Archive of Our Own

They had a pack-bonding the previous night, and Stiles wakes up on Saturday morning sluggishly, with Jackson's hand thrown over his face and Erica's head nestled on his stomach. It's weird how it doesn't freak him out anymore.

It's been over a year since the Alphas' attack, and it's been... quite different since. Not much, per se. For instance Jackson was, is and will forever remain a grade-A asshole, and half the time Erica's talking to Stiles, he can't tell if she's flirting with him or plans on ripping his balls off. Isaac hasn't stopped wearing his ridiculous purple scarf, and Boyd barely puts together more than a few words. They've never stopped being this ridiculous little group of misfits but they're much better now. Good, even, if Stiles dares to sound presumptuous. They've learned to watch each other's backs and cooperate under pressure (which still comes uncomfortably often).

Stiles wriggles out of the pile of the warm bodies, his knuckles cracking as he heaves up on all fours. Erica groans in protest when he exchanges himself for a nearby pillow but she keeps on dreaming. A nice dream, judging by the soft smile gracing her lips. Scott stirs, mumbles something incoherent and snores on. In fact, everyone is dead to the world, and even though they've gone to sleep approximately two hours ago and were thoroughly exhausted after Derek's evening training followed by a night filled with drinks and the worst B movies Stiles has ever seen, the pack could at least attempt to give off the impression of deadly werewolves always high on alert and ready to rip your throat out.

“-dia…. um…. 's nice, keep going, pleeeease...” Jackson mumbles, before he rolls over and quiets down.

Stiles stifles a snicker. He looks around, searching for the alpha of this huddle of obliviousness. Derek's nowhere to be seen, probably still upstairs in his bedroom, leaving the pack to sleep on the floor covered with pillows and blankets. It wouldn't hurt him to crash down here with them from time to time, though Stiles supposes it could feel weird to a grown up dude to sleep on the floor with a bunch of whom he considers teenagers. They're in their senior year and have seen things most of the adults can't imagine in their deepest nightmares and despite that, Derek still tends to think of them as kids.

A yawn stretches his jaw while Stiles is rubbing his eyes. He'd be more than happy to lie down on the warm blankets for a couple more hours, maybe for the whole day. He's tired, hasn't had a proper rest for as long as he can remember (stress is the worst companion to sleep), and the mere two hours today haven't helped much. If anything, they made him feel the lack of sleep. But Stiles has to go. He promised his dad to come home at eight, and his cell phone shows it's 7:OO in glaringly bright numbers, so he better get going. Dad wants to redesign their kitchen; paint the walls where they have cracks, exchange the oven for the new one they bought a week ago (the old one just refuses to cooperate anymore) and make a few general improvements.

Stiles squints through the dirty industrial windows. Dawn is breaking over the horizon. It fills the sky with orange hue and splashes the clouds with rays of bloody red. The sun is still low but has already gained a scorching force. Stiles pulls up his hand to cover his eyes, letting only a soft glow of sunlight pour through his fingers and onto his face. A new day should flood him with happiness and excitement, but it makes his heart ache with sadness instead.

It's the first time since his mom passed away that dad wants to make some prominent changes in the house and it's probably going to take its toll on him. Stiles needs to be there for him. He's screwed up so many things over the past years. He's lied to him countless times. He made his dad lose his job. He's been the worst son anyone could ever have. His dad deserves better but Stiles can't magically become someone else, someone who's less him, less weird... less spastic... less fucked-up. All he can do is try to make up for his existence on any occasion he gets. And this day will be one of those occasions.

He's searching for his backpack (with Scott's snoring flowing in the background) when Stiles notices the state his t-shirt's in. He completely forgot he'd spilled a glass of red wine Lydia had brought all over himself and was too lazy and just a little too drunk to do anything major about it instead of just swiping his hand over it. Thank God that Derek went straight upstairs yesterday and hopefully slept through the whole incident. Or at least pretended to sleep through the whole incident so he wouldn't have to be obligated to get pissed at them for using his place like a booze-allowed zone.

But dammit now the wine is dried up and crimson, and Stiles looks like a victim of a brutal homicide. Or like a perpetrator of a brutal homicide. It's gross and smells, and his dad will be waiting for him when Stiles arrives and he will have hundreds questions. For example, how did Stiles spill wine over himself while on a study night at Scott's?

His eyes flick over to the two cabinets Derek put in the loft for the pack's stuff; clothes, textbooks, toothbrushes, anything really. Stiles has a pile of books about criminalistic sciences in his assigned part of the cabinet.

He figures it won't hurt to borrow someone's t-shirt.

Opening the first cabinet, Stiles eyes the contents critically. There is a stack of t-shirts on the left side which Stiles thinks belongs to Boyd. Shrugging mentally, he rummages a bit to find a t-shirt that seems the smallest, and comes up with a plain long-sleeve one. Its color is somewhere between beige and soft grey. When he puts it on, the sleeves are a bit too long and cover his fingers to the first knuckles but otherwise, it's good. Boyd will be cool with Stiles borrowing his t-shirt, and the Sheriff has long lost interest in Stiles' wardrobe choices. When they're not covered in red wine, that is. Or blood.

Stiles rolls the sleeves up a bit. Then he slaps his cheeks briskly to wake up properly and sets off across the loft to the doors. It's going to be a long day, his gut tells him.

"To the left, Stiles. Left."

"I'm going left!"

"That's right."

"No, that's your right. It's my left."

"For Christ' sake! To your right, then."

They maneuver the old oven out on the front porch with only a few scratches and a bit of lost dignity. Stiles can't wait to see the stupid heavy thing vanishing on the horizon in the direction of the dumpster site. He'll even write poems of how much not he will miss it.

“Stupid thing,” he mumbles aloud, kicking its side.

His dad chuckles and brushes past him on his way back inside the house.

The wind is blowing hard. A leaf from the oak tree in the neighbors' garden tumbles down, catching in the nest of Stiles' hair. He brushes it off without care. The day has been exhausting, just like Stiles expected. Funny is that they've only managed to clear the kitchen out of most furniture, covering the rest with a plastic film. Dad had to take a break when he discovered an old piece of paper somehow stuck between the counter and the wall. It was a recipe in mom's handwriting. Blueberry pie. She made the best blueberry pies in the whole world. And there was a little heart scribbled at the bottom of the recipe. Stiles snatched it when dad was out on the porch drinking beer, and carefully put it into his album of photographs.

The painting will be on agenda tomorrow, and Stiles hopes they won't discover any more fragments of his mom along the way. He loves to see the proofs of her existence, the notes she wrote with her hand, the short videos she filmed of her family, or the little pictures of suns, clouds and cars that she would draw together with Stiles on his exercise books when he started the first grade and was sad that he hadn't made any friends so far.

It all creates the complete memory of his mom. But it leaves a hollow ache in its wake inside his chest.

It's getting dark when Stiles' dad gets a call from the station. They're having some kind of emergency and they need the Sheriff to be present. Before he leaves through the front door, he gives Stiles a small tight smile and squeezes his shoulder. Stiles leans into the brief touch, trying to find some comfort in it.

Stiles remembers the time when he would be curious and hell-bent on finding out what the emergency was about. Now he just falls tiredly on his bed and wonders where his dad takes the energy to get over to the station. It's sad but Stiles knows that whatever he learns about the emergency won't be nearly as exciting and dangerous as what the pack does on the normal nights.

Stiles presses his cheek to the cool pillow and exhales. He didn't brush his teeth, shower or change his clothes, which might be gross but he doesn't have the energy, nor does he really care. What he cares about in the moment is sleep. Long, dreamless sleep. The few blissful hours when his mind can shut down.

He's in the perfect bliss right before the fall into the sweet oblivion when someone clears their throat.
Stiles darts up so fast his feet get tangled in the covers and he falls off the bed in the fight to free himself. When he looks up from the floor, Derek is standing there, looking like Greek model and far too amused for Stiles's liking.

"Jesus, can't you at least knock like a half-normal person if you refuse to use the door like a whole-normal person?"

Derek doesn't even pretend to think about it. "No," is all he says. And isn't he just an adorable funny little bundle of smartassness.

Stiles wriggles (a little hysterically) his legs out of the blanket and jumps up to at least appear like he and Derek are equals. There goes his quiet and uninterrupted night. "What do you want, oh-almighty-alpha?"

It's amazing how much concentration Derek manages to summon into his glares. There should be an Olympic discipline in that. Stiles is tempted to ask how many hours of practice a day it requires to master this level of glaring. But he doesn't. He likes his fragile human body intact too much to jeopardize it by running his big mouth more than it's necessary. He reserves his best sassing for hostage situations and monsters on a killing spree.

"Ghouls," Derek says courtly.

Stiles sighs.

Derek has changed a lot over the past year. He only throws Stiles against any vertical object half of the amount of time both of them got used to in the beginning. Instead, he mostly glares nowadays. Nowadays, when Stiles doesn't do anything stupid or embarrassing to elicit the brief but precious twitch of lips or a snort of amusement (meaning he's being laughed at, but whatever), Derek glares and frowns at him and generally looks like Stiles is an offence to the world. But he doesn't throw him against walls.

From physical displays of dominance Derek has resorted to silent condescension. It's not much of what Stiles could call a relationship progress, but he will take it. He was getting tired of the bruises and head bumps anyway.

"Ghouls?" Stiles repeats.

Kneading his temples to ease the tension, he has to make his way around Derek, who moved to the doorway, to get to the bathroom. Because why on Earth would Derek Hale step aside when he can get to watch Stiles force his way awkwardly through the tight space between him and the doorframe?

"Yes, ghouls," Derek says loudly, so Stiles can hear him from the bathroom. "Are you sitting on your ears?"

Stiles ignores him in favor of splashing cold water on his face to shake off some of the tiredness. It helps a little. He raises his head to check how horrible he must look in the mirror, and yelps for the second time since Derek has showed up. Damn werewolves.

"You can't do that!" he snaps. Turning around he's brought face to face with Derek who's standing uncomfortably close. Someone should teach him about the issues that come with personal space.

Derek is holding a towel and Stiles reaches for it. Derek doesn't loosen his grip, though. "Give me that, you bucko!" Stiles snaps, and tugs. Derek looks unimpressed. He bares his sharp teeth, not letting go of the towel. It feels like some sort of a weird twisted mind game to Stiles.

"You trying to tell me what I can and can't do?" Derek says.

The relationship not-so-progress? Bullshit. Stiles takes it back. This right now feels like nothing has changed at all over the past months, and they're back to square one. Derek has yet to throw him against the wall and then it's settled.

"Jesus, man, chill a little, will you? What's crawled up your ass? I thought we've been over this. No threatening in my house." He snatches the towel out of Derek's thankuflly loosened fingers, and dries his face off.

When he looks up again, Derek's nostrils flare, the way a dog's nostrils would flare when it spots a trespasser on its territory. His eyes zero in on somewhere on Stiles' chest. "That's Boyd's t-shirt," he grits out.

Stiles looks down. Oh, yeah, he still has the borrowed t-shirt on. "So what?"

"Get it off."

Stiles might gape a little at that. "Pardon me?"

Derek is close. Too close and too intimidating and looks kind of seriously pissed off for no reason whatsoever. It makes Stiles shift uneasily.

"Get. It. Off."

So it wasn't a fragment of his imagination, Derek ordering him around to—of all things—change his clothes. Stiles thinks of blueberry pies and little pictures of suns and cars, and about his dad's tired sighs and hunched shoulders when he thought Stiles wasn't paying attention. He's tired, wants his goddamn sleep, and Derek thinks he can burst in through the window (just like always) and order Stiles around like some minion with a single raised eyebrow (just like always).

"No," Stiles snaps angrily. "You know what? I'm keeping this t-shirt. I borrowed it and it's my right to keep it until Boyd says so. Not that he knows about it... yet. But I'm sure he won't mind. Because he's actually cool, okay? And he'll understand me borrowing it because of the spilled-wine-crisis."

At Derek's blank look, Stiles flails with his hands. The towel slips through his fingers and flies down to the floor.

"Of course you don't know about the spilled-wine-crisis. Why would you? You always leave us and go upstairs to cuddle up your pillow or whatever. You may be the big badass alpha of the pack but it wouldn't kill you to like, strike an actual conversation with us. And you know what?" he continues, because he can and Derek isn't saying anything just glaring at him, so here's a chance. "You can't just appear uninvited in my bedroom whenever you please and demand I go somewhere or do something just because you say so and have some hard muscles. FYI, I've seen bigger! I don't—I don't mean personally, but like, on pictures and stuff... Jesus, not that kind of stuff," he adds quickly when Derek raises his eyebrows. "Oh and by the way, I'm not sitting on my ears. I heard you and I know what ghouls are. That was a rhetorical question, asshole, the sort of question you ask someone when they pop up uninvited in your bedroom and all they bark is, 'Ghouls.' Comprende?"

He's gotten in Derek's face, which may be a potentially dangerous position to be in, but it feels good to let his opinions out in the open as opposed to keeping them bottled up, so Stiles doesn't care. And he keeps not caring for a whole one minute. Then he starts to. Because Derek's silence continues and becomes heavy and menacing. Oh God, Derek's going to kill him.

But Derek doesn't. Derek grips his wrist and strides out of the bathroom. Stiles doesn't have much of a choice but to stumble after him, eyes wide and staring at how Derek's hand is big enough to encircle Stiles' whole wrist. Derek shoves him into the bedroom and positions him next to the cabinet. Rummaging rudely through the clothes inside, he picks out a t-shirt and hands it over to Stiles.

Stiles doesn't take it. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Derek's answer is to roughly wrench Boyd's t-shirt over Stiles' head, making Stiles yelp for the third time in five minutes.

"Hey!" Stiles protests, when Boyd's t-shirt gets thrown out of the window, and Stiles' head is getting brutally stuck through one of his own t-shirts. Hands follow, at which point he starts to cooperate, not wanting to get more bruises than he already will have from the sweet treatment he's received so far.

When the project's done, Derek takes a step back to observe his work critically. The result must meet his expectations because he does a little nodding thing with his head. "Let's go," he orders, storming out of the room.

Stiles would probably be thrilled that Derek finally learned to use the front door, except for—

"Haven't you listened to any of what I said?!"

They're walking down the path through the maze of graves of the Beacon Hills graveyard. The smell of stone and decaying weed covering the oldest and unkempt graves fills Stiles' nose. He knows this place by heart, but in the daylight. Under the silver glow of the moon high above their heads, the graveyard transforms. Dark shadows of the tree branches are reaching from the darkness as if they want to swallow them, and Stiles can't help but flinch at every rustle of the wind, at every snap of a twig under Scott's elephant feet.

His mom is buried here, just in the east part. Third row, second from the left. Smooth white marble with elegant calligraphy engraving. 'Here Lies Our Beloved Wife and Mother.' Short and impersonal though beautifully done. Stiles kind of hates these words whenever he reads them, but it doesn't matter, in the end. She's dead, and dead she will remain. What other words that needs. Stiles tries not to think about it much. And anyway, he should be paying attention to the undead spirits gorging on the living ones, not linger in the past.

Derek hasn't said much since they left the house, and he keeps his mouth shut even now, resorting to barking orders like the whole world has pissed him off. Stiles wonders where the Hales are buried. Are they resting here? Was there even something left to be buried?

The thought makes him shudder. Jesus Christ, he really needs to get some sleep. It's past midnight, and the thought of bed does weird tingly things inside Stiles's stomach. He's never fully appreciated the luxury of his bed. Now he wants to make altar for his bed, pray to it and maybe elope and marry his bed in Vegas. It has to be possible there, right? To marry a piece of furniture.

“Move it, Stiles,” Derek hisses in a whisper from the front. Stiles rolls his eyes but trots after the group obediently, hands in the hoodie’s pockets.

The pack (Stiles, mostly) have been researching facts about ghouls since Jackson saw one when he was jogging around this place (really, Jackson, a graveyard?), then arguing about the strategy for the past couple hours in Derek's loft. It mostly let nowhere. They established they'd need to catch the ghoul and 'tear it to pieces' as Derek put it, then 'burn it afterwards' as Stiles pointed out, or it'll come back.

"We need to split," Derek barks, stopping suddenly. Erica nearly runs into him. "Each will head in different direction so we cover more ground and finish as soon as possible."

Everyone exchanges uneasy glances behind Derek’s back. Stiles' mind's been wandering all over the place in a sluggish pace, and he has to force himself to focus. What's going on?

"Shouldn't we stick together?" Boyd inquires.

Derek turns on him, eyes flashing bloody red. "I wasn't asking for your opinion."

Boyd raises his hands in a placating manner. He takes a step back, just in case.

"Boyd's right, Derek," Erica says tentatively, in a tone she has specially reserved for furious alphas. One alpha in particular. "We should at least go in pairs."

Derek sighs, but he nods in the end. It's not Erica he seems to have a problem with tonight. "Okay, you and Boyd go north. Isaac and Jackson, take the south. Scott with Allison, you take the east. I'm gonna take the west."

"Ehm," Stiles pointedly clears his throat, pointing at himself. "What about me?"

"You go back to the cars and wait for a sign in case of emergency."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You shouldn't even be here."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Are we doing this again? Really? We go through this every time we go hunt something."

Erica nods, like she's silently agreeing.

"You're human," Derek points out unnecessarily.

"So is Allison," Stiles says. The huntress looks uncomfortable, getting dragged into this never-ending argument again, but it doesn't stop Stiles from using her as an example every time. Fair enough, she's far better at defending herself than Stiles will ever be, but she is still a human. If Derek wants Stiles out, he should come clean and just tell Stiles it's because he's useless. But not because he's human. "And while Lydia's a banshee," Stiles adds, "she can easily count as a human too by your superwolf standards."

Isaac mouths, “Superwolf?” behind Derek's back.

"Allison is a trained hunter," Derek says predictably, "and Lydia's not here."

Stiles throws out his hands. "Because she's out of the town at her Gram's overnight."

"They don't count," Derek tells him, like he hasn't heard a single word Stiles said. "You're more—" but he doesn't finish, cutting off in the middle. And it angers Stiles, because now his wild imagination supplies the rest of the sentence with unfavorable adjectives; like dependent, inferior, more likely to get killed without protection. Slowing them down. Useless and pathetic and a liar (which isn't even an adjective to begin with). He's not even a decent liar so his dad won't be able to tell. His dad can tell every damn time because the lies are so pathetic, but they still pretend that he can't.

Stiles glares at Derek. "Thanks very much, but I'm aware of my precious little fragility you still seem to think I—"

"I didn't mean—" Derek starts, but Stiles doesn't want to hear it.

"I'm not finished! Whatever the hell you still seem to think of me even after everything we've been through, hasn't so far kept me from saving your collective asses. More than once, okay? And believe me when I say I'd rather be somewhere else entirely than a freaking graveyard on Saturday night, but you're all my friends and you're here. And you can't keep me away when something can hurt you. That's just so not how I work. And I've proven myself to you, you can't deny that!"

"I'm not—"

"Shut up, I'm still talking," Stiles cuts him off again. Derek's eyes go red. Isaac's widen in surprise. Erica strokes a strand of her long hair while watching them. She looks… turned on. For some reason. But wow, Stiles is on a roll today. And—including his outburst in the bathroom—he is far from done. This bullshit Derek's kept serving him has to stop. Stiles is tired and irritated and Derek needs to back off for once.

"The answer's yes," Stiles says. "I did and you can't deny that. And just so you know, it's stupid to be pissed at Boyd, because he's done nothing to offend your delicate alpha dignity. And what's your problem, anyway? The t-shirt was borrowed! You can't throw stuff out of my window and bully me into changing my freaking clothes just because I have somehow disrupted the pack hierarchy of borrowing things. If someone should be mad, it's Boyd, and Boyd won't get a hissy fit over me borrowing his t-shirt because he's way more cooler than you. Right Boyd?"

Boyd blinks at them. "Uh... sure."

Scott touches Stiles' shoulder tentatively. "Stiles, buddy, did you—"

Stiles shoots his best friend an annoyed glare. "Yeah, Scotty, I took too much Aderall today. But that's not the point. The point is," he turns back to Derek, a second away from digging his finger into Derek's chest but thankfully realizing he likes his fingers too much to lose one so soon in his life, "you're being a jerk today. More than usual. I thought we've made some not-so-progress when you stopped throwing me against stuff."

Derek's eyebrows both rise higher than should be possible.

"Okay, fair point, you haven't actually thrown me into any stuff today... which judging by the look you're giving me, I should definitely await it... But screw it. You're behaving like a total asshat, and today's been like, really not funny at all, and I've had enough of your crap!"

The graveyard falls into silence, too silent even for a graveyard. Scott is gaping at him. Jackson's staring at his watch like this is the most boring thing he's ever experienced, that douchebag. Then Erica starts clapping her hands overly enthusiastically, making Isaac startle. The poor guy looks ready to bolt in case the volcano Derek erupts.

Stiles fidgets, wondering what to say to salvage his young and precious life, when something slams into his side. He yelps. A sharp pain bursts where something sharp, like claws, dig into his hip. He hears several people shouting his name. There's a weight pushing his body down, crushing his bones. It presses his face to the ground. He coughs, breathes in through his nose, inhaling specks of soil and bits of rotten leaves.

The weight starts shifting like it's fighting against someone who's trying to drag it of off Stiles. The thing must lose, though, because the weight is gone as suddenly as it appeared, and then there're hands helping him up.

Stiles groans a painful thank you to... oh, Derek, who cuffs at him, "I told you to stay at the cars."

Stiles wants to roll his eyes but the thing attacking him comes running back. It looks like a hyena. That one Stiles has expected due to his long research in Derek's loft. So yeah, he imagined how it's going to look like. But this thing seems kind of... wrong. It's bigger than hyena, has glowing eyes. Its fur is longer, dirty and smells of decay. And it has two other friends.

They dash straight to Stiles, probably seeing him as the weakest link of the group and an easy prey. Which really sucks. Stiles gets shoved out of the way by wolfed out Derek. He grabs the ghoul by its neck and yanks him away from Stiles, while the rest of the pack attack the other two. They rip with their claws and tear with their teeth, and Stiles is never going to get used to seeing this level of brutality. He feels a hand on his shoulder. It's Allison. She reassures quickly that he's fine, then draws out an arrow. She nocks it and raises the bow, pointing at the moving tangle of fur and limbs. She won't get a clear shot like this. It's meant to strike if the danger escalates.

Stiles searches around frantically and grabs a long stick from the ground. It looks hard, though it'd probably break first before hurting a ghoul. But he's not about to confirm Derek's assumption that he's just a weak human, and he'll use any means to accomplish that. Stick isn't as cool as a bat in any case, but at least he's got something to hold onto.

Scott helps Derek to literally rip apart one of the ghouls. Stiles cringes at that, feeling sick. They will need to find all of the pieces to burn the spirits later, which... gross.

The other two ghouls go down not long after, and even though the pack are breathing heavier and have claw marks all over their bodies (which have started to close up anyway), they've done a pretty great job. Stiles' adrenaline levels are high and he momentarily forgets how exhausted he's been.

He cheers loudly. "That was awesome, guys! Like super bloody and just, ew, gross, but awesome!"

They preen at that a little, and Stiles grins. Then Derek shouts, "Stiles!"

He whips around and purely on reflex swings the stick he's still holding. The sound of cracking when it connects with the head of the fourth ghoul is both sickening and relieving, because it means that Stiles didn't miss. The stick breaks in half but surprisingly does the job, and the ghoul screeches and rolls away under the force. Boyd is waiting there and smashes its face with his boot and werewolf strength. Stiles really didn't need to see that.

Derek is by Stiles' side in a blink of an eye. No, faster, actually. "Are you alright?"

Stiles stares at him incredulously, gripping the one half of his stick. He's panting heavily. "Are you kidding? Yes, I'm alright! I'm great! That was so freaking badass, did you see it?"

Derek's mouth twitches in amusement, and Stiles feels warmth spreading through his body. This is the not-so-progress he's been missing all day.

"It wasn't that badass," Jackson pipes in.

"Don't listen to him," Allison says, "it totally was." She's clutching her bow tightly, hands shaking a little. She must be berating herself for not reacting faster. Stiles will need to take her aside to tell her it wasn't her fault.

"Oh my God," he breathes out. "It totally was, right?" He releases the stick and it falls down to the ground with a thud. "Ow, I think I have a splinter."

Sucking at his finger, he watches Derek watching him. He raises his eyebrow, attempting to pass over the 'What's your problem now, pal?' silently.

Derek looks exasperated. He shakes his head like he can't believe this is his life.

Welcome to the club, Stiles thinks in mind.

"Let's burn these things," Derek barks out, turning his back to Stiles.

Stiles sits beside Derek in the passenger seat, whereas Scott, Allison and Isaac are squeezed in the back. Erica has taken the rest of the pack in her new Audi. Jackson of course refused to drive his Porsche on any of their hunts, in case a twig would scratch his precious baby.

Stiles winces a little when he shifts to get more comfortable and it puts strain on his injured side.
Derek glances over at him, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles mutters. "Just got clawed on a little."

"Show me."

Stiles dodges the reaching hand planning on tugging his t-shirt up, and thuds his head against the car window. "No way! Hands off, okay?" He waves down at his body. "This all? Is a hands free zone, buddy."

Derek looks up as if praying for all the patience in the world. He starts the car in silence. They make it onto the main road before Stiles starts to fidgets, bumping his right knee up and down. The silence is of the uncomfortable kind, and he doesn't even need to look behind to know that Scott is having a nonverbal conversation with Isaac and Allison in the back seats. He's relieved when Derek finally pulls over a few yards away from Stiles' house.

A wave of dizziness rolls over him when Stiles climbs out in haste to get away from the awkwardness. He stumbles, steadying himself against the car door. The sun rays are forcing their way into the new day, harsh against Stiles' eyelids.

Scott's head pops out of the car window. "Stiles? You fine?"

Stiles gives him his best smile. "Yeah, Scotty, just a bit dizzy. 'S the adrenaline and all."

Scott nods his head slowly.

"Get some sleep, Stiles," Derek says, and if Stiles didn't know any better he'd swear he heard some concern in there.

But Stiles does know better, so he just rolls his eyes exasperatedly and goes home. Dad's car is parked in the driveway, and Stiles hopes he didn't come into his room during the night to check up on his son. That would result in a serious problem.

He tiptoes through the house, up the stairs and into the bathroom. His cell phone shows him it's five in the morning. It should give him enough time to shower and get a couple hours of sleep. He doesn't realize how bone tired he is until a spray of hot water splashes away the tension from his body. His right side has long claw marks across the whole hip. They're deep but not deep enough for him to bleed out. It should be fine to just disinfect and bandage the gashes.

In his bedroom, he changes into regular clothes to wear the next day (well, today) instead of his sweatpants and a sleeping t-shirt, not wanting to waste precious sleeping time with dressing off and on again. Then he remembers Boyd's t-shirt and peeks out of the window. Derek was done so fast with him, Stiles didn't have time to worry about it until now.

The t-shirt's still there; a small gray bundle on the grass. Awesome.

Stiles sneaks back downstairs with resignation to retrieve the t-shirt. On his way back he gets more desperate for the bed and makes a dash for it up the stairs. He runs into a hard wall on the top. A very humanly feeling hard wall.

"Yo, dad!" he says cheerily, probably too cheerily. "Whatcha doing here?"

"Ransacking our safe," his dad responds without a beat.

"Really?" Stiles asks with a frown.

"No, Stiles, we don't have a safe."

Stiles rubs the back of his head nervously. "Yeah, right. Uh..." He looks at the clutched t-shirt in his other hand, making it as small and invisible as possible.

His dad waits for him to say something and when nothing comes, he sighs. "I meant," he continues exasperatedly, "what are you doing up at six in the morning?"

Stiles frowns. "It's six already?" He must have dozed off in the shower or something.

"Not already, it's only six. Since when do you wake up before I have to kick you out of the bed? You were sleeping, right?" He looks pointedly at Stiles' definitely-not-sleeping attire.

Stiles nods frantically. "Of course I've slept here and wasn't anywhere near somewhere else that wasn't, well, here. Uh..." he trails off. "Oh! I just wanted to start earlier, you know, so we can get the painting over with. Not that I don't enjoy it, no. 'S just it takes a lot of time and you must be tired from work and I wanted to surprise you. Imagine yourself going into the kitchen and, voilá! Half the work is done! Cool, huh? So yeah, I wanted to... surprise you..." Oh God, he sucks. He sucks on so many levels it's not even funny. Not that it ever was funny to begin with.

His dad looks sceptical. Stiles doesn't blame him. He's tempted to take out dad's Glock and shoot himself in the leg just to get the awkwardness out of the house.

But then his dad smiles, somewhat maliciously, and clasps him on the shoulder. "Great then! We can start early together. Come on, I'll prepare the paints."

Stiles stares after him with an open mouth, as his dad jogs down the stairs. Fucking hell.

Stiles thought he was tired before. Now he realizes how much energy he actually had. Now all that is left behind is an ache throughout his whole body. Sharp with every move from the injured side, dull from the rest because apparently, two days of no sleep save for two hours, constantly moving heavy things and chasing monsters is worse than a month's worth of workout. The saddest part is that he can't allow himself to show any of his exhaustion or pain to dad, because that would inevitably lead to the issue that no, Stiles didn't sleep in bed last night and yes, he did sneak out and stayed up all night researching ghouls in formerly accused murderer slash werewolf's loft in the ghetto part of the town, so they together with the pack of teenage werewolves can hunt said ghouls around the graveyard.

Stiles tries to imagine how this conversation would go. He figures that very, very badly.

"Stiles, come here," his dad calls out from the kitchen.

Stiles has been taking a break in the living room, sitting between the kitchen cupboards. He stands up too fast and has to catch himself before he topples over. His vision blackens at the corners, making it momentarily impossible to see. He waits a few seconds until it feels safe to move again, then takes a deep breath and goes to find his dad.

He's standing at the kitchen door, looking at something on the frame. A soft melancholy smile is grazing his lips. Stiles' heart beats faster with every step, knowing from that smile that he's going to face another piece of his mom's too short life. "What's there?" he asks, anyway.

Dad points at a spot right at Stiles' eye level. When Stiles comes closer, he sees an inconspicuous thin line drawn with pencil. "What is it?"

Dad shows him another four lines beginning at Stiles' knees and going higher to Stiles' waist, inches of space dividing them. "Your mom..." his dad says. "She started measuring you every year from your second birthday until your fifth. She did it here before we bought you the giraffe height chart, remember it?"

Stiles smiles. He remembers having it till he was ten. "Yeah."

"These four are yours," dad says, "one for every year. You wanted to—When you were measuring the last one, you wanted to see how high your mom was. The top one is... it's... I completely forgot it's here." He laughs a little. "I've been going around it every day but I guess I didn't pay attention to it and... I forgot, Stiles, I forgot."

Stiles nods, touching his dad's shoulder to... he doesn't even know what. He just needs the contact and is sure his dad needs it too. Stiles looks at the barely there line and imagines his mom standing against the doorframe, reaching up over her head to draw the little line. She was of perfect height, he realizes. When he was small, he always had to tilt his head back to look up at her. Now he'd be an inch or so taller than her. It was the perfect height to look her in the eyes, to reach out and hug her. She would actually be the one to have to tilt her head back a bit. She'd have to raise her hand to ruffle his hair.

"Can we leave it here?" he asks, voice raw. He doesn't care. It's only his dad here, and dad feels the same as him.

"Yeah, sure. I wasn't even planning to... do anything with it."

"Okay." Stiles crosses his arms over the chest, staring at his shoes. Everywhere but his dad. He doesn't want to look at him. "Can I—" he has to clear his throat. "Can I get back to my break?"

Dad looks like he wants to reach out to him, but he clutches the handle of the brush instead. A little droplet of light blue paint drops on the plastic film covering the floor. "Okay, I'm going to continue. Join me when you feel like it, alright?"

Stiles nods. He doesn't go back into the living room, he walks up into his room, shutting the door behind him. He looks at the bed but doesn't feel like lying down. If he did, he'd fell asleep within seconds, and he wants to go back downstairs and help his dad finish this, so they can get back to their lives.

He slumps in his new leather armchair, instead. In the end, it's just as bad idea as the bed would be. Stiles bought this armchair because it's so comfortable, and his body sinks perfectly between the armrests. He leans his head back, the leather caressing his scalp. It smells soothingly familiar, and Stiles snuggles into it, follows the scent.

The vibrations of his cell phone jerk Stiles away. He blinks, bleary-eyed as it lies on the table innocently, the screen glowing before it darkens. The notation light starts flashing. Stiles stares at it without moving an inch. Did he fall asleep just now? He thinks that he did but instead of the nap being refreshing, it feels more like a truck has driven over him. He wonders who is the message from and then he wonders if it's somehow vital to his life to know who's the message from. Or what it says, for that matter.

Someone knocks on the door and then there's a head peeking in. “Hey, kid, you alright?”

Stiles tries to look casual but judging by the furrowed brow on his dad's face, he's not much of a good actor. “I'm awesome,” he says quickly, “peachy, really. Can't be better.” He winces. He can't just help himself, can he? Stupid.

His dad nods. Sighs. He looks older than his years, deep wrinkles prominent and marring his always warm and kind features. “I'd like to say that I know you will tell me when there's something wrong or bothering you... but… I know that you won't. So just… get some rest.” The door closes and Stiles stares stupidly at the spot where his dad's head was just a second ago. What was… what was that? But it's fine, right? His dad is probably just tired and emotionally wrung out so he says… he says stupid stuff, like the things he really thinks. Like the things he really means. Because Stiles is the worst son ever, and he's killing his dad.

A tear trickles down his face. Stiles doesn't tear his gaze away from the door. His cell vibrates for the second time. He wipes his cheek with his sleeve. It feels like he's going to suffocate, like there's a panic attack waiting just around the corner to wrap around him like a soft blanket and lull him into sleep.

His hand is shaking when he reaches for his cell. The first message is from Derek. It's curt and rude as ever.

"Pack meeting. Be there at eight. No excuses."

The second message… the second message is from Scott.

“Man I just stuffed 11 biscuits in my mouth! That's gotta be a record right? RIGHT?”

Stiles chuckles and after he chuckles, he starts laughing, choking on a sob. He's crying then, not even sure for how long. Long enough to make him hurt even more.

Stiles tells his dad that he's going to sleep over at Scott's. His dad nods silently.

This time Stiles drives his Jeep. While gripping the steering wheel and blinking furiously to keep a clear view of the road, he thinks back to dad's expression when he told him he's going out. Disappointment. Stiles was so angry at Derek (at the pack) right then, and he knows they're not responsible for the problems hanging between him and his dad, but he needs to venture somehow, and they were much steadier before all the supernatural crap.

Stiles wants to confess to his dad everything with all his heart, but he fears the reaction at all those years of lying and the half-truths. And dad would want to be involved, definitely, and Stiles can't. He can't endanger the one person he loves the most in the world. Dad's job is dangerous as it is, Stiles can't bring more onto his shoulders.

He blinks, and the Jeep is suddenly at the end of the street. Stiles shakes his head. It's like a whirlwind of colors around him. He needs to get a grip and survive this night and whatever Derek has prepared for them. Plus it'd be idiotic and kind of anticlimactic to die in a car crash.

He exhales in relief when he finally sees the menacingly towering building where Derek's loft is situated. Getting out of the Jeep and up the stairs is a real challenge. By the time he knocks on the massive door, his legs are shaking, the muscles in his arms are twitching on their own accord. The wound on his side is a constant throbbing pain. He must look pale. Well, paler than usual. He feels pretty pale. And tired, so damn tired. What'd he give for a little nap. But he has responsibilities. Things to do. He's already disappointed his dad. He will see this meeting through whatever it takes.

It's Isaac who opens him. "Hey, Stiles, you're the last to show. Heads up, Derek's kinda pissed. You're an hour late."

"I can hear you!" Derek snaps from inside the loft.

Stiles rolls his eyes. And winces. Isaac frowns. "Are you fine? You don't smell fine."

"Yeah, don't worry," Stiles says hastily. "So, are you gonna let me in, or—?"

"Oh, right." Isaac steps aside.

Stiles can see the whole gang already seated on the couches. They blur into funny shapes before his heavy eyes. Derek stands in the middle. He's the least colorful blur, all black and grey. But Stiles kind of likes it. It's not distracting and it suits the alpha. When he blinks a few times, he notices Derek's been glaring daggers at him. "You're late," he says.

"Yeah, I know. It's kinda hard to be on time when you can't explain to your dad why Scott would flip off if I was a few minutes late." His tone is harsh but he doesn't give a damn. He's twitchy, and it's too many stairs up to the loft. Why can someone live so high up when there's no elevator? Considering that someone is a rambo guy with athletic legs and werewolf superpowers, it's probably never occurred to him that no elevator might be an issue for petty humans.

Scott pats the free spot next to him on the couch (Allison is plastered against him on the other side). "I'm saving you a spot," he says proudly. Stiles gives him a small thankful smile, but first he heads for the small kitchen area Derek has built here.

"Where're you going?" Derek snaps.

"Chill out. I need a drink, 'kay?" He trips over his own damn feet while glancing over his shoulder at Derek, and nearly faceplants into the floor. He manages to save some of his last bits of dignity and straightens quickly up. It makes his head hurt and spin.

Jackson snickers. "Wow, Stilinski, tripping over the air is a new low for you."

Lydia punches him in the arm. Oh hey, she's back in town. Hi, Lydia, Stiles thinks. He flips Jackson off instead. "The day you're gonna stop being a douche is the day the world stops spinning."

"That's enough," Derek says. "Stiles, go get the drink, you look like crap. We're gonna start."

"Gee, thanks for the confidence boost," Stiles murmurs, knowing well Derek will hear him. That's part of the fun. He turns to go but remembers something. "Oh, hey, hi, Lydia," he says with a wave.

She smiles at him with a slight concern in her eyes. "Hi, Stiles."

Stiles lets his hand fall down.

"Stiles," Derek says, like really softly for the were, which is weird.

Stiles raises his head. "Hm?"

"You spaced out."

"Christ, sorry. Long day, y'know?" He grins apologetically. He wanted something, he thinks. "Right, kitchen," he says aloud. They all stare at him like he's deranged.

"Stiles, maybe you should—"

"No, Scotty," he cuts his best friend off impatiently. "Everything's fine, okay?" And that should become his motto. He should wear a cap with it and get a tattoo on his back like Derek has. Except his won't be an elegant triskelion. His will say: “Everything's fine”. He should get a bumper-sticker too.

Scott looks taken aback. He's not used to Stiles snapping at him. "Okay," he says. And that's enough for Stiles and evidently even for the pack to let it go. They look at him weirdly but they are quiet, thank God. Stiles feels annoyed as it is, he doesn't need them questioning him. Like his dad questions him all the time. Maybe it's his fault as well as Stiles' is. He doesn't trust his son to let something go for once in his life. It has to be questions. Where are you going? Where were you? What's that on your t-shirt, Stiles? Christ, is that blood, Stiles? Questions, questions, questions, And then he gets angry or worse sad when Stiles can't figure out the answer.

The the kitchen area is divided with the rest of the open space by a bar with two stools. Stiles walks around it stiffly, feeling eyes on the back of his neck.

Taking down a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water takes longer than it probably should, but at least meanwhile the stares have ceased boring into his back. In fact, Derek has started talking to the pack. He has a nice voice, like honey or something sweet, which might seem weird in the combination with the sourwolf, but it kind of really fits him too.

Stiles chugs the water in one go but although it's pleasantly cool, it doesn't help ease the nausea much. Having to raise his arm to retrieve the glass made the pain in his side sting, and his legs feel heavy and too light at the same time. He doesn't really feel them. He wonders how come he's still standing.

Derek's voice creates a pleasant constant buzz in the background, and Stiles leans back against the counter. His body slides to the floor. It feels like someone has strings attached to it and is pulling from below. He sinks down and rests his head against his knees. Distantly he makes out a few words as Derek keeps talking. He seems to be deriding the pack, probably for some mistakes they'd done while fighting the ghouls. Stiles smiles when he thinks of what his own evaluation is going to be. Talks too much, doesn't pay attention to the surroundings, is a massive distraction, shouldn't be allowed to go on the hunts anymore. He lies. He's a lying liar.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts from the living room. The pressure of the hard knees against his eyes feels good and his heart beats a steady rhythm finally since he had to climb up the stairs. Stiles forces himself to raise his head. Has he dozed off again?

"Stop hiding behind the counter," Jackson says. "We can hear you breathing, you know. You can't avoid this!"

"Yeah, Stilinski, get your sweet little ass over here so we're not the only ones getting shouted at!" That's Erica.

Stiles takes a deep breath and stands up and. Too quick. His head starts spinning. He manages a few steps in the direction he hopes is the living room, when black dots obscure his vision.

"Stiles?" he hears Derek inquire with concern. Yeah, that was definitely concern.

"I—" He can't see anything and his breaths shorten. Feels sick and weak, body hurts, heavy and light, and he's tumbling for something to hold onto but there's nothing. His breathing gets louder and louder in his ears. "I don't feel—" so good, he wants to say. He doesn't think he he feels so good. He's going down and down, his mind is closing off and drifting away.

He hears loud thumping of steps and someone shouting his name again, this time in panic. But it doesn't matter. He can maybe finally get some sleep.

"Stiles."

He's drifting in the darkness, it's empty and he feels nothing. He wants to move but his body doesn't listen. He can smell the leather again, familiar and soothing. He hears voices talking one over another, loud and annoying.

"Stiles, come on."

"What happened?"

He wants to tell them to shut up, but his mouth won't open. Maybe if he just ignores them, they'll go away and let him rest. His head hurts so much, like it plans on bursting open through his skull.

"Did he faint?"

"Stop being asshole, Jackson."

"I'm just stating the—"

"Shut up, all of you! Stiles, come on."

A light slap lands on his cheek. He groans, tries to move his head away but it only sharpens the ache.

"Open you eyes," someone orders gruffly, leaving no space for arguments. Stiles doesn't want to, doubts he'll even be able to, but he tries nevertheless. Carefully, he blinks, and it works, he can do it. He opens his eyes. Black dots dance everywhere but the blurred colorful spots are getting shapes and faces. Lots of faces. Expressions varying from wide eyes filled with concern and worry to glares and frowns (that one is Derek). Everyone is kneeling over him, staring down. Which means Stiles has nestled down on the floor.

"Hey, there," Allison smiles at him.

"You alright?" Scott asks.

"What the hell happened?" Erica follows.

Everyone starts to talk at the same time, and Stiles has problems processing every sentence. The haziness is slowly leaving and uncovering the fatigue, and everything hurts. He feels like shit, and the twenty questions isn't helping.

Derek must sense Stiles' anxiety because his eyes flash red and he snaps at the teenagers to, "Back the hell off!"

Everybody takes a step back, save for Scott who shuffles even closer to Stiles. He has the golden best-friend pass, and he dares Derek with his glare to say something. Derek doesn't, though, his eyes are intent on Stiles.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"... fine," Stiles croaks automatically.

Instead of punching him as a punishment, Scott resorts to poking him angrily into the cheek. "Don't lie."

Stiles licks his lips, blinks a few more times. "It kind of... hurts?"

"Where?"

"Uh... everywhere?"

"Stiles!" Scott hisses angrily.

"When was the last time you slept or ate? Have you been drinking properly?" asks Derek.

Stiles thinks that these are the questions his dad used to bombard him with. Not anymore, though. Now he just nods and looks disappointed. What were the questions again? Something about eating, sleeping? When was the last time he slept more than a couple of hours? He doesn't even remember. But sleep sounds good actually, it sounds delicious. He's closing his eyes when Scott's finger nudges him again. "Stiles, come on."

"He needs to stay awake," he hears Isaac saying.

"That's just in case he has a concussion," Lydia counters, "but Derek caught him in time, so it should be fine. He looks pale and tired though, I think it's that."

"When was the last time you slept, Stiles?" Derek presses, voice demanding.

Stiles tries to focus. When did he... "The, uh, three... two hours at the pack night on Friday? I don't know... I, uh, didn't really s-sleep well before, so... "

"That's two days ago!" Scott's exclaims. Stiles winces. Too loud. "You should have taken some rest today, you dumbass."

Stiles shakes his head and it makes him feel like he's going to vomit. He curls his hands around his stomach and hunches up on his side. Derek's hand comes to rest on his collarbone, thumb stroking at his throat, grounding him. Black veins travel up his upper arm, flowing everything that's wrong away. Stiles feels immediately better. "I can't... had to help dad with the... kitchen, and he can't—he can't know..."

Scott grimaces. They've been through this. His best friend thinks Stiles should tell his dad about the supernatural. Stiles wants to protect his dad.

Derek sighs. "What about eating? Drinking?"

Stiles thinks to the two slices of pizza for lunch, because he wasn't really hungry and dad had uncovered another memory of his mom, and Stiles' heart constricted and everything hurt. The idea of eating had been the last one on his mind.

Stiles doesn't think he'd been really hungry the previous day either. He drank though, at some point. He must have. Right?

The answer must reflect on his face, because Derek's eyes narrow and he grits out, "Stiles." Patronizingly and like he's an idiot. Which Stiles doesn't need right now.

He turn his head to face Scott because although his best friend frowns at him too, his eyes are softer and he gets it. He gets that Stiles' dad comes first.

"Just let me die here," he groans, eyes closing already.

He yelps and flails when strong arms gather him into a solid warmth of Derek's body, raising him up. "Put me down, asshole!" He pushes feebly at the chest but he has not enough energy to put up a real fight and he's on the verge of throwing up. He doesn't need unnecessary movements. Plus Derek's a werewolf, and pushing at werewolves is like pushing against a brick wall; you strain your arms, it gets you nowhere and you look stupid.

"Uh, Derek?" he hears Scott asking uncertainly.

"Not a word," Derek growls. Allison giggles and Isaac snorts.

Stiles feels himself getting carried over the room. He doesn't dare to open his eyes in case he'd see the looks of shock or mockery on the pack's faces just like he's seeing in his mind's eye.

"Isaac, get something to eat and drink and bring it upstairs," Derek orders. He's ascending the stairs now judging by the bouncing motion messing further with Stiles' spinning head and rolling stomach. He protests with a weak sound coming through his lips, and Derek—the asshole—shushes him like he's an infant.

Stiles is never going to live this down.

"I'm his best friend!" Scott calls after them. "I should..." But he trails off, because Derek's apparently ignoring him, and a girl's voice (Erica) tells him to shut up and sit on the couch.

The soft sensation of sheets comes as a surprise. He must have nodded off again. He's lying on top of the covers. Derek's sitting next to him, and Issac is suddenly there, looking down at him with concern. He's holding a sandwich and a bottle of water in his hands. "We couldn't get you to wake up," he says.

Stiles pushes himself tiredly up and Derek's hands are suddenly there, helping him rest on the pillows put against the headboard. "How long?"

Isaac hands him the sandwich. "About half an hour."

Stiles accepts the offered snack but once it's in his hands, he eyes it warily.

"It's the only thing I could make from Derek's supplies," Isaac says with a shrug.

It's not that. It's just Stiles doesn't think he'll manage a bite without it going straight back up. "I just—"

"Eat or I'll make you eat," Derek promises him. Stiles chews on the sandwich hurriedly, making the alpha smirk smugly.

Derek lives to torture him, Stiles thinks while eating the sandwich bit by bit and having a personal fight with every swallow. Derek and Isaac are ridiculously patient, waiting in silence until he finishes. Stiles wants to say something sassy or funny, but nothing comes to his mind. It's blank.

He reaches for the water instead. After draining the bottle, he thanks Isaac. He's already feeling his eyes shutting down. "Scotty?" he manages to ask.

"He's fuming downstairs," Isaac grins. "But he'll get over it, Derek's right not to allow him here. He'd be just fussing around and I think what you need is a long uninterrupted sleep, huh?"

"I knew why you were my favorite," Stiles says.

"I'm not your favorite."

"Well, you definitely are now."

Isaac gives him a crooked smile. Then Derek clears his throat.

"Right, I should leave you to rest," Isaac says. "I'll, uh, send the gang home. Allison went to buy some groceries with Erica. They'll leave it in the kitchen and go."

Derek nods. He has a gorgeous face, Stiles notices. From below, his cheekbones looks even sharper and his whole face is a piece of art. He's becoming a blur though. Stiles doesn't like that, he likes having Derek sharp and in line of sight.

"Thanks, guys," he mutters, forgetting if he thanked them or not. He's falling deep into the darkness of a dreamless sleep.

He wakes up slowly, has to struggle with every step toward consciousness. It's hard and takes a long time. He feels disoriented, can't make his brain work to recollect everything that happened.

Blinking his eyes open, Stiles realizes two things at once. First, he's not home. The silky sheets are in no way his and the wall he's staring at doesn't belong into his bedroom. Second and most important is that there's a warm weight pressing against his back. A hand is draped over his hip, just above the bandaged cut, and a moist breath skims over the back of his neck.

Stiles freezes, overcome by blind panic, because he doesn't remember going into bed with anyone, and this is the sort of thing he's one hundred percent sure he'd not forget. It's not like it's a daily occurrence. It's not like it has ever happened.

The hand tightens momentarily before a voice behind him mumbles, "Stiles?"

Which doesn't help ease his panic at all, because the voice belongs to Derek, and what the hell is Derek Hale doing spooning him from behind? The hand on his hip just rests there stupidly like it's the right place for it to be, and it's kind of too much to deal with.

He clears his throat. Nothing better comes to his mind. The body behind him (Derek Hale's body!) tenses. Maybe Derek has been asleep. Maybe he's woken up now and he's going to rip Stiles' throat out just because he accidentally spooned him and it'll somehow end up being Stiles' fault. Derek will make it Stiles' fault.

One moment, the body is still there, hot and solid and weirdly pleasant against his back, the next moment it's gone, and a chilly air seeps through the thin layer of Stiles' t-shirt. He shudders, looks around. Derek's standing at the foot of the bed, a scowl plastered over his face. This, Stiles knows. He can deal with scowly Derek. That's the Derek he's accustomed to.

"Why am I—" He licks his dry lips. "Why am I in your bed, Derek?"

Derek looks at him like Stiles' memory lapse is an importunate fly pestering in his face. "You passed out, Stiles. On my floor. I had to carry you here."

"Oh." Stiles remembers now. He'd rather not to. "And, uh... why were you in your bed?"

"Because it's my bed."

"I mean..." Ugh, this is awkward. Stiles feels too wrecked to deal with evasive Derek, and he's hungry. He'd like curly fries, the most greasy ones. "Why were you in your bed when I... was in your bed?"

"I won't sleep on the couch, Stiles," Derek says, as if Stiles is stupid for even having to ask about it. He opens the door to the bathroom. "Go take a shower. I'll make you breakfast."

Stiles' mind gets stuck on the fact that Derek will make him a breakfast, so it takes him longer to realize a towel has been thrown on his head and Derek's gone downstairs. He sighs and raises himself slowly up. His whole body ache and his head spins a little, but otherwise he feels better than before when he apparently almost face-planted on Derek's kitchen floor.

He shuffles into the bathroom, discarding his clothes along the way. The shower doesn't help much to ease the strain, and after he's done, he feels like he's just run up ten-story building. And his bad luck doesn't end there. It grows a tail and fluffy ears and trots after him like a newborn kitten.

When Stiles exits the bathroom, his clothes aren't on the floor anymore. Instead, there's a pile of what has to be Derek's clothes on the bed.

"Uh, Derek?" Stiles calls, sitting down on the bed's edge to rest his legs. "Did you steal my clothes, dude?"

"Take the ones on the bed!" is the shouted reply he gets. "And get downstairs."

"Fine, fine," Stiles mutters to himself. He goes through the pile. There're black sweatpants, navy blue long-sleeve t-shirt and—at what he sighs in relief—Stiles' own briefs. Then he realizes Derek had to pick them up and fold them into this perfectly neat pile of OCDness. He feels heat rising up his cheeks. "Kill me now," he groans.

He has to grip the railway while he descends the stairs but otherwise makes it into the kitchen unharmed. Derek puts a huge glass with juice on the counter and goes back to chopping a huge onion, putting it into a sizzling fry pan, stirring together with bacon. He then adds some spices and four eggs. It smells deliciously but Stiles' attention is on the dish towel thrown over Derek's shoulder. He watches it with wide eyes, as Derek dances around the kitchen with practised ease. The alpha looks so... domestic.

Stiles sits down at the counter and sips his juice, observing how Derek's muscles move under the brown t-shirt. The sight is ridiculously hot, but that's nothing new. Derek is insanely attractive, and there's no way Stiles hasn't noticed. Sue him.

"Um, Derek, what time is it? Not that I'm not extremely grateful for the sleepover but my dad—"

"It's three p.m. And you're not going anywhere."

Stiles nearly topples over the chair. "It's three? But how—? My dad! He must be worried. I should be home. Wait, is it Monday? It is, right? I should be in school! And my dad, he's—" He startles as a hand settles on his shoulder.

"Stiles, breathe," Derek says. "It's fine. Scott called your dad in the morning, said you were both tired yesterday and fell asleep and that you'll call him from school when you have time."

"But he needs my help. We're rebuilding the kitchen and there's too many things my mom left behind. Dad can't do it alone."

"I get it, believe me," Derek says. And he does. Who else would understand better than the man who lost everything? "But your dad will wait for you. And you need to take a break. You've been stretching yourself and we haven't seen it."

Stiles looks into Derek's eyes, beautiful and honest. Not hard and closed off the way they used to be in the very beginning. They are open as Derek is watching him. His pupils are huge, the irises drowned in black. Stiles' breath catches when he realizes how close they are. Just a few inches and they would touch. He leans forward without a conscious thought. Derek isn't backing off. He just stands there, watching Stiles like he's a puzzle worth solving.

The pan sizzles. Derek takes his eyes off Stiles and returns to the plot. He doesn't look at him for a long moment, paying attention to the omelette. Stiles can't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed. He's not sure what even happened. He's even less sure if he wants to find out.

Derek serves him half of the portion from the pan, which is enough to fill one big plate, and takes the other half. He stands opposite Stiles while he starts to eat, and when Stiles is not fast enough to follow (too stunned, with his mouth hanging open), he arches one eyebrow at him.

"Uh, you still have the dish towel over your—your shoulder," Stiles says, when he doesn't find anything more intelligent to use.

Derek doesn't exactly roll his eyes, but it's a close thing. He takes the towel off and motions to Stiles' plate. "Eat."

Stiles does. And once he starts, he can't seem to stop. He shoves the entire portion down his throat in less than five minutes. After he scrapes the last bits from the plate, he nudges it towards Derek, eyeing him with what he hopes is a pitiful enough expression. Derek snorts. "Not now. You need to start eating slowly. I'll make you something else later."

Stiles scowls. "I didn't starve for two weeks. I forgot to eat for a couple of days, no biggie. Some more omelette isn't gonna kill me."

"No," Derek repeats.

Stiles whines. He can afford to, okay. He practically fainted in front of the entire pack. He can be a little petulant. "Come on, Derek."

"I'm not arguing with you, Stiles."

"Fine, jeez." Stiles bumps his palms against the counter's surface rhythmically. Bam bada bada bam bam. He clicks with his tongue at the end. "So, what's on the program today?"

"Rest," Derek says.

Rest sounds great. Rest sounds like heaven. But Stiles has Derek to himself for the whole day for what feels like the first time and he doesn't plan on wasting it with sleep. "You know what?" he ponders aloud. "Let's do something fun."

He slides off the bar chair and his legs buckle under the sudden weight. Derek's there to catch him though. He ushers Stiles toward the couch and makes him sit down. Stiles grabs a pillow from the side of the couch and hugs it tightly to his chest. Derek watches him silently. He looks like he's battling with himself over either staying here or making some excuse to run away. He's awkward like that.

Stiles takes a pity on him. "Do you wanna watch a movie?"

Derek exhales a breath and nods. He crosses over to the elegantly organized piles of DVD's Lydia has created. Color-coded, the piles arranged by their popularity with the pack. Derek takes out a case from the third pile. Stiles can't see what movie it is but he doesn't particularly mind anything from their collection. He still lives to test Derek's patience, though.

"What, I can't get to chose? I'm your guest. Fragile guest who fainted on your floor. You're supposed to tend to my wishes."

Derek sits down just where Stiles' legs are folded and plays the movie. Back To The Future. No way. Stiles' favorite.

Derek shoots him a silencing glare before Stiles' mouth makes it halfway through to a huge grin. "Don't say a word," he warns.

So Stiles doesn't. But he won't stop grinning for the first third of the movie. As promised, Derek makes him another meal after the first hour has passed, and he keeps bringing Stiles glasses of water. It's weird and gets even weirder when Stiles starts to nod off and a warm hand settles on his ankle, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin. He doesn't have time to dwell on the heat sprouting in his belly, fast and inevitably falling asleep.

"How's he?"

"Asleep."

"Derek."

"... He's better. What about his dad?"

"He called once during school. Told me that Stiles isn't picking up his cell. I told him we’ve had a busy schedule and that we have an extra lacrosse practice after school and Stiles still has his things at my place so we're gonna go there afterwards…”

“Good thinking.”

“No. It's not. He knew I was lying, he could tell something's up.”

“What did he say?”

“That's the thing. He didn't say anything. He just told me he knows I'm a good kid and to keep an eye on Stiles. It was so strange…”

Silence.

"Do you think Stiles should... tell him?"

"It's dangerous, Scott."

"I know that! But my mom knows about werewolves and all that weird supernatural stuff, and she says it's better for her, and she also thinks Stiles should tell his dad. And I know my best friend, Derek, and it's eating up at him. Why do you think this happened? It's because he tries too hard. He doesn't want to let anything on in front of his dad so he makes these incredibly stupid things like not taking care of himself!"

Stiles winces at Scott's rising voice.

“Scott, lower your voice,” Derek says. Then, “Stiles, I know you're awake.”

Stiles blinks his eyes open sheepishly. “Hey, guys.” His voice sounds rough. His dry throat closes up and he starts coughing. Two pairs of hands help him sit up and support him. “Thanks,” he says, as soon as he stops choking on his own spit.

Scott crouches down in front of the sofa, looking up at Stiles and worrying his lower lip. Derek sits next to Stiles, their sides and legs touching. His hands haven't retreated but Stiles finds that he doesn't mind at all. It's a strange thought. He leans into the touch and sighs. “I don't want to tell my dad.”

Scott gives him his infamous pouty puppy face. “I know, buddy… But my mom thinks you should tell him too, you know. Wouldn't it be better than him thinking you're on drugs or joined a motorbike gang?”

“He's not cool enough to be in a motorbike gang,” Derek snorts.

Stiles bristles. “Excuse me. I think I'd pull it off any day. Give me your leather jacket and you see how badass Stiles is gonna become.”

“Tell Stiles that Stiles is going to drown in that jacket,” Derek says.

Stiles crosses his arms over the chest. Scott shakes his head. “Guys, this is so not the point.”

“I realize perfectly well what the point is,” Stiles says, “and I don't want to talk about it. In fact, I want to beat about it so long you'll eventually forget about it completely.”

He shifts nervously when Scott keeps looking at him with those huge doe eyes of his. It makes him feel guilty about every little bad thing he's ever done, on purpose or accidentally. “Don't use that.”

“Use what?”

“That puppy alpha power you posses,” Stiles says. “It makes me want to donate or buy a stray. Or donate and buy a stray.”

Scott cracks a smile, though his eyes remain sad and bored into Stiles. He inhales, like he's preparing to say something which he know will upset Stiles and possibly escalate in an argument between the two of them, but he's decided to give him a piece of his mind nevertheless. “Stiles… I think, and Derek thinks too,” he shoots Derek a quick glare, daring him to object, “that telling your dad won't endanger him any more than he's now. This is Beacon Hills we live in. Don't you think that when he eventually encounters a monster he has much better chance to survive if he knows what's he dealing with?”

Stiles stares at a spot over Scott's shoulder. “No. Because I won't allow any monster to get near enough to him to even glare in his way.”

Derek scoffs impatiently. “You plan on never leaving this town? Living with your father until he–”

“If that's what it'll take then yes,” Stiles raises his voice. Between Scott in front of him on the floor and Derek sitting next to him on the couch, he feels trapped. He stands up and brushes past Scott. His legs weren't really ready for the sudden weight and go weak in the knees. Scott shoots up and Derek reaches out his hand, but Stiles steadies himself and is on the other side of the room at the high windows before they can play on white knights. “I get it, guys. Okay? I get it! I'm hearing what you're saying but I just–he's my only family. I can't lose him.”

Scott takes a step closer. “And we'll help you. We're family too, you know. We're pack. And we'll be there with you. We'll help you protect your dad. But to do that, you have to tell him what's really going on. So he can trust us.”

Stiles looks down. He shuffles with his foot. He's just–It's not that easy as Scott makes it to be. Or maybe it's just that easy and Stiles can't see it.

“Stiles.”

Stiles raises his head. His gaze finds Derek's over Scott's shoulder. The alpha is still standing by the couch and keeping his distance, but his eyes... His eyes. It's them that convince Stiles in the end. They are determined. Scorchingly so. Derek will be there with him, somehow Stiles can tell just from the heat in his eyes. He will be there with him and for him.

Stiles nods jerkily. “Okay.”

Scott jumps excitedly, and hugs the life out of Stiles. “You won't regret it, Stiles. I'll help you. Everything's gonna be fine.”

Stiles' eyes stay glued to Derek's. “I know, buddy,” he mutters into Scott's neck.

Stiles spends the next day in school stressing about how to tell his dad. He doesn't have any textbooks because he was too much of a coward to show up home in the morning. He spent the rest of yesterday evening awaiting with dread dad's call. But his cell phone didn't vibrate once. It felt like his dad had given up on him. It made Stiles determined to tell the Sheriff the truth. He can't make it any worse than it already is, right?

He feels ill by the time the last bell rings. Scott accompanies him to the Jeep, trying to give him pep talks that do the opposite of helping to calm Stiles' racing nerves. He's managed to tune out Scott's voice and everything around him by the time they arrive to the parking lot. So he squeals unmanly when someone suddenly grabs him by the shoulders from behind and plasters over his back.

“Hey Batman,” Erica purrs into his ear.

She turns Stiles around. The whole pack is with her. Even Derek, although he's standing a further away, leaning casually against his Camaro, looking like a model posing for a car commercial. Stiles gapes at them. “What are you all doing here, guys?”

Allison smiles at him. “Derek and Scott told us why you, you know–”

“Fainted,” Jackson supplies.

“Passed out,” Boyd says.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “We decided you're helpless without us, and you're going to need our help.”

Stiles grins. “Isn't it always exactly the opposite? You need me saving your asses?”

“In your dreams, Stilinski,” Isaac smirks.

Stiles (probably for the first time since he can remember) is lost for words. He looks from one to another, struggling to say something. He doesn't come up with anything. Allison takes a pity on him. “Let's get on the road,” she says.

“Shotgun on Camaro!” Erica shouts.

They fit in two cars and follow Stiles' Jeep all the way to his house. It's all kinds of ridiculous and at the same time, Stiles hasn't felt lighter in ages. He has their support. He's known it for a while now, but at this moment, he can feel it to the core of his body. They are pack. They are family.

They park in front of Stiles' house. Stiles takes the handle to open the car door. Scott does the same on the passanger side and is out in a second. It takes Stiles longer. He closes his eyes. Opens them. He exhales, his breath misting the window. Get it over with, he commands himself, and climbs out, shutting the door behind himself. He glances at the two cars behind his back. The pack are sitting there, only a few feet away in case he needs them. They can't come inside with him, this thing is for Stiles to deal with, but they will wait here to make sure he's fine.

Stiles sends them a quick grin. Scott takes him by the shoulders and accompanies him to the front door. The Sheriff's car is in the driveway. Stiles' heartbeat spikes up. Panic seizes him. Maybe he should–

“No way!” Scott steers him back by shoulders when Stiles attempts to turn around and make a beeline for it. “I'm gonna be inside with you for as long as you want me. And the pack is right here, okay? Everything's going to fine.”

Stiles nods jerkily. Then he nods once more for Scott's sake. He fishes out his keys but as soon as he pushes the bronze one into the keyhole, the front door opens. Stiles stares at dirty leather boots, then his eyes travel up and up until he has the whole picture of his very, very pissed off father.

“Where have you been, Stiles?” the Sheriff hisses. He looks at Scott then at the two other cars parked in front of the house, filled with people staring at them unabashedly. “Is that Derek Hale behind the wheel?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Dad, there's something I haven't been telling you.”

Stiles lies on his bed, face buried in the pillow. He takes his time to sit up when he hears the distinctive creaking of his window being opened and closed. It's dark outside and the only light in his room shines from the table lamp. It outlines Derek's figure with silver hue; his soft-looking hair, his carefully trimmed beard, his leather jacket. Stiles spends a few seconds simply watching.

“How did it go?” Derek asks, sitting down next to Stiles. Close, so close.

Stiles rubs his eyes tiredly. “You wasn't listening to anything?” he asks in a hushed voice. He doesn't want to wake his dad up. After the long conversation they’d spent having all afternoon and evening, he supposes his dad is going to have a light sleep tonight.

While Derek seems to be coming up with a pleasing answer, his gaze slides down Stiles' body. A small satisfied smirk tugs at his lips. Stiles looks down, befuddled. Oh, he's still wearing Derek's clothes.

“Just the first half,” Derek says. “Then it got a bit…”

“Personal,” Stiles finishes. ”Thanks,” he breathes.

After he and Scott had pushed the Sheriff back into the house, Stiles thought it would be for the best to start explaining with a practical presentation of the supernatural and had Scott show Sheriff his fangs in the Beta form. It was, well–

“After the epic revelation, dad told Scott to leave us alone, he...”

“Yelled at you,” Derek says. Stiles snorts.

“Yeah, you heard that, then.”

“I think the whole neighborhood did.”

Stiles grins. “Good. We don't want any calm or God forbid peaceful days around here. Mrs. Peterson wouldn't have anything to gossip about.”

The Sheriff didn't believe Stiles at first even after seeing the proof with his own eyes, but then Stiles watched something click in his head. The unresolved cases, the inexplicable accidents, the weird coincidences.

“He was just trying to understand, I guess,” Stiles continues. “He was angry at me for not telling him sooner.”

Derek leans closer. “He was angry at himself, not at you.”

Stiles gazes into Derek's eyes, trying to understand. “Why would he be angry at himself?”

“For being blind to it the whole time.”

Stiles nods. It makes sense in its own twisted way. The Sheriff said he should have realized everything sooner and on his own. Well, after he calmed down and stopped yelling.

“He said he blamed himself,” Stiles says. “It's strange. All this time I was blaming myself, and suddenly my dad takes it over from me.” He chuckles.

They went to sit down in the living room. Stiles had made them tea and put the mugs down on the coffee table. The Sheriff had Stiles tell him everything. “Tell me everything,” he said. “From your perspective. Every case you and your friends were mingling in. What really happened.”

It took a long time and Stiles' throat hurt after he finished, but his dad listened intently to every word Stiles let out, not to miss any small detail.

“He was cool after that,” Stiles says to Derek. “Actually more than I thought he would be, you know, with me lying to him all these years.”

“He's a good man.”

Stiles grins. “He's the best. You know that I'm officially banned from seeing you, guys?”

Derek raises his eyebrow.

“Right? Like that would ever stop me.” Stiles laughs. “All this time I was worried about his safety and it never occurred to me that in the end, it's going to end up with my dad worrying about mine.”

Derek snorts. “Because you're an idiot.”

“I definitely feel like one.”

“So,” Derek tilts his head slightly, and it brings out the long column of his throat for Stiles to see. “You're not going to stop seeing us?”

“Hell no,” Stiles says immediately. “And my dad will eventually come around anyway. I know him and he knows me. He just needs to sleep on it and realize that when the other half of my family is in danger, I have to be there with them.”

“I'm glad you think of us as family.”

“And what else? We are family. You all proved it to me today,” Stiles says. “And you know what? I'm glad you're showing some emotions, finally! That's some serious progress, man.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You're so annoying.” But he says it almost fondly. Stiles cheers in victory in his head.

He pokes Derek in the ribs. “Admit it. I'm like your annoying but so sweet younger brother that you can't help but find adorable.”

Derek shakes his head. His eyes fall to Stiles' mouth. Stiles frowns, wondering if he only imagines the change in Derek's expression. The shadows obscuring half of Derek's face seem darker. “No. You're not like my brother.”

There's a long silence. Derek doesn't elaborate. It makes Stiles nervous and thrilled at the same time. He wants to hear Derek say it. Say what Stiles is like to him. He wets his lips when Derek doesn't stop looking. “What am I to you?”

Derek sighs. Then smiles. It's the smallest smile but it's a smile nonetheless. Derek actually smiles at Stiles. It's a beautiful expression. He leans forward and kisses Stiles. Softly, like he's taking care not to break this amazing but fragile growing thing between them. Stiles is stunned at first but he catches up on quickly. He follows Derek's movements, his heat, the power he's radiating, and when Derek retrieves, Stiles follows after him blindly.

Derek puts a hand on his cheek to stop him and it's the gentlest thing he's ever done to Stiles, more so than the kiss. “I'm going to go now,” he says.

Stiles pouts. “Because...?”

Derek leans in one more time and kisses him on the forehead. He stands up and goes to the window. “I want to do this right.”

Stiles feels dazed. He blinks slowly. He thinks that he knows what Derek means. So he just nods, doesn't make any remarks or jokes. He can be mature like that. Like a super responsible adult. “Okay.”

Derek rolls his eyes like he knows what exactly is going on inside Stiles' head. He opens the window and vanishes into the night.

Stiles jumps off the bed and makes a fist pump.