but he means them, and Stiles gives a soft little laugh, and it feels like something more. Like a confession, or like the start of something.
…
Criterion H: Exclusion
…
Derek’s last session of his twelve-week therapy program is a few days before Stiles gets back for Christmas break.
It’s hard for him to remember exactly what normal—his normal—feels like, and he knows that he’ll never be that person again. But he feels… good. Better. Better than he thought he might ever feel again, some days.
Tamara tells him that she’ll discuss his treatment with the Sheriff’s office, and reminds him that many people find it beneficial to continue therapy even after their program is over—on a bimonthly basis, perhaps.
Derek tells her that he’ll think about it, call her office after New Year’s, but that he thinks it might be a good choice.
He surprises himself by meaning it.
…
(disturbance is not due to medication, substance use, or other illness)
…
[“I’m proud of you, Der,” Laura tells him a few weeks before she goes back to California for the last time. He’s just finished finals, has been laid out across their couch all day, and when she comes home from work, she taps his head until he lifts it enough for her to slide under.
Her fingers in his hair feel just like his mother’s, and it’s a bittersweet rush of emotions that make him close his eyes.
“I know it’s been a tough couple of years. For both of us.” Laura continues. “I know that I’m not as good at this as I should be.”
Derek shakes his head, breaths deep and inhales the scent of his sister, his alpha, the only pack he has left.
“But we made it, you know?” Laura says.
“We never croak.” Derek opens his eyes, meets their twins in Laura’s face. It’s something their dad used to say, often as not—when Derek’s team was down in a basketball game, when Laura got a C on a paper, when Cora had trouble shifting. ‘Hang in there, kiddo,’ his dad would say, not a Hale by blood, but extraordinarily proud of it, none the less, ‘We Hales, we never croak.’ And his mother had rolled her eyes, each and every time. ‘I don’t know where he got that,’ she would murmur, ‘Frogs, honestly.’ But her eyes would be fond, and she’d kiss him when the kids weren’t looking.
“We never croak,” Laura agrees softly.]
…
“So,” Stiles says, and pats the bricks around the hole in his wall affectionately, “Time to say goodbye.”
“It’s time to move on,” Derek agrees.
Stiles steps forward, looking nervous and flushed.
“I finished my last session the other day,” Derek blurts, and immediately wishes that he hadn’t, as Stiles freezes.
“Wow,” he says, “Congrats. That’s really great. You must be really proud of yourself. You should be, at least.”
“I wanted to thank you again,” Derek says, looking at his shoes, “For… everything.”
“No need,” Stiles says, smiling softly, “Like I said before. I care about you.”
It’s gratifying to see him say it, this time. To see him blush furiously, though his voice never falters.
“Is it okay if I…” Derek says, holding his arms out awkwardly towards Stiles, feeling like an idiot, like he picked the wrong moment, like…
“Of course, you don’t have to ask,” Stiles says, and slides into Derek’s personal space, fitting right up against him with arms banded tight around his waist and a nose nuzzling into his neck like he belongs.
“Okay,” Stiles says, when he pulls back, minutes (hours?) later, “This is. There’s no easy way to do this. So I’m just gonna… you can say no, okay? If I’m reading this wrong, or if you don’t want to or whatever. But. I just ne—I really want to kiss you. If that’s okay. So. Can I? Kiss you?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and smiles, and pulls Stiles in to part his lips with Derek’s, to kiss him soft and slow… and then pulls back, and feels tears pricking at his eyes. Because…
“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, and the gentleness in his voice just… hurts. “Was that okay, I didn’t… I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No,” Derek whispers. “It was. I just. I didn’t feel anything.” He has to turn away from Stiles, before he can embarrass himself with the tears that threaten to spill over, because he thought he was so much better, he thought that he could be normal and have something good, and… “God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I wanted it. I swear I did. I still do. I just didn’t. I couldn’t feel anything.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Stiles says, and now he just sounds confused, and maybe a bit hurt.
“I don’t either,” Derek admits. “Because it’s not you. I wanted—want—to kiss you. And it didn’t feel bad. I just feel. Nothing.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, not a little stiffly, and when Derek turns back to him, more composed now, his face is impassive, “That’s fine.”
“It’s not you,” Derek says, reaching out, “Stiles, I swear, it’s not. I’m so sorry. I’m—”
“No,” Stiles says, “It’s fine. It is. I’m. Look, I’m fine, okay? I need some air. I’m gonna go on a walk. I’m not leaving, I promise. I’ll be back. I just need…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. He picks up his coat, and closes the front door softly behind him.
And Derek… Derek sits down on his couch, puts his head in his hands, and struggles not to cry.
…
Specify If: With Delayed Expression
…
It’s raining, which feels just a little too convenient, like a cliché.
Derek has always hated the movies which feature a rainstorm during the angsty, climactic moments, but here he is, and here’s the storm.
California means that it rains, even in the heart of December, when it should snow, instead, and it means that Stiles is soaked through to the bone when he reappears on Derek’s doorstep an hour later.
“You didn’t think I’d come back,” Stiles says when Derek wrenches the door open to let him in, “I told you I’d come back. I know it was bad timing. I just had to think about some things. Do some research.” He waves his phone in the air—Derek doesn’t know how he kept it dry—and Derek grasps one of his flailing wrists to pull him further into the loft.
“I’ll get you some dry clothes,” Derek mutters, forcing himself not to look at Stiles’ drenched body, and reappears with his softest old T-Shirt and favorite sweat-pants to find Stiles still dripping on the floor. “You can use the bathroom,” Derek tells him, “There’s towels in there,” and attempts to collect his thoughts over the sounds of Stiles stripping in the next room.
“Okay,” Stiles says, reappearing five minutes later, dry and reenergized and confident sounding, “So.”
“I’m sorry,” Derek says again, before Stiles can say anything. He’s not really surprised that things went so badly wrong, but he’d hoped.
“Stop right there,” Stiles says, “Stop saying that, okay? There’s nothing to be sorry for. I knew that this maybe wouldn’t be easy. And I probably shouldn’t have run off like that. That’s my bad. But I never, ever want to force you into anything and then I kissed you and we both sort of freaked out, and I thought we could both use some space. But I said that I’d come back, and I did. You trust me, right?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and he doesn’t even have to pause.
“Okay then.” Stiles smiles at him, and Derek is confused. “Stop looking so scared, please. You’re fine, okay? More than. I’m not mad, or freaked out, or whatever you’re probably thinking. You didn’t ruin anything. I still want this—you—just like before, and I can totally wait until we’re both comfortable with what’s happening here.”
“Okay,” Derek says slowly, sure that there must be some catch.
“Look, I said I did some research, right? And what happened—I think I get it now. It was a totally normal reaction for someone who’s survived what you have. And if I pushed you, I’m sorry. But if you really do want to try this again, no pressure, but I think that we can work through it. Or try.”
“I don’t want to make you promises that I can’t keep,” Derek says, “I don’t know. I want to try. But I don’t know if I can do this. I thought I could, but I… I don’t really know what happened before. Or if it will happen again. Or if it will always be like that.”
Stiles shrugs, looks cozy and happy in Derek’s borrowed clothes. “I’ve waited for like, nineteen years for something like this to happen to me,” he says, “I think I can wait longer, no problem. Because I want this, Derek. I want this with you. Whatever that means for us.”
“Okay,” Derek agrees. “Okay,” and it feels like it really might be. Maybe not tonight, but soon.
“Can I, uh,” Stiles clears his throat and smiles sheepishly, “Can I, like, hug you again? I really like hugging you.”
Derek doesn’t answer, this time. He just pulls him in.
…
(full diagnosis is not met until at least six months after the trauma(s), although onset of symptoms may occur immediately)
…
Derek kisses Stiles on New Year’s Eve, in the kitchen of the Sheriff’s house, while everybody else watches the ball drop.
“You’re smiling,” Stiles says when he pulls back, sounding a little awed, and reaching up with a long finger to touch the crinkles by Derek’s eyes. “You’ve got a really beautiful smile.”
And he is smiling, can’t stop smiling, and it feels rusty and a little strange, but mostly, it feels good.
“I’m happy,” he tells Stiles.
And means it.