Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In hindsight, it probably shouldn’t come as a surprise.

Stiles generally considers himself to be a pretty intelligent guy; his GPA is second only to Lydia’s - and he still maintains that he could beat her. If it weren’t for all the nightly wanderings, research binges and general chasing after things that go bump in the night, he’s certain he’d be giving her more than a run for her money.

The point is, Stiles knows stuff. A lot of stuff, including a truly impressive number of things he’ll probably never actually need to know, but has squirreled away in his head regardless. His brain is a sponge, ready and waiting to soak up as much useless shit as he can come across.

Apparently it’s the stuff a little closer to home that he’s been having trouble with.

Stiles has always thought he had a pretty good grasp on himself (no pun intended, but second meaning also definitely true), so he really has no idea how he’s managed to miss the glaring epiphany that has just been handed to him this neon night in Derek Hale’s loft.

"I thought you liked girls?"

"I do like girls! Do you?"

"Absolutely!"

"Great."

“So, you also like boys?"

"Absolutely! Do you?"

Stiles knows stuff. This is a question he should definitely know the answer to. The anticipated response is right there on the tip of his tongue, but something about it just doesn’t quite taste right. The expected ‘no’ sits heavy on his palate. It feels like a lie.

It’s not like bisexuality is a foreign concept to him. Stiles is a worldly guy, and it’s not exactly complicated; it’s just never occurred to him to try applying it to himself. He’s definitely applying now. He’s trying it on for size, and surprisingly enough he doesn’t hate the fit.

Maybe it’s because he’s been fixated on Lydia for so long, strawberry blonde goddess that she is. No one else has really got much of a look in for years, because that’s who Stiles is. He falls too hard and too fast, and he’s too damn stubborn to give up when he’s convinced that he’s on the right track.

But recently, if Stiles actually stops and thinks about it, maybe that stopped being true a while ago; somewhere between the night his life got infiltrated by werewolves and the night Jackson’s creepy lizard self was saved by true love. That kind of shit is hard to ignore.

If he’s completely honest with himself, maybe loving Lydia had become a habit that was easier not to break, because Stiles knows himself. He loves deeply, he falls too hard and too fast, and he always, always falls for the most unattainable person possible. And if that’s not Lydia anymore, Stiles is a little terrified of what that might mean for him now.

Yeah, Caitlin. I’m pretty sure I do.

Stiles is losing time.

He thinks he’s known it for a while, but it’s like he doesn’t want to know. It keeps slipping his mind.

Maybe he’s losing that as well.

He knows he should tell the others, but there’s something stopping him. Stiles genuinely isn’t sure if it’s just him burying his head in the sand, determined to ignore the implications, or if there’s something else that’s keeping him from telling anyone about the tracts of time that he just can’t remember.

Something not entirely Stiles.

He’s not sure which terrifies him more.

Stiles isn’t sleeping, but he’s still dreaming. He has dreams that run into each other, tangle against each other, meshing together until he can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. It feels like he’s going mad, most of the time. Maybe he is. Maybe this is where he slides from lovable oddball to certifiably insane with no stops in between. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

He pinches the delicate skin of his wrists until they’re bruised and sore. He taps out a count of his fingers almost compulsively, onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten, but still he can’t quite trust that he’s awake.

He wakes up. Then he wakes up again. And again and again and again.

When is a door not a door?

He’s losing it. Isn’t quite sure how to find it again.

Stiles was young when his mom started to get sick, but not so young that he wasn’t aware of what was happening. He could see the changes in her, he watched the slow decline whilst completely powerless to stop it. He thinks it might be happening to him too. Sometimes he thinks it might be a relief if it’s happening to him, because at least that would make sense. Then he feels awful for it, because he can’t think of anything worse than putting his dad through that again.

There are no good options here, even if Stiles did get to choose.

Stiles is losing time, and he has no idea where it’s going. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t even know if it’s him doing it. He’s terrified of what answers he might find, but he knows he needs them. If he can just make himself tell somebody.

“I think I might be bi.”

Scott, god love him, takes this in his stride, seemingly more alarmed by the fact that Stiles is lying in wait in his bedroom than any revelations Stiles has to share with him.

“Ok,” he says with a sage nod, closing the door behind him and striding over to tug the curtains open and let in some light as he gives Stiles a careful look. “Is there any particular reason you’re sitting in my bedroom in the dark?”

Stiles thinks his revelation deserved a bit more of a reaction than that, but apparently his inner turmoil isn’t all that exciting to Scott nowadays.

“Yes, Scott,” he says, flailing a hand in the vague direction of himself as if that will help to explain the situation at all. “I think I might be bi. That is the reason. I’m having inner turmoil. Can you not see my turmoil? It’s very tumultuous.”

“Right, yeah,” Scott says, taking a seat on the end of the bed. “Turmoil. Got it.”

“Is that it?!” Stiles shoots Scott an incredulous look. “Could you not at least pretend to give a shit about this, because in case you hadn’t noticed I’m kind of freaking out over here.”

“No, no, Stiles. Sorry, I do give a shit, I promise.” Scott is giving Stiles his most earnest and apologetic look. “Your turmoil is my turmoil. I’m absolutely here for you,” he reaches out a hand to give Stiles a reassuring pat on the shoulder. It’s surprisingly effective. “It’s just…”

“It’s just what?! Is my sexuality crisis not exciting enough for you?”

“No! That’s not it.” Scott looks mildly alarmed at the suggestion. “It’s just that it’s not exactly surprising, you know?”

“No, Scott, I do not know.” Scott’s eyebrows have migrated a significant distance up his forehead, and Stiles is getting the distinct feeling that he’s being judged. “It was definitely surprising to me.”

“I just kind of figured it was one of those things you didn’t want to talk about.” Scott shrugs, patting Stiles’ shoulder again as if that’s going to help the situation at all. “I assumed you’d bring it up if you ever wanted to discuss it. There were a lot of clues, you know? You’re not exactly subtle, man.”

“Clues? What clues? I’m good at clues, Scotty. Clues are totally my jam. That’s kind of my thing; I see the clues, I follow the logic, I figure out the answers. It’s what I do.”

“To be fair, I didn’t realize you hadn’t noticed the clues.” Scott looks slightly constipated now. It’s not an attractive look, Stiles thinks, somewhat unkindly but not unfairly. It heralds what Stiles knows is going to be an incoming dose of uncomfortable truth. “Surely you noticed the Danny thing?”

“What Danny thing? I’m not into Danny, Scott. Just because I might be bi, doesn’t mean I’m into every guy with a compatible sexuality.”

“No, I know Stiles. I know that. But you must have noticed how often you ask him if you’re attractive to gay guys. It’s kind of a lot.”

“Well yeah, but who wouldn’t want to know that?!” Scott gives him a look. “He never answers, of course I’m going to keep asking! I’m a curious guy, Scotty, I need to know these things.”

“Yeah, Stiles. Bi-curious. And then there was the thing when you thought you were going to be a virgin sacrifice and he offered to, you know, help out. And you were kind of… pretty on board with that plan?”

“He was joking, Scott,” Stiles says flatly.

Scott shrugs. “Yeah, but you weren’t.”

“I thought I was going to be a ritual sacrifice. I think most people would agree to take it up the ass if it was a choice between that and death, Scotty,”

“Yeah, but you didn’t even seem put out at the idea. You seemed like even without the ritual sacrifice thing you would still be up for it.” Scott shrugs again. “And then there’s the Derek thing.”

“Derek thing? What Derek thing? There isn’t a Derek thing.”

Scott looks even more constipated now, which can only mean Stiles really isn’t going to like what he’s about to say.

“Sorry dude, but there’s definitely a Derek thing. It’s like you can’t help yourself every time he’s around, there’s all this sexual tension and pigtail pulling, and you check him out like, every time you think he’s not looking.”

“I don’t do that! I don’t even like him. The guy’s like, a brooding pillar of man-pain and terrible decisions. I spend most of my time arguing with him about the terrible decisions he keeps trying to make. He’s ridiculous. And don’t try to tell me you’ve never checked him out Scotty, the guy is built. Even a straight guy has to appreciate that level of good looking, it’s undeniable.”

Scott gives him a look. Now, hearing himself speak, it does occur to Stiles that maybe Scott actually hasn’t ever checked Derek out. Because that maybe isn’t a thing that totally straight guys do. It almost definitely is a thing that not-totally-straight guys do, though, because Stiles challenges anyone with even an ounce of attraction to men not to want to get a good look at all of that.

“Oh god, there’s totally a Derek thing, isn’t there? How did I not notice this Scotty? Why did you not tell me?”

“I thought you knew, man.” Scott’s expression has morphed into something apologetic, like he’s realized how much he’s been slacking in his best friend duties recently if he’s let Stiles go oblivious to his apparently gargantuan Derek shaped crush all this time. “I mean, it was kind of obvious.”

“How obvious?” the color drains from Stiles’ face. “Oh god, does everyone know? Does Derek know?! He’s going to kill me. I’m going to be dead. He’s actually going to kill me and bury me in the preserve and no one is ever going to see me again. This is a nightmare.” Scott is patting Stiles’ shoulder reassuringly again. “I mean, Lydia has definitely noticed. And Allison, and I’m pretty sure Isaac.”

Stiles groans, flinging himself backwards onto the bed and dragging Scott’s pillow over his face. “How does everyone know when I didn’t even know? Why did no one tell me?”

“I think they were just respecting that you didn’t want to talk about it, man. If it helps, I actually don’t think Derek knows. He’s never acted like he noticed, and none of us would ever tell him. Maybe he just thinks you always smell like you’re aroused around him because you’re perpetually horny. He probably hasn’t realized he’s the reason.”

“Oh god, this just gets worse,” Stiles groans. “I smell aroused around him? Everyone can smell that? Just kill me now, Scotty, it would be kinder. I’m too embarrassing to live.”

“Only the wolves,” Scott offers with a shrug, as if most of the people they know aren’t blessed with a supernatural sense of smell. “It’s really not that bad, man.”

“I can’t believe everyone knew I was bi before I did. This is mortifying.”

Scott pats his knee. “We’re the only two people who know you didn’t know, dude. We can just pretend you were totally in touch with yourself this whole time. The others won’t know any better.”

Stiles snorts. Even in the midst of an internal crisis he can’t let innuendo like that go without acknowledgement. Scott drags the pillow off Stiles’ face and grins at him, giving him an amiable nudge to the shoulder. “All good with the sexuality crisis for today? I hate to break it to you, man, but we kind of have to get to school and I’ve got a whole load of shit from last night to catch you up on.”

It wasn’t the conversation he went there to have. The words he was supposed to say were right there on the tip of his tongue. He’d been rehearsing them as he sat there in the dark in Scott’s room, phosphorescent key burning a hole in his pocket and chalk dust still gritty on his fingertips.

Part of him is glad they had it. Normal teenage issues make a nice change from the usual supernatural bullshit, but they aren’t the words he needed to get out.

I think it was me, Scotty. I had the key. The handwriting on the board was mine. I don’t remember, but I think I’m the one we're looking for. I’m losing time, and I think I might be trying to kill people.

He was about to say them. He wanted to say them, to let Scott know.

He thinks.

He doesn’t know what stopped him. Was he scared of what Scott would say? Was he scared Scott wouldn’t believe him? Was he scared Scott would believe him?

Is it even him that did the stopping? Stiles isn’t sure. He hates that he isn’t sure. He can’t trust his own mind, can’t even trust his mouth to say the things he needs it to say.

It’s fine.

He’ll see Scott at school, he can tell him then.

It’s fine.

When did he last sleep?

Stiles can't remember. Or maybe it's less that he can't remember and more that he had no idea in the first place. Is he asleep now? He doesn’t know.

He feels tired to the bone. He probably shouldn't have driven to school. It’s as bad as driving drunk. Maybe worse. Dad’s going to kill him. He doesn't even remember the journey, but he must have driven or how else did he get here?

Is he here? Is he even awake?

Yeah, Stiles is losing it. Scott's looking at him like he's lost his mind. What are they talking about again?

They key. The writing on the board. Stiles' writing. He's the one trying to kill people, but Scott's still giving him that look. Scott doesn't believe him. Stiles isn't sure he believes himself, but that's the way all the evidence is pointing. He’s good with evidence. It doesn’t lie.

Get a grip, Stiles. Wake up. Is it possible to be this tired if you're already asleep? He has no idea. He feels so sluggish, like his thoughts are underwater and they can’t find their way to the surface.

Everything is sort of fuzzy around the edges. Like he's here but not. Is he dreaming? Is any of this even real?

Go home, Stiles. You need to take a sick day. That's what Scott's telling him.

Does this count as being sick, or is this just Stiles now? The darkness has taken hold around his heart and this is how it's left him.

He needs to sleep. He's terrified of falling asleep. Did he close the door? Did he close it quickly enough? Stiles doesn't know. He hates not knowing things.

Take a sick day, Stiles.

Maybe he is sick. Maybe he's really sick. Maybe he needs to go and get checked out.

He's losing time. He's asleep, but he's not. He's dreaming, but he's awake. He's sleepwalking. He doesn't know where he's been. Or does he? He might be trying to kill people. That’s what the evidence says

Scott's giving him another look. He looks worried.

Don't panic, Stiles.

Don't. Panic.

He manages to make himself nod in agreement. He's tired. He needs to take a sick day. Scott's right. Is he safe to drive? He can't stay here.

He drags himself to his jeep, points himself in the direction of home.

He doesn't remember the drive, but he's not at his house. Did he drive here? Did he just arrive? That’s what happens in dreams.

Melissa's here. He's at the hospital. Did he mean to drive himself here? He's so damn tired. He doesn't want to fall asleep. He's not in control when he's asleep.

He lets Melissa tuck him into a hospital bed, smooth his hair back off his forehead. He feels like a kid again. He wants his mom. She’d know what to do; she always did.

Maybe he really is sick. Melissa doesn't suffer fools, she would've sent him home if he was alright. There's something wrong, he needs to see a doctor. Don't tell Dad. I don't want him to worry.

Melissa looks worried.

“You need to sleep, Stiles. You're severely sleep deprived.”

He doesn’t want to. He’s scared to fall asleep. Sleep is when he’s not in control. The world starts to fade away. A gentle hand brushes through his hair.

He sleeps.

The evidence doesn’t lie.

Stiles’ head is clearer since his trip to the hospital, and he needs to start piecing things together whilst he still can. He slept for hours. Longer than he’s ever slept in one go before, but he’s still so damn tired. The thoughts move more freely now, though. He can pull them together and start to build conclusions.

Time to figure out his own head.

He pulls the posters down from his walls, opens his drawers and fishes out the different colors of yarn. Green for solved, red for unsolved. Blue is pretty.

He opens up the computer and starts to research. He feels a little more secure here, a little more like himself. This is something he knows; something he’s good at. He searches and searches, prints out pictures and articles. Scrawls over them. Pins them up on the walls. Looks for the links, starts to connect them together.

Green for solved, red for unsolved. He’s going to need more red. A lot more red.

Still, this feels like progress. It feels like he’s doing something, not just sitting back and letting it happen.

He rubs at his eyes. They feel dry and bloodshot; he’s been at it for hours. He lets them drift shut. Just needs to rest them for a second. He’s not falling asleep, too much to do. Just resting them.

Only for a moment.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t mean to. He was at home, in his room and he was figuring it all out. Red string everywhere. Now he doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t remember getting there. He hasn’t been to this place before. He must have been sleepwalking again.

It’s cold here. It’s dark. He can’t feel his fingers properly. He can’t move. There’s something wrong with his leg.

Don’t panic, Stiles. Come on, please don’t panic. If you start panicking now you won’t be able to stop. Got to keep it together. Call Scotty, he’ll be able to find you. He can come and sniff you out.

Don’t tell Dad. Dad can’t know. Don’t want to worry him. Don’t want him to come to this place, it doesn’t seem safe.

It’s freezing. Need to get out of here. It isn’t safe.

There’s someone else here with him. Definitely not safe.

He needs to get out of here. The others need to find him. He’s not alone.

Who are you?

“Not ‘who are you’, Stiles. Who are we?”

Who are we?Who are we?Who are we?

“Everyone has it but no one can lose it, what is it?”

What is it?What is it?What is it?

It’s freezing. He hurts.

He’s not shivering anymore.

Stiles is losing it.

Everyone thinks so, and Stiles doesn’t disagree. He can’t sleep. He can’t stay awake. He can’t tell what’s a dream and what’s real. He’s hallucinating. He’s sleepwalking.

He nearly froze to death because he sleepwalked himself to the middle of the preserve and still didn’t wake up.

Frontotemporal dementia took his mom from them. Now it might be trying to take Stiles too.

Who are we?

Stiles doesn’t know anymore. Is this supernatural or is it just his brain? Which one is worse?

They need to do some tests.

Stiles has never wanted the bite, not really. A traitorous little part of him has been tempted, but he knows deep down that he’s never truly wanted it.

He’d take it though, if it’s a choice between being a werewolf and this. That’s not even a choice, really. His dad already looks like his world is ending, and Stiles can’t be the one to do that to him. Not again.

Scott hugs him and makes the offer. Stiles hugs him back, and Scott knows he agrees.

Would it even work, though?

It’s never that easy. Not for Stiles.

They do the tests.

His brain is deteriorating. Or is it?

Everyone has it but no one can lose it. What is it?

If you answer correctly I might let them go.

What is it, Stiles?

He was in a basement and he wasn’t alone. Except he wasn’t in a basement, he was in his own head.

But he still wasn’t alone.

Maybe it should come as a relief to know what’s happening to him. It doesn’t. He almost wishes it was frontotemporal dementia, then he feels terrible for it. At least the bite might have been able to cure that.

Then again, the tests showed atrophy. Maybe it’s both, maybe that’s how the Nogitsune got in. Maybe that’s why it chose him rather than Scott or Allison. That seems like the kind of luck he’d have; dying of a horrible disease and possessed by an evil fox spirit. Luck probably doesn’t get much worse than that.

He’s still losing time. He knows why, now, but that comes with its own horrors.

At least before he thought it was his own hindbrain in control, going through the motions whilst he wasn’t with it enough to remember. The truth is so much worse.

The missing pockets of time stand out so starkly to him now. It’s horrifying to think about what his body has been out doing whilst he’s locked away, but he can’t think about anything else. It’s like picking at a scab or poking at a bruise, he knows he shouldn’t, he knows it’s going to hurt, but he can’t quite leave it alone.

If he thinks about it hard enough he can start to recall snippets of memories that aren’t his own. He can feel the Nogitsune there, though, on the edge of his mind, waiting. It feels dangerous, like the more he reaches towards the memories that aren’t his, the more he’ll let the Nogitsune in. The more he’ll lose control.

He tries to stop thinking about it.

He can’t.

Take a peek, Stiles. Have a look at what you’ve been doing. Aren’t you awful, Stiles. Look a little harder, go on.

The Nogitsune is laughing at him.

It keeps leaving him with clues. It wants him to know what he’s been doing now that it doesn’t have to hide anymore - it’s taunting him with it. Setting a trap and leaving Stiles with just enough clues to try and figure out how to stop it in time. It’s playing with him.

He gets Coach shot. He gets his dad’s office blown up. He fills Derek with shrapnel.

He’s not clever enough, not quick enough, not good enough to stop it.

The Nogitsune is winning.

He gets Scott stabbed. He twists the sword.

He remembers every second of it without even trying, and part of him wonders if it even was the Nogitsune this time. Maybe that was him.

He can’t do this anymore.

They need to lock him up.

Eichen is worse than he imagined. Almost as soon as he arrives, he realizes that this might have been a terrible mistake. The Nogitsune is hovering around the edges of his mind, pushing to get through. The wolf lichen is holding it off, mostly, but Stiles doesn’t know how long for. It feels like a losing battle.

There’s something about this place. It feels like the Nogitsune’s domain, more than it is Stiles’. He sees it, now, outside of himself. He’s not sure if he’s hallucinating, or if it’s just finding another way now its access to Stiles’ body has been cut off. For now.

It’s causing chaos. It feeds off chaos, and Stiles has brought it to the most chaotic place he can think of.

This was a mistake. He needs to leave.

They aren’t going to let him.

Morrell is here. At least she doesn’t think he’s crazy. That doesn’t stop her from knowing he’s dangerous.

He needs to stay awake. He hasn’t been sleeping, but now that he knows how important it is staying awake seems like the hardest thing to do. She’s going to kill him if he doesn’t stay awake. Stiles doesn’t blame her; she probably should. She should probably do it now rather than waiting. Now would be safer for everyone else.

He’s not telling her that though, even though he should. He’s selfish. He wants to live, even if it means letting the Nogitsune use him some more. He can’t leave his dad. Not ever, but especially not like that. He’s a terrible person, he should be thinking about the greater good, but mostly he’s scared of dying. He’s even more scared that it might be one of his friends that has to do it.

His dad wouldn’t be able to. Scott could, but it would destroy him. Derek would do it, but he would never forgive himself. He’s got so much guilt already, Stiles isn’t sure how much more he can carry before the weight becomes too much to bear. Stiles doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want the Nogitsune to know about those thoughts. He’s pretty sure it would use them.

If one of them has to do it, Stiles hopes it’s Argent. He would feel bad about it, but Stiles knows where his priorities lie. Argent will always think about the greater good, how he can protect the greatest number of people. He’ll be able to justify it in a way that outweighs his guilt. It should be him.

Fuck, he hopes it doesn’t come to that though. He hates feeling this hopeless.

The lichen’s mark is fading. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it off for. It’s going to make him watch everything, Stiles knows. It’ll make him a passenger in his own body, watching himself do terrible things, unable to stop it. The Nogitsune feeds off pain, and it knows exactly how to hurt Stiles the most.

Don’t fall asleep. You have to stay awake. No matter what.

LET ME IN, STILES. LET ME IN.

Malia wakes him. He panics for a second, checks the Lichen’s mark and breathes an unsteady sigh of relief. Still there. Fading but there, holding the Nogitsune at bay. He’s still himself. Just about.

He hopes.

Malia doesn’t think he’s crazy either, but she doesn’t know how dangerous he is. She helps him, manages to get him to the basement. Stiles isn’t sure why, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s running out of time; he needs her help. He really hopes it doesn’t come back to bite her.

She helps him search the basement. He’s not sure what they’re looking for, but he can feel that there’s something here. Something important. He needs to find it whilst he still can. How much time has he got left? It can’t be long.

Malia checks the marks for him, fingertips freezing against his skin. They’re nearly gone.

He’s not sure how they end up on the couch. They’re still meant to be searching for something, he thinks, but instead he’s got Malia on top of him, pressing kisses against his skin. He lets his hands drift over her, just lets himself feel. It’s nice. It’s the most like himself he’s felt in forever.

This isn’t how he thought his first time would go, no candles and rose petals. No Lydia Martin. But it doesn’t feel wrong.

It probably should feel wrong.

Maybe it’s a distraction.

Another trick.

He doesn’t have much time left, and he’s wasting it.

Or is he? The Nogitsune is going to take over and then what? He doesn’t want to die a virgin, and this is probably his only chance. Malia wants this - is asking him for it. Stiles has been wanting this forever, only lacking a willing partner. It doesn’t feel wrong.

It doesn’t feel right either.

Malia’s hand slides down, cups him through the rough fabric of his Eichen-issued sweatpants.

There were a lot of things he’d worried about, when it came to finally having sex.

Not knowing where to put his hands, not making his partner feel good enough, tripping over his own feet and injuring himself before they can get to the main event. Generally just embarrassing himself. His biggest concern has always been going off too early; he can safely say that not even getting it up was a problem he’d never anticipated.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, mortified, “this has never…”

Malia shrugs, pressing another kiss against his lips and pulling her hand away. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not you, I promise. You’re great. Any other time I’d be so into this, you don’t even know.” he rubs a hand over his face, tries to shake off the humiliation. “There’s kind of been a lot going on. A lot of stress, you know. I haven’t been myself.”

Isn’t that just an understatement and a half. Truthfully, he doesn’t even remember the last time he even so much as jerked off.

Perhaps this shouldn’t have been a surprise.

“It’s fine, I get it. This place doesn’t really do it for me either.” Malia shrugs again, pulls her shirt back on and manipulates his body until he’s lying on his side. She curls up in front of him, pulls his arm around her and holds it there. It’s nice. Strangely cozy for a basement from his nightmares.

She’s so accepting; it’s more than he deserves. Maybe once all of this is over - if Stiles makes it through - maybe there could be something there.

It’s a big if.

He doesn’t know what makes her move, but Stiles follows. He’d forgotten they were supposed to be looking for something, but apparently Malia has been thinking about it and something has caught her attention. A symbol on the wall.

There’s a body. Busting through the wall with a pipe is strangely cathartic for a moment before Stiles takes stock of what it is that’s actually in there. It’s what he’s been searching for. It’s the Nogitsune, or at least it used to be.

Is this the fate that awaits him? Body wrapped in bandages and hidden in a basement like some kind of creepy cliche mummy ready to terrorize the next person’s dreams.

Stiles doesn’t want to touch it, but Malia doesn’t seem to care, fishing in its pockets and pulling out a photograph. It’s old, but there’s a familiar looking face.

Kira?

It happens so quickly. He’s looking at the picture, then he’s on the floor. He’s strapped to a chair. It’s going to hurt Malia. She doesn’t deserve this. She shouldn’t even be here. It’s Stiles’ fault. All he ever does is get people hurt. He can’t let them hurt her.

Let me in, Stiles. I won’t hurt her if you let me in.

He lets it in.

He climbs out of a dirty pile of bandages on Scott’s living room floor, and he can’t quite make himself believe it. He had been so hopeless. So trapped. He’d tried to fight it, but it had been no use. Then he’d tried to hide, tried to squirrel himself away in the deepest recesses of his mind so he didn’t have to watch. That had been no use either. The Nogitsune had wanted him to watch. It had wanted him to suffer, so it could feed on his pain.

It had worked.

He stands up on shaky legs, takes stock of his body. It doesn’t feel right. It’s a good copy, almost identical, but not quite. Just ever so slightly off. He doesn’t have time for that now, though. He’s still not sure exactly what’s going on. He’s himself, he thinks, but he can’t quite be sure anymore. He can’t trust himself.

He lets himself be nudged upstairs, lets himself be tucked into Scott’s bed like a little kid. He doesn’t feel right in his own skin. Does it even count as his own? His other body is still out there somewhere. The original. The Nogitsune owns it now.

Stiles feels sick.

He doesn’t know how Melissa can look at him like this. Like he’s someone that she cares about. He knows what this face has done, what they’ve watched it do. She should be getting as far away from him as possible, but instead she squeezes his hand, checks his vitals and looks at him like she’s worried he’s about to break.

He might be.

He lies there in the dark whilst she goes downstairs to discuss him with the others. The old him would hate that. He’d need to know what they were saying, would be stumbling his way down the stairs behind her to be part of the conversation. This Stiles doesn’t care. He’s just so damn tired.

Maybe now he’ll be able to get some rest.

Scott takes him downstairs, helps him navigate the route like he’s worried Stiles won’t make the journey without him. Perhaps Stiles should be worried when the Oni appear, but mostly it feels like a relief. Either way, they’re here to finish this. Stiles is at peace with that. They grab his neck and a chill runs through him, sets into his bones. But he’s still alive.

He’s himself.

Just not the original one. He’s not sure he’ll ever be that Stiles again.

Stiles doesn’t remember what it’s like to not be tired. He’s exhausted to the very core, and it’s only getting worse. There’s something wrong with him. Maybe this body was never meant to last. Maybe it was only ever meant as a distraction, he only exists to be a decoy now. What kind of expiry date does that come with?

He pulls his jacket tighter around him, but it makes no difference. He can’t get warm. Everything hurts. There’s something not right.

He doesn’t realize how much pain he’s in until Scott starts to drain some of it away. He doesn’t want Scott to worry. Everyone’s done enough of that. He tells Scott it’s not really pain, just a dull ache. At least if he’s in pain he’s feeling something, that has to be better than the numbness. It reminds him he’s still alive, at least for now. He knows it’s probably twisted, but he feels like he deserves the pain; it’s his penance for all the things he’s done. He remembers it all, remembers how it felt. He remembers how much he enjoyed it.

He doesn’t let Scott take any more.

He’s getting worse. It’s still better than sharing a body with the Nogitsune. If he never hears another riddle again it’ll be too soon.

He’s trying to act like his normal self. He doesn’t want them to look at him like he’s different; doesn’t want to remind them of the fact he’s been different for so long. Doesn’t want to remind them how long it took for anyone to notice. He doesn’t think he’s doing a very good job; a cheap copy in every way.

He feels drained. Wonders if he should be taking that literally. Maybe his real body is draining the life out of this one. It feels like it could be true. How much time does that leave him with?

No one’s saying it, but he can see it in the way they look at him, little glances out of the corner of their eyes. He looks like death. It’s a relief when Isaac finally states the obvious. He’s not ok. He’s not sharing a body with the Nogitsune anymore, but it might kill him yet.

If his real body is draining this one then how connected are they? Will that one keep this one alive? Will killing that one finish this one off as well? He doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to stop being the reason people keep dying; he can’t take any more blood on his hands at this point. As long as the Nogitsune goes with him, he can make peace with that; it might even be a mercy.

He’s finding it harder to keep going, but he forces himself not to stop. He needs to keep moving. The Nogitsune is his responsibility. He needs to stop it. He needs to save Lydia. She needs them.

It’s a blur after that. His new body won’t do what he needs it to. They make it to Lydia, but she says they weren’t meant to come. He tries to make it to the others, but his body won’t do it. The edges of his vision are going black. He hears Lydia’s scream as he loses consciousness and it feels like the end.

Stiles is surprised when he wakes up at the Yukimura’s. He didn’t expect to wake up at all. He'd accepted it. Made peace with his fate. He feels the ground fall away from him when he remembers; he’d heard Lydia scream. A banshee’s wail, and it wasn’t for him.

He makes himself ask the question, feels the bile rising in his throat. One of his friends is gone and it’s all his fault.

Allison.

They need a divine move.

All this time Stiles has been losing. With Allison gone it feels like he’s already lost, but he knows it can still get worse. There are still more people left that he cares about, more people left for him to lose. He just isn’t sure he’s got a divine move in him.

Still, he has to try. Even if the price he has to pay to beat the Nogitsune is his own life, he owes Allison that much.

They arrive at the school and it all starts to feel familiar. Not in a good way.

They’re in the school, but they’re not. They walk through the doors into a Japanese garden and it’s snowing - as if Stiles wasn’t already cold enough. It feels like he’s back at the beginning. Is this a dream? A hallucination? Stiles has no idea any more. He hates the feeling, so sick of the confusion. It seems real, but the Nogitsune here isn’t wearing Stiles’ face. What does that mean?

He’s so tired of this. Tired of people getting hurt, tired of the Nogitsune’s games. He should’ve predicted it, should’ve figured out where this was heading. It wants Stiles to kill himself. Wants Scott to finish him off as one cruel final twist of the blade, otherwise everyone else will die. He knows how the Nogitsune thinks by this point - has had a front row seat to the chaotic game it’s been playing. He should’ve seen it coming.

He’s freezing. He’s tired. He hurts. It doesn’t seem like too terrible a price to pay. He doesn’t have a divine move, but if he can save everyone else then that’s enough. He has Kira’s katana in his hand, knows what he has to do. It isn’t a win, but it’s close enough.

Then he sees it. It’s just a reflection in the blade of the katana, but it’s enough to make him pause.

There’s a textbook in the snow. It shouldn’t be there, and it makes him think.

He’d thought it earlier, hadn’t he? Walking into this place had felt the same as everything back at the beginning, when the Nogitsune was playing tricks on his mind. This isn’t real. The Nogitsune isn’t wearing Stiles’ face, it’s wearing the one it had before. The one that it wears in Stiles’ head. It’s not physically here; none of this is.

He throws the sword back to Kira.

The pieces all come together and he’s got his divine move.

Stiles can barely stand now. Physically he feels weak, but finally he feels like he can trust his brain. His mind has always been the thing to come through for him in the end, and this is no exception.

This is going to hurt. But that’s ok, it isn’t real. They just have to leave the room. That’s all they have to do to make it back to reality.

It works.

The Oni are gone. He can feel it; the others have managed to finish them off. It’s just the Nogitsune now, and it still thinks that breaking the illusion was Stiles’ attempt at a divine move.

That was just the start of it.

You can’t be a fox and a wolf.

Chapter Text

It’s over.

It seems stupid, but Stiles wasn’t prepared for this part. All of his focus has been on the Nogitsune since this all started, but now that it’s defeated and the dust has settled Stiles has no idea what he’s supposed to do. He didn’t expect to get to this part; it had seemed inevitable that the end of the Nogitsune was also going to be the end of Stiles. He’d prepared himself for that.

His dad drives him home, glancing over at him every few seconds as if to check he’s really still there. He’s really still him.

His dad never gave up hope, even when Stiles had none left.

“I know it’s probably not what you’re thinking about right now, son,” his dad glances over at him again, relief and worry both clear on his face in equal measure, “but I don’t know if anyone told you. The frontotemporal dementia - you don’t have it. It was another one of the Nogitsune’s tricks.”

Stiles offers a jerky nod, feels a tension ease that he hadn’t even noticed was there. He’d almost forgotten, the worry lingering in the back of his brain. Of course his dad wouldn’t have forgotten - how could he forget his worst nightmare come true?

“That’s-” his voice comes out croaky, he clears his throat and tries again, “that’s good, Dad. That’s good.”

“It is,” his dad agrees, “I’m glad we’ve got you back, son. You had us worried for a while there.”

“Me too, Dad. Me too.”

The evidence wall is still up in his room. Things have been moved around, he can tell. Little traces that the Nogitsune has left behind. He remembers watching it happen, remembers fighting as much as he could to push through and take any bit of control that he could manage.

He didn’t manage much.

He sees the little things that are just slightly out of place, and it feels like it’s done just to taunt Stiles, even in its absence.

You can’t kill me.

It hadn’t been wrong. It isn’t dead, just locked away. It’s still living here in the things it's left behind. There isn’t a part of Stiles’ life that it hasn’t managed to touch. It’s still lingering there in Stiles’ head, in the memories he’ll never quite shake off.

He tears at the paper pinned to his wall, pulls at the red string, rips up the photographs. It doesn’t get to live here anymore. Time to start trying to forget.

Easier said than done.

“You killed her, Stiles. Allison is dead and it’s all your fault.”

His room is dark, just the barest amount of moonlight creeping through a gap in the curtains. He can hear it moving, though, can see it out the corner of his eye. The rustle of bandages. The glint of silver teeth. He’ll never be rid of it

“Scott will never forgive you. He’ll do his best, he’ll pretend he doesn’t blame you, but you know it’s a lie. His first love is dead because of you. People don’t just forget something like that.”

He covers his ears with his hands, tries to block it out.

“You were weak Stiles. You let me in. It’s your fault they’re dead. Do you think any of them are going to forget? Of course not, Stiles. You killed their friends, the ones they loved. It’s all your fault.”

“Stop it,” Stiles begs. “Please, just stop.”

“Stop what, Stiles? I’m just telling you the truth. It’s what they’re all thinking. It’s what you already know. You’re a murderer, Stiles.”

“What do you want from me?” he curls in on himself, presses his hands tighter over his ears until he can hardly hear anything but the roaring of his blood. “Just leave me alone. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be gone. Go away. Please just go away.”

“I can’t do that Stiles, it’s your fault I’m still here. You’re the one keeping me here, you know. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. It’s your fault.”

The voice is closer now. He can’t block it out. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he can’t help himself. It’s right in front of him, leaning over him, laughing at him.

“What are you going to do Stiles? Weak, pathetic little Stiles, couldn’t hurt anyone. How wrong could they be, killer?”

He scrambles back against the wall, sheets tangling around his legs as he tries to get away. “Stop it. Please don’t.”

“You know what you need to do, Stiles. If you want me to go away you need to wake up. Wake up, Stiles. WAKE UP.”

He screams himself awake, voice raw and arms flailing as he tries to push away the figure in front of him, gasping sobs caught in his throat as arms wrap firmly around him, pulling him close.

“You’re awake, Son. You’re awake now, it’s okay. It’s not real, none of it was real. It’s gone, you beat it, it isn’t coming back.”

He buries his face against his dad’s shoulder and lets himself cry like he hasn’t since he was ten years old. His dad doesn’t stop talking, a reassuring murmur of words Stiles is too distressed to make out. His hands fist in the back of his dad’s shirt, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let go.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but his dad doesn’t rush him, just holds him through it until his eyes are puffy, his face blotchy and streaked with tears. When he finally pulls away he feels raw and vulnerable, exhausted to the bone even though the last thing he wants to do right now is sleep.

“Come on kiddo,” his dad offers him a small smile, reaches a hand up to squeeze the back of Stiles’ neck, “let’s get ice cream. I’ll put the oven on, we can have curly fries too.”

Stiles nods, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands to rub away the worst of the tears.

He tugs on a hoodie and follows his dad downstairs, lets himself be directed into one of the rickety kitchen chairs.

“Sorry Dad.” His voice is rough, either from the sobbing or the screaming. He doesn’t want to think about which. “You’ve got work in the morning. I’m keeping you awake.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Son. You’re the most important thing in the world to me, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now than spending time with you.”

“I was meant to be better, now that it’s gone. I don’t feel better.”

“It’ll take time, Son. It’ll take time, but you’ll get there. I know it. I know you.”

Stiles sniffs, rubs at his eyes again in an attempt to hold back any more tears. He’s pretty sure he’s all cried out for today.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“How is he?”

It’s light out now, Stiles can hear people moving around outside as they start out their day. His curtains are still tugged firmly closed, but he thinks it’s sunny. That doesn’t feel like it should be allowed, but the weather doesn’t care that Allison’s dead and Stiles is hovering somewhere on the edge of a mental break.

He’s sat on the edge of his bed; has been for hours. He doesn’t want to lie down, doesn’t want to sleep no matter how much his body needs him to. It’s not even his body. He didn’t really have the time to think about it earlier, but now that he does he can’t stop thinking about it.

It isn’t the same. Not in any way that most people would notice, but after seventeen years of living in it Stiles can tell the difference. So he sits on the edge of his bed taking stock, like he has been since he came back up to his room after post-nightmare ice cream and curly fries with his dad.

He doesn’t want to find all the little changes, but he can’t stop noticing them. It makes him feel like he’s still not himself; when it comes down to it he isn’t. Different body, broken mind - how much of him is even still Stiles anymore? How much Stiles is there left to find?

He’s been staring at his hands for longer than he can comprehend, trying not to panic about the fact that there’s a mole on the palm of his right hand that wasn’t there before, or that the little finger on his left hand that he broke once playing basketball with Scott isn’t crooked anymore. They’re still littered with little scars, but none of them are quite in the same places anymore.

It’s like the Nogitsune took everything about him and shifted it a millimeter to the left. Almost Stiles, but not quite.

He’s a little taller - only about a quarter of an inch. He isn’t sure if that’s because the Nogitsune got his height a little wrong, or just because his body had grown whilst he wasn’t in the driver's seat. He keeps tripping over his own feet, misjudging the distance when he reaches for things. It makes him feel like he’s not in control, so he just sits on his bed, stares at his hands and focuses on his breathing and the sound of voices downstairs like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

It might be.

Derek arrived ten minutes ago, knocked on the door like a real person rather than vaulting in through Stiles’ window. He isn’t sure how to feel about that. Their voices are muffled, but he can hear them anyway. They’re talking about him, but he can’t find it in himself to mind.

“He’s struggling. He’ll get through it, it’s just going to take some time. Have you heard from the others?”

“Chris has started making funeral arrangements. It looks like he’s leaving after, says he needs to get out of Beacon Hills at least for a while. Isaac wants to go with him.”

“What about Scott?”

“I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. Melissa’s looking after him.”

“Poor kid. I don’t think he ever really got over her, you know,”

“I think she was still his anchor. We’ll need to keep an eye on his control. Is Stiles asleep?”

“I don’t think so. He’s still having nightmares, had a bad one last night. I think he’s scared to fall asleep.”

“I’ll stay. You need to get to work. I can stay here with him; he shouldn’t be alone.”

“I- Yeah, that would be good, actually. Thanks, Derek. I should head off in a minute. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen. I should be home around seven.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be here.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Stiles clenches his hands against the fabric of the comforter, tries not to think about the way his fingers feel fractionally different from how they used to be.

“He’s going to be alright isn’t he, Derek?”

“He’s Stiles. He’s stronger than people give him credit for.”

He listens to his dad bustle around, changing into his uniform and gathering his things. There’s a light knock on his bedroom door before it opens, his dad’s head peeking through. “Hey kiddo, I’m heading out. Derek’s downstairs, says he’s going to stay here until I get off work.”

“Making sure I don’t go on any more murderous rampages?” He doesn’t know where it comes from, it sounds mean even to his own ears, and he wishes he could take it back. He can’t blame them. They probably should keep an eye on him. Just in case.

His dad looks distraught, comes the whole way into the room and takes a few steps closer until Stiles is in touching distance, “No Stiles. Not that. I think he’s just worried about you. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it, I just-”

His dad reaches out, brushes a hand over his hair, “I know, kiddo. I know. How about you go downstairs for a bit? Derek could probably use the company. I don’t think he gets a whole lot of that.”

“I’m not sure I’m such good company right now, Dad.”

His dad shrugs, reaching down to squeeze Stiles’ shoulder, “Maybe not, but Derek doesn’t strike me as someone who will mind. It’s no good for you being cooped up in here. Even if you only venture as far as downstairs, it’s something, right?”

“Yeah, it’s something. I’ll go down in a minute. Might just have a shower first.”

His dad nods, looking reassured. “It’s going to get better, Stiles. I promise. You’re going to get there, you just need to be patient with yourself. If you need me just call, I’ll come straight home.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

His dad offers him a small smile, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder once more before he leaves the room, pulling the door most of the way shut behind him. Stiles stares at it, the slight gap between the edge of the door and the doorframe. He feels his hands start to shake as he listens to his dad make his way down the stairs, say his goodbyes to Derek and shut the front door behind him.

His breath catches in his throat. He tries to force his lungs to work, but he can’t quite find the air as black starts to encroach on the edges of his vision.

When is a door not a door, Stiles? When is a door not a door?

Don’t let them in.

He’s panicking. Somewhere in the back of his head he knows it’s ridiculous. He knows it’s just a door that hasn’t been closed all the way. He knows it’s not a gateway to his brain for more evil fox spirits to sneak in through, but he just can’t make the air reach his lungs. His knuckles are white where they’re gripping the comforter tight enough to hurt. He’s going to pass out in a minute if he can’t calm down, but he just can’t.

He can hear the blood pounding in his ears, feels almost like he’s underwater, like he’s drowning, and then suddenly a firm hand is at his neck, pushing his head down between his knees.

“Breathe Stiles.” There’s another hand on top of his own, extricating his fingers from the fabric of the comforter and giving it a gentle squeeze before bringing it up to rest against a firmly muscled chest, “Come on, match my breath. You can do it Stiles.”

He feels Derek’s chest fill with air and does his best to match it, pulling in a shaky breath - shallow but there - then letting it go again.

“Good, now again.”

He does as he’s told, lets Derek guide him through his breaths until his vision has cleared and the worst of the panic has passed. Derek helps him sit up, stays crouched on the floor in front of him, looking at him carefully, “Alright?”

Stiles nods, draws in another shaky breath and lets it go as though to prove that he can. “Thanks,” he mutters, trying to ignore the hot feeling of embarrassment pooling in his belly. He knows he shouldn’t be ashamed, but something in him hates that Derek’s seen him like this. So weak. He’s always tried so hard not to let that be Derek’s perception of him. He wants Derek to see him as strong. Capable, despite the weaknesses of his humanity. Not as something so pathetic he can’t even manage to keep breathing over something as small as a not-quite-shut door.

“You’re welcome,” Derek says simply, like it’s just that easy.

Stiles breaks their eye contact, looking down at the floor just so that he doesn’t have to see Derek’s expression anymore. He’s too worried that it’s going to start morphing into something like pity. “Sorry. You shouldn’t have to-”

“No,” Derek interrupts him. “You don’t apologize for this. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Derek squeezes his hand. Stiles hadn’t realized he was still holding it, gripping Derek’s fingers tightly like he’s scared to let go. He loosens his grip, feels another spike of embarrassment pulsing through him as he mutters another apology.

He thinks back to that conversation in Scott’s room after the Halloween party. It feels like a lifetime ago, now. He’s hardly thought about it since, with everything that’s gone on, but he’s definitely thinking about it now. This is the first time that he’s been alone with Derek since he realized he might be bi, and in retrospect he can’t believe that he was ever so blind. He looks down at his fingers, still tangled with Derek’s, and feels like he has a beacon lit up over his head announcing it to the world.

Derek doesn’t seem to notice though, just squeezes his hand again before loosening his grip and letting Stiles pull his hand away, “It’s fine, Stiles. No apologies for that either.”

Stiles honestly isn’t entirely sure what that means, but he’s not really up to overthinking it right now. Not when he’s still shaky and exhausted from a panic attack. He feels like he could sleep for a week, but there’s nothing he wants to do less right now than let himself dream. Rather than try to draw out anything further from Derek he just offers a jerky nod. It feels like a lie. How is he ever meant to stop apologizing for any of this?

“Do you know what set it off?” Derek’s voice is gentle. Careful in a way he usually isn’t with Stiles. Though maybe that’s not fair; it’s been a while now since Derek has been outright hostile towards him. Stiles isn’t sure when that changed, but somewhere along the way it has. Gone are the days when Derek was pushing him up against walls and bashing his head against steering wheels - though maybe Stiles wouldn’t mind a bit more of the former in his life again, in a decidedly more friendly context this time.

“The door,” Stiles croaks out, glancing over at it again. It’s wide open now, presumably from Derek bursting in at the sound of his racing heart and reedy breaths, “The Nogitsune. There were a lot of riddles. When is a door not a door?”

Derek’s mouth flattens into a grim line and he nods in understanding, “It was left ajar.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, burying his face in his hands to hide the wince, “I- There was a dream. Right back when we’d just done the ice bath thing to find our parents. The Nemeton was at school, in one of the classrooms. It shot out some vines to grab me and I woke up in here, in bed with Lydia. I kind of knew it was weird for her to be there, but I got distracted by the door opening, just a tiny bit. It felt wrong, like I knew it needed to be shut, but when I went over to it I couldn’t help myself. I opened it and walked through.”

He scrubs his hands through his hair. Derek doesn’t say anything, just waits for him to go on.

“I think that’s when it got in, Derek. That’s when I let it in. The door was ajar, and I just went ahead and threw it open. That’s on me. My fault.”

“I don’t know about you, Stiles, but I’m not really in the habit of blaming people for things they didn’t even know they were doing. You held it off as much as you could, and when it came down to it you managed to beat it. That’s what matters, Stiles.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“I know. It takes time.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do.” Stiles lifts his head out of his hands to look back at Derek, receives a small hint of a smile in return, “It’s a work in progress, but I’m getting there slowly. So will you. Now let’s go downstairs. I’ll make breakfast and you can subject me to the worst Netflix has to offer.”

“You can cook?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Stiles.”

Derek stands, holding out his hand. Stiles takes it, letting himself be pulled up to standing by Derek’s firm grip. It feels like a promise, and Stiles feels ever so slightly lighter.

Derek can, in fact, cook. Stiles trails downstairs after him, lets himself be herded towards the kitchen table and sits on the one chair with slightly uneven legs. He likes it, it gives him something to focus on as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, a gentle rock that usually drives his dad insane to watch.

He’s never tried to fix it, though.

There’s a full, steaming pot of coffee waiting in the machine. Derek heads over to it, pours two cups and tops one off with cream before setting it down in front of Stiles without a word. Stiles wraps his hands around it, tries to imagine the warmth from the mug seeping into the rest of him. He doesn’t feel that bone deep chill anymore, like he did when the Nogitsune was still linked to him, but he still doesn’t quite feel warm either. It’s like a phantom cold, still clinging to his skin, giving him that little hint of doubt. What if?

He takes a quick gulp of too-hot coffee, tries to chase the fear away with the burn of liquid down his throat. It’s too hot, it stings a little, makes his tongue feel raw, but it’s better than cold. He’s felt more than enough of that recently.

Derek gives him a look but doesn’t comment, just turns back to where he’s started dicing onions and peppers. Stiles doesn’t even know where they came from; his dad never buys fresh vegetables, and he doubts a healthy balanced diet had been one of the Nogitsune’s priorities.

“Did you go grocery shopping?”

Derek slides the vegetables into a bowl and starts chopping chorizo. That definitely wasn’t already in the kitchen. “Yes, Stiles. I do know how.” Derek shoots an amused little glance over his shoulder that makes something warm and pleasant flare up in Stiles’ stomach.

“Really? I figured you just tore apart defenseless little woodland creatures to get your protein in,” Stiles quips, taking another sip of coffee for something to do with his hands.

“Only as a special treat.” Derek grins, looking more pleased than he has any right to. It makes that warm feeling in Stiles’ stomach spread a little further, little tendrils of it creeping up into his chest. Derek doesn’t look like that enough; Stiles can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s seen a genuine smile from him.

“I meant for us,” Stiles clarifies, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen with the hand not wrapped around his mug.

Derek shrugs, still looking pleased, “I figured you probably haven’t had much time to get chores done recently,” he says, as though Stiles has been a bit caught up with homework rather than spending the past few weeks possessed by an evil fox.

Stiles snorts, turns the mug around in his hands and watches the coffee slosh back and forth, “Yeah, I’ve been kind of busy.” It doesn’t come out as bitter as he expects it to. It sounds more like a joke than he thought he was capable of right now, dark as things have been in his mind since he got it back.

Derek shoots another little warm look at him, and Stiles realizes maybe that’s the reason why Derek looked so pleased after his woodland creature quip. It was weak, definitely not Stiles’ A-game, but it was a little hint of normal Stiles humor that he hadn’t even noticed himself offering. He’d sounded like himself for the first time in a long time, and it gives him a tiny spark of hope that maybe he can get back there again.

Derek fires up the burner, starts doing things with ingredients and pans like he actually knows what he’s doing - because apparently he does. Stiles doesn’t know why that’s so surprising to him. Maybe it’s the lack of a functional kitchen in most of the places Derek has lived since he appeared in Stiles’ life, but he never would have imagined this Derek, competently moving around the kitchen, folded tea towel draped over his shoulder for chef-like reasons that remain a mystery to Stiles. Why do people do that?

He reaches for his phone to look it up, quickly realizing that it isn’t there. He isn’t sure when he last saw it, come to think about it. Probably some time around the final showdown with the Nogitsune.

“It’s in the living room,” Derek says, startling Stiles a little as he appears with the coffee jug to top up Stiles’ mug. “Your dad said he plugged it in there for you. Didn’t want the notifications disturbing your sleep.”

“Are there any? I can’t imagine anyone particularly wants to talk to me right now.”

“They do.” Derek slides into the seat opposite him, “If the others haven’t messaged it’s probably because they’re giving you space. They’re worried about you.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. Anything he has to say right now will come out sounding self-pitying, and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Derek to tell him how much everyone cares about him, because he’s not sure anything will make him believe it right now. He doesn’t know how they could, after everything that’s happened.

Derek doesn’t push the matter, just stands up and heads back over to finish making breakfast with a gentle squeeze of Stiles’ shoulder.

He’s quiet again after that, until Derek returns with two plates of food, “We eating here or in front of the TV?”

Stiles shrugs, unable to summon the ability to care either way, so Derek sets the plate down in front of him and slides back into the seat opposite. “I’m not going to make you talk about it,” Derek says, passing some cutlery over to him, “but they care. It’s only been a day, and they’re all still figuring out how to deal with everything in their own ways, but they care about you. I think they’re mostly worried about making things worse.”

Stiles shifts a piece of pepper back and forth before stabbing it with his fork, bringing it to his mouth for a taste. It’s good, sort of smoky with a little punch of heat at the end. He should be starving, by all rights. He’s barely eaten since he stopped being possessed - couldn’t stomach anything much whilst the Nogitsune was draining him, feeling more empty than hungry even now.

He can’t bring himself to do much more than pick at his food, pushing it around his plate and working up to each mouthful as he thinks about what it would be like to see any of his friends at this moment. They probably aren’t wrong, if what Derek says is true. The thought of seeing any of them right now makes his breath catch in his throat, the prickle of guilt creeping across his skin. “Allison’s dead.”

“Yes." Derek’s foot creeps out, toe nudging Stiles’ ever so slightly, and Stiles lets it comfort him. He takes a breath in, holds it, lets it go. Does it again. “No one blames you for that.”

“I blame me for that.”

“I know,” Derek says, “but that doesn’t make it your fault.”

Stiles gives a disbelieving snort, focuses on stabbing at a piece of chorizo so he can push it around his plate and save himself from having to make eye contact with Derek. He doesn’t think he can be that vulnerable right now.

“Come on,” Derek says, picking up his plate and moving to stand, “let’s eat in front of the TV after all. No more big conversations today unless you want them.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and follows him through, settling in his usual spot on the sofa and watching as Derek scrolls through the channels until he ends up on some inoffensive home renovation show.

“Were you not worried about making things worse?” He picks up a thread of the conversation from before, the part he’s most curious about. The rest makes him feel anxious, but Derek is here and Stiles still isn’t really sure why.

Derek shrugs, settling into the armchair Stiles’ dad usually favors, “I know what it’s like to feel that kind of guilt. I figured it’d be hard to make things worse, so I might as well try for better.”

Stiles tucks his legs up under himself, grabs the throw from the back of the sofa to tug over himself. Derek should look out of place here, taking up space in Stiles’ domain like this. He doesn’t, though. He looks like protection, safety, comfort.

Against all odds, a friend.

Stiles quirks up the corner of his mouth in a meager offer of a smile and takes a forkful of breakfast. He could have been alone here today - probably would have thought that he’d prefer it, being left to stew in his guilt and fear and self-loathing. He would’ve been wrong though. It is better, having Derek here, and Derek deserves to know that.

“Thanks.”

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Derek stays until Stiles’ dad gets home, lounging on the armchair watching crappy daytime TV and making sure to drag Stiles back into the moment whenever he senses that Stiles is starting to slip. It’s not good, exactly, but it’s comfortable and easy in its own way. It’s better than any day he’s had in a long time, and that’s about as much as he can hope for.

His dad bursts through the front door, arms laden with a quantity of pizza that Stiles would never usually let him get away with. One of them, at least, has vegetables on it, so he lets that placate him for today. Derek starts to stand, making his excuses now that Stiles won’t be alone, but the Sheriff dumps the stack of pizzas into his arms instead.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Derek. I ordered enough for three, and that’s taking into account a werewolf appetite. I’ve seen how much Scott can put away nowadays. You two start serving up whilst I go and get changed.”

So they do. They put an old ball game on the TV and crowd around it, plates laden with pizza, and Stiles lets himself bask in the feeling of being sat here watching the game with his dad. It’s different, having Derek here too, but it’s good; apparently Derek can hold his own when it comes to passionate discussions of the intricacies of the game, as fervent in his opinions as Stiles and his dad.

Just for a little while he feels normal. There’s no mention of the supernatural, of any crises that need to be dealt with, no mention of how Stiles is feeling or what’s happening with the rest of the pack. It’s unexpected, and it’s exactly what he needs.

Derek heads out once they’ve watched the last inning, lets the Sheriff load him up with leftovers and gives Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze by way of saying goodbye on his way out the door. It feels strangely quiet once he’s gone, even if neither of them talked all that much most of the time he was there.

“Good day?” His dad asks once he’s locked up the door, giving Stiles an appraising look that he tries not to squirm under.

“Not bad,” he replies. “Better than I thought.”

“Sometimes that’s all we can ask for, Son.”

His phone sits on his bedside table. He can feel its presence, like it’s calling to him, compelling him to check it no matter how much he’d rather avoid the matter. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t know if he wants there to be messages waiting for him or not, doesn’t know what he wants them to say if there are.

He’s been staring at it for a while.

Eventually, when the compulsion gets too strong for him to resist, he reaches for it. It feels somehow unfamiliar in these new hands, slight though the differences are. He tries not to think about that, runs his thumb over the home button and presses it with a shaky breath.

The messages at the top are from his dad, sent whilst he was out at work. Reminders that he’s there if Stiles needs him, a heads up that he’s on his way home with food, one that just says he loves him. He feels the telltale prickle of tears at the backs of his eyes and rubs at them harshly to try and hold it back. Not now.

Most of the notifications are just spam, marketing emails and reminders from the dumb games he plays when he needs something to do with his hands.

There’s a text from Melissa, asking how he’s feeling and if there’s anything she can do for him. Another from Kira, just a picture of a couple of dogs dressed up like Batman and Robin. Nothing from Lydia.

Nothing from Scott.

He clicks the screen off, lets out a sharp exhale. He should’ve expected that, and yet somehow it takes him by surprise. If there’s anything that he’s been able to trust in his life so far, it’s that Scott will always be there for him when it really matters. But then that was before. Now, in this new world where Scott’s first love is dead and it’s Stiles’ fault, it’s impossible to know where they stand anymore.

His phone buzzes in his hand, lighting up the screen with an incoming message.

Derek
Don’t overthink it. Sometimes it’s hard to know what to say, it doesn’t mean they don’t care.

Stiles
Thanks. For that and for today. I’m glad you decided to try for better.

Derek
You’re welcome.

Derek texts him the next morning to see how he’s doing. Not great, is the truthful answer. It had been another rough night, with not a lot of sleep and a whole lot of nightmares. He starts to type out a noncommittal ‘yeah, fine’, before quickly backspacing through it. If there’s anyone he can tell the truth to, it's Derek - he’s shown that he deserves that much.

Stiles
Bad night. Still here and in control of my own body though, so that has to count for something.

Derek
Want me to come over today?

Stiles
Nah, it’s ok. Dad’s off work. He says Melissa’s going to come over later to prod me and make sure I’m not about to wither away. Have fun lurking and growling, or whatever it is you get up to in your free time.

Derek
Text me if you change your mind. I’ll come.

Stiles
Noted.

Thanks.

His phone is silent for a minute after that. Stiles turns it slowly in his hands as he works up to getting dressed. It feels like a lot of effort to go downstairs right now; he loves his dad, but there’s a part of him that feels like he has to put on a performance of being ok. He hates it when his Dad worries about him, can’t stand being the one to put that expression on his face.

The phone buzzes again in his hands, enough of a pause that Stiles thinks Derek might have been wondering whether or not to carry on the conversation.

Derek
Not lurking and growling. I do occasionally do things unrelated to being a werewolf.

Stiles
Oh yeah? Like what?

Derek
Macrame.

Stiles chokes on a laugh, enjoying the mental image that Derek has offered him. There’s no way the Stiles of a year ago would ever have believed that Derek Hale was anything other than broody and angry, too serious for his own good. He never would have thought that Derek Hale was funny, but he has exactly the kind of dry, sarcastic sense of humor that Stiles can appreciate the most.

Stiles
I would pay to see that.

Derek
I’ll send you a link to my Etsy.

Have a good day with your dad. Text if you need anything

I mean it.

He takes a moment, mustering the willpower to move from his bed and make his way downstairs. He can hear his dad clattering around in the kitchen, washing up the plates that they’d left from last night’s pizza, and there’s an aroma of coffee permeating through the house.

“Morning, Dad.” Stiles stumbles into the kitchen, tripping over his own feet a little as he heads over to the coffee machine. They still don’t feel quite right, not quite like they’re his, but they’re the ones he’s got so he’s going to have to get used to them. He tries to ignore the mental image of his own face cracking and crumbling into his dust that seems to be seared onto his retinas, pours himself a cup of coffee with shaking hands.

“Morning, Son,” his dad smiles encouragingly at him, gesturing him over towards the table and grabbing the cream from the fridge for him. “Breakfast will be ready soon. Melissa said she’ll come by around eleven.”

Stiles nods, pouring a healthy dollop of cream into his coffee and stirring it carefully so it doesn’t spill. He always overfills it. “Sounds good.”

“Anything you want to do today?”

Stiles shrugs, wrapping his hands around the mug, “Not really. Stay here, watch tv maybe. You’ll be here right?”

“I’m all yours,” his dad confirms. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”

Melissa arrives at ten past eleven and pulls him into a hug as soon as he’s opened the door. It’s almost enough to make Stiles break down on the spot, but he holds himself together and wraps his arms just as tightly around her in turn.

“Let’s get you checked over, honey,” she says, herding him through to the living room and greeting the Sheriff on her way. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles shrugs. He has a thousand answers for that question, but none of them are what anyone wants to hear. Exhausted, terrified, weak, wrong. Take your pick.

“Have you been sleeping?” She asks, reaching for his wrist with a firm but gentle grip as she takes his pulse.

“A bit.” He lets himself be manhandled, pliant as she takes his vitals. “Not much.”

“Nightmares?”

He nods, holding his arm out so she can slide on the blood pressure cuff.

“Appetite ok? Any trouble keeping food down?”

“Not much appetite, but I’ve been eating. No problems with it, just not hungry.”

She goes through her list of questions and checks until she’s satisfied, giving him a reassuring smile once she’s done, “Physically I think you’re fine. Looks like any effects from the Nogitsune draining you are wearing off now that the other body is gone. It might be an idea to talk to Deaton as well though, just to be sure.”

Past-Stiles probably would’ve made some sort of quip about vets and not being one of the wolves, but he doesn’t have it in him today. Instead he just nods his agreement, because it probably isn’t a bad idea. Hey, it’s not so long since he was part fox - that’s kind of within Deaton’s remit.

“How’s Scott?” He almost doesn’t want to ask, but it feels wrong not to. He and Scott never go longer than a day or two without at least messaging each other, but it’s been radio silence on both sides since Stiles got home. “I haven’t heard from him.”

Melissa winces slightly before she manages to get her expression under control, “It was Allison,” she says, like that’s all the explanation needed - truthfully it probably is. “He was too busy to really take it in whilst everything was still going on, but now- Well, there’s nothing to distract him from it anymore and it’s a lot. He’ll be ok, though. We’re all here to get him through it.”

Stiles nods, unsurprised by the explanation. It doesn’t quite answer the niggling question in the back of his mind, though. For everything else in his life, Scott has relied on Stiles to help him through it. Not this time. That ‘we’ doesn’t include him on this one, and it hurts even though it’s probably for the best. He shouldn’t ask the question - he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t quite stop himself. “Does he blame me?”

The expression on Melissa’s face tells him everything he needs to know. Yes. It’s messy and it hurts, and maybe it isn’t fair, but there’s a fundamental part of Scott that can’t quite help but hold Stiles responsible. Stiles can’t even be mad at him for it, it’s not like he’s wrong. “No, he’s just struggling right now, honey. Honestly, I think he blames everyone at the moment, himself most of all.”

It’s a lie. A kindness, really, because Melissa can’t bring herself to confirm what they both know is true. Even if Scott knows logically that there’s nothing Stiles could have done, even if he doesn’t want to blame Stiles, right now he can’t quite stop himself. Allison is dead and he needs someone to blame because none of it makes sense. It’s probably a mercy that he’s giving Stiles a wide berth. So Stiles just nods and doesn't call out the lie. Instead he stands, deflects the situation by rubbing at his eyes in a poor caricature of tiredness and gestures towards the stairs. “I’m tired. Think I might go and have a nap. Thanks for coming to check me over, Mel. Tell Scott- I don’t know. Tell him I’ll see him soon or something.”

He lets Melissa pull him into a hug, then trudges his way upstairs so he can lie sleeplessly on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as his dad and Melissa’s voices float indistinctly through the closed door. He’ll call Deaton later.

Stiles doesn’t really expect Derek to keep coming around. It’s not like Derek has ever been a regular visitor at casa Stilinski, aside from his occasional entrances through Stiles’ bedroom window when he’s required something only Stiles could provide. He doesn’t seem to need anything now, but still he comes - through the front door and everything. He even uses a key when Stiles’ dad isn’t home, which Stiles assumes his dad has had cut for him, otherwise Derek still needs to seriously work on his boundary issues.

Before all this he’s pretty sure neither of them would have ever considered themselves to be friends. Acquaintances, allies, necessary evils; all of those have been true at some point, but ‘friends’ would have been overstating it somewhat. Derek isn’t acting like an acquaintance anymore. He isn’t treating Stiles like an annoyance that must be tolerated for the greater good. He shows up here, in Stiles’ house, with the apparent sole purpose of helping him. Being there for him. No other agenda.

Stiles is aware that he’s not good company right now. He spends most of his time in a vicious battle with his own head, one in which there are never any winners. He sits in front of his mirror, staring at this new body and trying to catalog all the differences. He sits on his bed, staring at the door as if it might creep open at any moment leaving itself ajar for more monsters to crawl through. He barely sleeps. He’s paranoid, half the time teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He spends the better part of most days lying on the sofa, binging tv in the vain hope that it will distract him from everything else and offer at least a tiny bit of relief.

And then Derek appears.

Honestly, he’s not sure why Derek keeps coming, but he’s not complaining. Derek seems to be pretty much the only thing that works. Where all else fails, Derek has a unique ability to pull him out of his own head, to make him look at the situation logically and at least for a while be able to believe that it might not be entirely his fault. He makes Stiles feel like he’s still himself, that this body doesn’t belong to a stranger, even if it’s slightly different. He distracts Stiles from the memories that won’t leave him alone, and he watches over him as he fights for scraps of sleep.

It feels like months have passed, but in reality it’s probably only been a week or so. He’s going to have to go back to school soon. There’s only so long he can sit at home, letting the days merge into a homogeneous mass of existence. He hasn’t left the house since he got back from defeating the Nogitsune, and he can tell that his dad is getting increasingly concerned.

The sun is pouring through the kitchen window, bright light glaring in his eyes when the doorbell rings. Stiles has no idea what day it is, but it’s morning and he’s out of bed, showered, and pushing his spoon idly around a bowl of cereal, so he’s doing pretty well, all things considered. His dad’s expression is flat when he comes into the kitchen, Derek trailing behind, distinctly overdressed in a black suit and tie.

Stiles frowns, dragging his spoon through his soggy mess of cheerios, “What’s the occasion? Did I miss a memo?” He gestures down at his ratty sweatpants and old, faded tee. It’s been worn so often that it’s almost transparent in places and there’s a hole in the collar, but it’s the comfiest thing he owns and he refuses to let it be consigned to the trash can.

“Sort of,” Derek says, holding up the garment bag draped over his arm. “It’s Allison’s funeral this afternoon. No pressure. You don’t have to come if it’s too much, but I’ll take you if you want.”

“I- No one told me.” That seems like the most pertinent fact right now. He’d been resigned to the knowledge that none of his friends had found it in them to come around yet, everyone still grieving in their own ways, but the fact that no one has even sent a text to let him know about this feels like a betrayal. Maybe they didn’t want him to know. They didn’t want to risk him actually turning up.

“No,” Derek agrees, “we’re telling you now.”

There’s a glance between Derek and his dad that says there’s more to this than they’re letting on. “Chris asked us to tell you. He wanted it made perfectly clear that you are invited, and you are welcome. He also wanted to make sure you knew that if you’re not up to it then he respects that, and he doesn’t blame you. He also said, for the record, that he thinks Allison would want you there, and he would like it if you came.”

The tone of his dad’s voice implies the words ‘regardless of what anyone else might think’ at the end of that sentence, and there it is. Stiles knows why he hasn’t been told about this until now.

“Scott was meant to tell me.”

“Yes,” Derek confirms, and Stiles can see the barely contained fury in his eyes, the slightest flash of blue as Derek’s usually impeccable control slips for just a moment.

“I don’t know if I should,” he says truthfully, pushing his bowl of congealed cereal away from himself, “I don’t know if I should be there.”

“It isn’t about should or shouldn’t, you need to make the decision based on you.” His dad crosses the room, dropping into the seat next to him. “If your reasons for not going are because you feel guilty, or because you think other people don’t want you there, then those aren’t the right reasons. It’s about whether or not going will be good for you, not about anyone else.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment as he thinks about it, tries to sort his mess of feelings into a tangible decision. “Allison was my friend,” he says eventually, with a nod. “I want to do right by her, and if Chris thinks that means going then I want to go. I owe her that. I think I would regret it if I don’t.”

“Okay,” his Dad agrees with a nod, clapping Stiles on the shoulder before rising to his feet, “that’s what we’ll do then. I need to head into work, but I’ll meet you there. Text me if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Stiles agrees, watching as his dad leaves the room, grabbing his jacket on the way. Derek hangs the garment bag over the top of the open door and goes to pour himself a coffee, bringing the pot over to top up Stiles’ cup as well.

“Are you worried about it?” he asks, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over the back of the chair.

Stiles shrugs, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug, “Hard not to be. I haven’t seen anyone else since everything. I haven’t even left the house. I’m kind of losing it on a good day, I don’t know how I’m going to be in a situation like that.”

“We’ll be with you.” Derek slides into the seat across from Stiles, nudging Stiles’ toes with his own as he sits down. “If you need to leave, that's fine. Chris won’t mind, he knows this has been hard for you. He’ll be glad you tried.”

“What about Scott?” It’s the elephant in the room, and Stiles can’t not address it.

“Scott is being an idiot. He’ll come around. He’s feeling guilty and he’s trying to push that guilt anywhere he can that isn’t himself.”

“What if he says something though? What if he tells me that I shouldn’t be there and I need to leave.”

“He won’t. He’s being an idiot but he’s not completely stupid. He feels guilty about Allison, but he feels guilty about pushing you away as well. I think he’s worried about trying to make contact with you because he doesn’t know how it’s going to go. He’s been avoiding the issue.”

Stiles sighs, taking a long sip of his coffee just for something to do. “If he does, though? Or if I just freak out or have a panic attack or something? You’ll get me out of there?”

“Yes, Stiles. If you need me to, I will get you out of there.”

It feels strange, climbing into Derek’s passenger seat after so long cooped up inside. He’s not sure he’s ready to be going out yet, but then he’s not sure he would ever feel ready for this.

The weather is too nice for the occasion, but the temperature outside is surprisingly cool. He’s been losing track of time, and the seasons seem so trivial to him right now but winter is starting to set in. Stiles isn’t sure why that takes him by surprise, but it does.

“Alright?” Derek asks, turning the key in the ignition and releasing the handbrake to reverse out of the driveway.

“I guess.” Stiles pulls at his tie, loosening it a little in the hope that it will feel less like a noose around his neck. After so many days in sweats and comfy tees the suit feels restrictive, gripping at his limbs when he tries to move. He tries not to let it send him into a panic.

“Say the word and we’ll turn around. No questions asked.” Derek reaches over, giving Stiles’ knee a brief squeeze of reassurance. It’s a little anchor of physical touch, and Stiles uses it to pull him back out of his spiral. “Just take the tie off if it’ll help. No one will mind.”

Stiles nods, tugging at the knot until it falls open and stuffing the tie into his pocket, “I can always put it back on when we get there.”

“If you want. I think everyone would prefer you not wearing a tie over having a panic attack, though. I doubt anyone will even give it a second thought.”

It’s a familiar drive to the cemetery, one that Stiles makes often. Every big occasion is marked with a visit to his Mom, and sometimes he just goes because he wants to feel close to her. From now on he’ll have another grave to visit whilst he’s there, and the thought makes him lose his breath for a second. He’s not sure how he’s going to get through today.

It doesn’t take long to arrive, and Stiles can already see a crowd starting to congregate. Derek parks up next to the cruiser, and his Dad climbs out of the driver's side to meet them. “One step at a time, son.”

Stiles nods, and they start on their way over to the grave site. It feels a little easier, with his dad and Derek flanking him like they’re his barrier to the outside world. His shields. He spots Lydia first, strawberry blonde hair gleaming red in the sunlight, and he quickly sees that the others are all standing with her. He can see the exact moment Scott notices him, because a thousand expressions seem to cross his face in quick succession before finally settling somewhere in the region of relief.

It isn’t what he expected.

Scott is already making his way over at a slight jog, and despite Scott’s demeanor Stiles braces himself for the verbal assault he’s been anticipating for days. He’s ready for it. He deserves it.

Scott just pulls him into a tight hug, breathing Stiles’ name in a sigh of relief as Stiles’ arms come up to hug him back.

“Stiles. I’m so fucking glad you came.” Scott’s voice is thick with emotion, and Stiles isn’t much better, eyes watery as he grips Scott tightly in return. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a shit friend, I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

“S’fine,” Stiles mumbles into Scott’s shoulder, “I’m fine. Sorry I haven’t been around for you either. It’s been- y’know.”

“You don’t need to apologize, man. I’m just glad you’re here. I promise I’m going to be around more, ok?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, letting Scott hug him for a few more moments before his dad clears his throat and the two of them break apart, rubbing the tears out of their eyes.

“We should probably head over,” his dad says, clapping Scott lightly on the shoulder. “I think they’ll want to be starting soon.”

The four of them make their way over to join everyone else, and Stiles finds himself being enveloped in hugs from each of his friends. It’s not what he expected from today; the near total silence from them has been deafening up until now, but he remembers what Derek said to him that first day he’d come over, and he knows that Derek had been right. They care about him. They’ve been worried about making things worse. They’ve been waiting for him to make the first move, and in coming here today that’s what he’s finally done.

He takes a seat near the back, his Dad on one side and Derek on the other. Scott looks at him in askance, but Lydia offers him a small smile and grabs Scott’s elbow, directing him away and towards the seats at the front near Chris, whispering in his ear. This might be going better than expected, but Stiles is under no illusions that a few hugs means all is fixed. There’s still a significant possibility that he’s going to need to be spirited out of here at a moment’s notice, and he’d rather it be as inconspicuous as possible when it happens.

It seems like half of the town has turned up for this, and the anxious ball of guilt churns in his stomach when he thinks about how much Allison is going to be missed. It doesn’t take long for the seats to fill up, and a significant portion of the crowd is left standing behind them, leaving Stiles feeling antsy, restless in his skin. He can feel their eyes on the back of his head, and he regrets not waiting so he could linger at the back of the crowd instead.

He’s hardly paying attention when the officiant starts to speak, too preoccupied with resisting the compulsion to bolt. His hands are clammy, breaths coming in too quick. He doesn’t know if he can do this, and the sound of the officiant talking about Allison isn’t making it any easier. He hears the words, talking about how wonderful she was, how talented and loved, how much of a hole her passing will leave in the lives of everyone here, and that voice inside his head is screaming at him. It’s so loud that it’s hard to believe the Nogitsune isn’t still there, stuck inside his head for the rest of eternity to make sure he never stops feeling the guilt.

YOUR FAULT, STILES. IT’S YOUR FAULT. IT WAS MEANT TO BE YOU.

A hand grips his shoulder, firm but not tight enough to hurt. Solid. A lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of his panic. The bands around his chest loosen a little, his breathing easing into something approaching normal, so he focuses his attention on the weight of the hand on his shoulder, imagines the warmth of the touch bleeding through his suit jacket, and he lets it anchor him.

“You just need to say the word,” Derek whispers, and Stiles nods, an almost imperceptible jerk of his head, but he knows Derek has seen from the gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

The hand stays there for the rest of the service, a reassuring weight for Stiles to focus on as he tries his best to let everything else wash over him. When he feels himself starting to slip, the echoes of the Nogitsune’s voice ringing in his head, he focuses on the pressure of each fingertip against his shoulder and counts them. One, two, three, four, five. This is real. Derek is real, and he can be relied on even if Stiles can’t rely on himself right now.

People start to stand around him, starting a slow shuffle away from the gravesite and Stiles realizes that it’s over. His nerves are frayed, he only made out snippets of the speeches, and he’s completely exhausted, but he’s made it through without making any kind of a scene.

“Home now?” His voice is raw from the tension he’s been holding in his jaw and throat, but the words are clear enough. Derek squeezes his shoulder one last time, rising to his feet.

“Home,” he agrees.

It feels surreal going back to school. It’s like nothing has changed, but nothing feels the same at all. It feels almost like he’s pulling on a costume as he dresses in the usual jeans, graphic tee and hoodie combo, ready to play the part that everyone expects of him, like he can just revert to the Stiles of a few months ago. Like none of this ever happened.

It’s a role he knows well, but it’s not one he’s ever had to put this much effort into before. Still, he climbs into his jeep, dumps his backpack on the passenger seat, and tries to ignore the fact that everything feels slightly off kilter as he reverses out of the driveway. At this point the jeep is more a part of him than his own body; it’s been like an extension of himself for so long that driving it with these new limbs throws the differences into stark contrast.

Still. He’s alive. This new body is his now, and he’ll get used to it eventually. He’ll have to.

Scott is waiting out the front of school for him, Kira by his side, so Stiles makes his way over, tries to inject some of the old Stiles energy into his step and plasters a smile onto his face. They need him to be himself now, so that’s what he’ll do.

Kira gives him an encouraging smile, and Scott pulls him into a brief hug, slapping his back just on the edge of too hard as he forgets himself in his excitement to see Stiles, “Hey dude, it’s good to have you back. This place was so boring without you.”

“You’d best believe it, I knew everyone couldn’t help but miss the patented Stilinski charm.” Stiles grins, hugging Scott in return. “Now come on, you’ve gotta get me all caught up. What have I missed?”

What Stiles has missed turns out to be a lot, where schoolwork is concerned at least. Between the missing periods of time, his stint at Eichen, and his time recovering, the amount of work he needs to catch up on is daunting to say the least.

He’s not used to feeling lost in his classes, always able to at least coast when they’ve had supernatural flare ups until this point, but most of his classes have moved so far on without him that they don’t make much sense without him being caught up.

Lydia pulls him aside at the end of the day, piles a stack of notebooks and folders into his arms with a reassuring air of pragmatism. “Notes for everything. If you need any help just ask; we’ll get you caught up in no time.” Her tone leaves no room for argument and she doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns on her heel and strides off to wherever she’s inevitably required, leaving Stiles in her wake.

It’s a relief to get home, to finally let the mask slip and crawl up the stairs to his bedroom so he can finally be alone for a while without the pretense. His dad is still at work and will be for at least another few hours, so Stiles pulls the first folder from the top of the stack and flips it open. Chemistry. He has to start somewhere, it might as well be here.

By the time he hears his dad’s key in the door it’s long since gone dark, and he’s filled a good portion of the chemistry notes with highlights of varying color, annotations scrawled in the margins. It feels good to have made a start, at least, and the work has served well as a distraction. He’d barely even noticed the time passing, hadn’t thought to go and get started on dinner, but his dad shouts up the stairs with an announcement of takeout, and that’s a call that Stiles will never fail to heed.

“How did it go?” his Dad asks as Stiles walks into the kitchen, already unpacking boxes of food onto the dining table.

Stiles shrugs, sliding into his seat and grabbing for the closest box so he can dump some orange chicken on his plate, “Fine. There’s a lot to catch up on, but Lydia gave me notes.”

“And being in school? You know, if you need more time that’s ok, son. You don’t need to force yourself if you aren’t ready.” His dad slides a couple of egg rolls in his direction.

“It was fine. I need to start getting back to normal, at least school gives me something else to think about.” It’s true enough. The catch up work had kept him occupied once he got home, which is a vast improvement on how he’s spent most of his time recently, and he’d been so busy at school pretending to be fine that it was hard to feel anything other than exhausted. It might not be healthy, but it seems better than the alternative

“Alright. But if you change your mind, just say the word.” His Dad doesn’t look completely sold, but he seems like he’s willing to let it go for now. Stiles doesn’t know how long this leeway is going to last, but he’ll take it while he can.

“Sure thing, Dad. Now please tell me you bought something with vegetables, don’t think I haven’t noticed the junk food wrappers in the trash.”

He manages to fall into a routine, of sorts. He stays up as late as he can, hunched over Lydia’s notes in a desperate attempt to get his schoolwork back on track. He works into the night until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. Sometimes he makes it to bed before he falls asleep, sometimes he passes out right there at his desk, but he never manages more than a few hours of sleep before he wakes up screaming.

Most of the time he’s still wherever he fell asleep, but sometimes he finds that he’s drifted. One night he wakes up huddled in his closet, another night he’s made his way downstairs in the dark. The worst is the night his dad has to shake him awake in the backyard, frantic at the realization that it would have been so easy for him not to notice Stiles slipping outside. He could’ve ended up anywhere, and it’s a fear both of them carry into each night that follows.

It’s exhausting, and he can see the toll that it’s taking on his dad as well, but nothing he does seems to keep the nightmares at bay. Some nights are worse than others, but a good night of sleep isn’t something that exists for him any more.

He knows that he looks like shit, dark smudges under his eyes now a permanent feature. He’s getting skinnier as well. Try as he might to force himself to eat more, he just can’t find the appetite.

He does his best to keep up the act at school, but he knows that he’s missing the mark more and more. He can feel the eyes of his friends on him. Watching him. He can see it in them, under the concern. That little seed of doubt that means they can’t help but question it. Is the Nogitsune really gone? Could it be laying low, biding its time as it gradually drains the life out of Stiles, ready to take over again. He can’t blame them for thinking it; he’s thinking it too.

Scott tries. He tries so hard that Stiles feels guilty he can’t just be the Stiles that they want him to be. They go to lacrosse practice and they play video games, Scott talks to him about Kira and Stiles tries not to think about how it felt to push a sword into Scott’s gut and make him hurt. They hang out together and Stiles pretends he doesn’t notice the way Scott can’t quite meet his eye.

Unexpectedly, Derek keeps coming around. Stiles had figured that now he’s no longer holed up at home, hiding from the world, Derek would disappear back into the woodwork, happy to call it a job done until the next supernatural threat rears its ugly head. He keeps appearing, though, turning up at the Stilinski house with a surprising regularity just to be there.

It’s a relief. Aside from anything else, Derek is the only one who treats Stiles in a way that feels like normal nowadays. His dad tries his best, but the worry means he treats Stiles like something fragile. Ready to shatter and crumble until he’s just dust on the floor like his last body. His friends flip flop between acting as though nothing has changed and looking at Stiles like they’re not sure they even know who he is any more. Derek mostly just keeps him company and stocks the Stilinski fridge with home cooked meals.

Stiles never thought that Derek Hale would become the person he learned to rely on, but then nothing in his life seems to go the way he expects anymore.

It’s cold. He can’t see where he is, can’t get his bearings in the dark. There’s something in the shadows, circling him. Taunting him.

“Who’s there?”

He thinks he’s indoors somewhere, maybe a basement from the musty, dank smell, but he can feel a chill wind against his skin. It’s freezing. The shadows are laughing at him. His breath is coming in shallower and he can feel the panic starting to set in. It’s here. They were meant to have defeated it but it’s still here. He’ll never be rid of it.

He trips over something he can’t see, falls to the ground as pain lances through his ankle, across his arm. His feet hurt. He thinks they might have been hurting for a while. He scrabbles over onto his back, looks around. It’s right there, leaning over him, sharp silver teeth grinning at him and Stiles screams, lashing out.

His arms hit nothing and he startles awake, gasping for breath.

He’s not in his bedroom. He’s not in the basement at Eichen either, which at least offers a small amount of relief, but he’s clearly managed to get himself deep into the preserve somehow. The moon isn’t full, but as his eyes adjust it’s offering just about enough light for him to see by.

He sits himself up with a wince, taking stock of his injuries. There’s a root by his foot that must be the one he tripped over. His ankle looks swollen, definitely twisted, and his feet are bare and bloody. There’s a gash on his arm that must be from catching a branch on his way down. Could be worse. He’s more worried about being lost in the woods in only a t-shirt and thin pajama bottoms.

There are no landmarks to go by here, just trees that all look the same. Stiles shivers, wraps his arms around himself in an ineffectual attempt to try and stave off the cold. This was meant to be over. He’s not meant to be sleepwalking anymore. He can’t shake off the fear it’s still right there in his head. Maybe they didn’t manage to get rid of it after all. It’s still lying in wait in Stiles’ mind, steadily regaining its strength, ready to strike again.

No. Stop it Stiles. That isn’t helping.

He takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, lets it out slowly. Does it again. Then again and again until he’s confident he’s held the panic attack at bay at least for the moment. No time for that now.

He shuffles back to lean against a tree, grabbing at its branches to pull himself up to standing. His ankle screams in protest, but he can’t just sit here waiting to freeze. Frostbite doesn’t sound like a good time, and Stiles has had enough bad times recently to last an eternity.

What now? He looks up at the sky, as though he might be able to manifest the ability to navigate by the stars, and snorts a little laugh to himself. Yeah, that would probably be worth learning, actually. One to add to the list.

There’s only one thing for it; pick a direction and walk. He’ll come to a road eventually.

He sets off on a slow stumble through the trees. They tower over him, branches snagging on his clothes, scraping against bare skin. He does his best to ignore the shivers racking his body, the persistent pain in his ankle and feet. At least it feels like he’s doing something, even if it hurts. He doesn’t want to be helpless anymore.

It feels like he’s been walking forever when he hears the howl echoing through the trees. He feels slightly ridiculous as he throws his head back and answers, his own howl a poor imitation.

There’s a little voice in the back of his head warning caution. Maybe it’s not one of his wolves. Maybe none of them have even noticed he’s missing yet, and he’s just alerted a wandering omega to his position. He could be pointing danger right in his direction.

He never used to be quite this paranoid.

Soon enough he hears the sound of something crashing through the undergrowth towards him and his body tenses in preparation of an incoming threat. Then he hears a familiar voice calling out his name and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“I’m here!” He shouts back, letting himself sag against a nearby tree as Derek comes into view, eyes glowing electric blue as he jogs in Stiles’ direction. The relief is clear on his face as he comes to a stop in front of him.

“Thank fuck. Are you alright?” He’s already shrugging off his jacket, manhandling Stiles so he can wrap it over his shoulders, strong hands rubbing up and down his arms to try to bring some warmth back into him. Stiles winces as he brushes over the gash on his bicep.

“Been better,” Stiles admits, “definitely been worse.”

Isn’t that just the truth.

“Shit, sorry.” Derek peels his jacket away from Stiles’ arm for a second to assess the damage, prodding lightly at the skin around the jagged cut before firmly pulling the jacket back around Stiles’ shoulders. “It’s not too deep, shouldn’t need stitches or anything, just a clean.”

“Yeah, I think I just caught a branch or something. I’ll be fine. Twisted my ankle pretty bad though.”

“Do you think you can walk?” Derek’s bent down now, executing a careful inspection of his swollen ankle and torn up feet. He doesn’t wait for Stiles to answer, clearly finding answer enough from his examinations. “I’ll have to carry you. Don’t want you doing any more damage to that.”

Stiles groans, “Oh man, no dignity for Stiles.”

Derek snorts, standing back up to help Stiles maneuver his injured arm into the sleeve, “Trust me, it was already a lost cause after that attempt at a howl. No point worrying about it now. What would you prefer, the piggyback or the bridal carry?” The corner of Derek’s mouth quirks up in a smile.

Stiles lets out a short bark of laughter, shaking his head. He’s grateful for Derek trying to lighten the mood here, despite the fact that he’s clearly been out searching the woods for a while. He’s not sure he could take anyone looking at him with pity right now. “You’re the one that has to carry me. Steed’s choice?”

Derek chuckles, pulling his phone out of his pocket and stabbing out a quick message before turning away and crouching slightly in a clear indication that Stiles should jump on, “I think you might still have a little bit of dignity left. We’d best try and maintain as much as we can, I imagine you find it hard to come by.”

“Asshole.” Stiles can’t help but let the fondness creep into his voice as he climbs carefully onto Derek’s back, strong, capable hands coming up to grasp Stiles’ thighs as he hitches Stiles into position.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to stop shivering, pressed up as he is against the warmth of Derek’s body. He’s like a furnace, chasing away the cold that has long since settled into Stiles’ bones. He drops his forehead to rest against Derek’s shoulder, takes a deep breath in and releases it again, letting himself focus on the movement of Derek’s body as he makes his way back through the preserve, dodging roots and low hanging branches with ease.

“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet. Derek squeezes his thighs lightly, just enough to let him know he’s heard. It’s easier to say things like this when he can’t see Derek’s face. “Sorry for dragging you out here in the middle of the night.”

“No apologies, remember. You don’t have to be sorry for this. I’ll always come, and I’ll never be mad about it.”

“I thought this would be over. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I know. We’ll sort something out.” He says it like it’s so simple. What’s more, Stiles believes him. He’s not sure if he would believe it from anyone else right now, but he can trust Derek with this. He knows that his friends want what’s best for him, but he’s not sure he trusts them to know what that is. He thinks Derek knows. He hopes so; god knows Stiles doesn’t have a clue.

“I’m scared. I start to think I’m getting better and then something like this happens again, and I can’t trust that it’s gone. It feels like it’s still there in the back of my head.”

“It isn’t. I’m sure of it, Stiles. It takes time, remember.”

“How much time? Even if it isn’t the Nogitsune, I still feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not losing your mind. You went through something unimaginable, it’s going to take as long as it takes to work through that. You’ll get there; I believe in you.”

Stiles scoffs, pressing his forehead harder against Derek’s shoulder, “That makes one of us.”

“Maybe that will have to do for now,” Derek says, and yeah. Maybe Stiles can live with that.

Derek sets him down carefully next to the Camaro, gets him settled in the passenger seat and cranks up the heat as Stiles tries to rub some warmth back into his fingertips. “I’m glad you got it back.”

Derek looks at him in askance as he clicks his seatbelt into place and fires up the engine.

“The car,” Stiles clarifies, gesturing vaguely at the dashboard. “It never seemed right, you driving the other one.”

“I never actually got rid of it,” Derek shrugs, “just put it in storage for a while. The other one is more practical.”

“Yeah, but this one’s the Camaro.”

Derek smiles and shakes his head, pulling out onto the road and starting the journey back towards town. “How are you feeling? Warmed up yet?”

“Yeah, a lot better. I can feel all my toes and everything.”

“Melissa and your dad will meet us at yours. She wants to get a look at your injuries, make sure they’re dealt with properly,”

“Did, uh-” Stiles looks down at his hands, “did you have everyone out looking?”

“No.” Stiles looks back up at him, surprised. “Just me and your dad. He called me and I followed your scent. I would’ve called them in if it’d taken much longer to find you, but we thought you wouldn’t want them all out here worrying about you if it wasn’t necessary.”

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, sinking down a little further in his seat, “Thanks.”

Derek nods, reaches out a hand to rest on top of Stiles’ and squeezes it gently, tendrils of black starting to creep up his arm as he pulls away some of the pain. It makes Stiles start to feel drowsy, and he doesn’t fight it for a change; he lets himself be lulled into a doze by the gentle rumble of the engine and the sound of the road beneath them, just for a little while. Somehow this time it feels like the nightmares might not come.

He’s woken not too long later by Derek’s hand on his shoulder, and it’s the first time he can remember waking up in a way that could be considered gentle in far too long. “S’hapnin?” He mumbles, tongue thick with sleep and eyelids heavy.

“You’re home. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Derek unclips his seatbelt and Stiles allows himself to be lifted out like he’s a little kid again, asleep in the car after a long road trip. His arms come up to wrap around Derek’s shoulders, nose pressing into the crook of Derek’s neck with a boldness he’d never allow himself if he were more awake. “Wha’ happened to dignity?”

“Overrated.” Derek hitches him up a little, shutting the car door with a nudge of his hip.

“How is he?” Stiles’ dad is waiting at the open door, ready to usher them in and over to the sofa where Derek sets him down carefully, mindful of his injured feet.

“Been better,” Derek says, crouching next to him to take a little more of his pain, “been worse.”

Derek and his dad retreat to the kitchen whilst Melissa tends to his injuries, offering him some semblance of privacy even if Stiles is sure Derek is listening in. It helps. He’s felt a little too much like an animal in a zoo recently; overly observed. He doesn’t blame them, he’d be keeping an eye on him too, just in case.

Melissa patches Stiles up with a careful efficiency, cleans up his cuts and scrapes and dresses them before gently manipulating his ankle to try and assess the damage. Stiles winces his way through it and she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll do, kiddo. I think you should get that ankle looked at though, just to be sure. It might need a scan.”

Stiles nods, pulling Derek’s jacket a little tighter around himself again. It has a reassuring kind of weight to it. Kind of like Derek himself. “Thanks Mel.”

“You’re welcome.” She offers him a smile, taking a seat next to him on the sofa. “How are you holding up? I know all of this has been tough on you.”

Stiles shrugs, “I’m still here. It could be worse.”

Melissa raises an eyebrow and gives him a knowing look. She’s always known when he’s trying to evade a truth - there’s something to be said about a mom’s sixth sense.

“I don’t know. It’s a lot.” He looks down at his hands. It feels like he’s doing that a lot lately; it’s easier than looking everyone in the eye, he thinks. “It doesn’t feel like I should be allowed to feel like this when I was the one hurting everyone.”

“It wasn’t you though, Stiles. You know that, we all know that.”

“I know it, but I don’t know if I really believe it,” he says, absently picking at a loose thread on his pajama trousers just for something to do with his hands. “I don’t know if everyone else really believes it either. I remember it all. I remember how it felt. It enjoyed it, and I felt that too. They’re so careful around me now, like if they say or do the wrong thing I won’t be me anymore, and I can’t even blame them because I feel the same. Scott can hardly look at me nowadays. He’s trying so hard, but he just can’t see me the same way. I don’t really feel like me anymore, Mel. I can’t get away from it. It doesn’t feel like I’m ever going to get away from it.” He rubs at his eyes, tries to hold back the tears threatening to escape.

“Oh, Stiles,” she sighs, reaching over to pull him into a hug. He wishes he still had his mom here for this - he’s never needed her more - but Mel is the next best thing. He lets himself be wrapped in her arms, lets her stroke his hair and comfort him as he gives in and allows himself to cry. Just for a little while.

Eventually he pulls himself together, sits himself back up and rubs away the tear tracks with the hem of his shirt. “Thanks, Mel.”

“Anytime, honey. You might not be mine, but that’s never stopped you before. I’m always here for you, whatever that’s worth.”

Stiles offers a smile, tries not to let himself tear up again now that he’s finally managed to stop. “It’s worth more than you know.”

“Do you think it would help to get out of here for a while?” Derek’s suggestion is unexpected. They’ve been sitting in a comfortable silence for a while now, Netflix’s most mindless offerings running on the TV. Stiles has his feet in Derek’s lap, Derek’s hand resting on his bare ankle to draw out the lingering pain every now and again as he needs it. It’s comfortable. Not a position he would have ever been able to imagine himself in with Derek a few weeks ago.

There’s something casually intimate about the way they move around each other nowadays that makes Stiles’ heart beat a little quicker in his chest. He’s not sure if it’s wishful thinking, but even if it is he’s glad of the way it makes him feel a little more like his old self.

“What do you mean?” Stiles turns his head to meet Derek’s eyes, television show all but forgotten.

“This place has a lot of memories tied up in it. This house, the school, your friends. Do you think it might help if you got away from it for a while?”

“Like running away?”

“Like getting some distance to start healing, so you can come back here without every corner triggering a memory.”

“You heard me talking to Melissa.”

“I did. Does that bother you?”

“No. I knew you were probably listening,” Stiles admits. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t ok with you hearing. Did you tell Dad?”

“Some of it. Just the bits I think he needed to know.”

Stiles nods. It’s good, he thinks. He knows he should talk to his dad more about everything, but he can’t face it when he knows that what he has to say will break his dad’s heart. As much as Stiles can’t help but blame himself for everything that’s happened, he knows his dad is blaming himself for not being able to protect Stiles from it. It’s a whole Stilinski circle of self loathing that needs some serious breaking.

“So do you think it would help?”

“Yeah, I think it’s worth a try.”

It’s decided. Stiles wonders if his dad will put up a protest, but maybe Derek has already spoken to him about it because all he does is pull Stiles into a hug, clapping him firmly on the back and holding him tight. “I think it’s a good idea, son. I hope it helps.”

“You’re alright with your seventeen year old son missing school because he’s decided to take off on a spontaneous road trip with an ex-murder suspect five years his senior?”

His dad sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. It’s a familiar gesture; Stiles can hear the implied ‘give me strength’ that usually accompanies it. “I’m alright with you getting out of town for as long as you need to start recovering from the absolute crap you’ve been dealt lately. And I’m glad you’re going with Derek because I think he helps you and I trust him.”

“You really don’t have a problem with it?”

“No Stiles, I think it’s probably what you need. And although, as your dad, I wish I could be the one to get you through this, I don’t think I’m the one that you need to go with you.”

“Even though-”

“Yes, Stiles. Even though.”

“You don’t know what I was about to say!”

“I have eyes, Stiles. It hasn’t been Lydia Martin for a while now. I don’t know exactly what’s going on between you two, but I trust you both to do right by each other. Whatever that means.”

“There’s nothing going on. I mean obviously I- you know? But I don’t think he does. And I haven’t really been in a place to think about it recently. I didn’t even realize I was bi until, like, Halloween, and then everything sort of went… Yeah.”

“I don’t pretend to know what goes on in Derek Hale’s head, Son, but you might be surprised. Whatever happens, I think you’re good for each other whether that’s as friends or whatever else.”

“I sort of thought there were going to be shotguns and a lot of yelling involved if this ever actually happened.”

“Maybe back when you were my underage son sneaking around and lying to me, and he was a fugitive and suspected serial killer. I think he’s more than proved himself since then, Stiles.”

“He has,” Stiles agrees. “I just didn’t know if you knew that.”

“I do, Stiles. I hope you get what you need out of this. And if you get what you want out of this please, for the love of god, spare me the gory details. And don’t forget to use protection.”

Chapter Text

The Saturday morning a week before winter break sees them driving past the border marker for Beacon Hills, car pointed in the vague direction of the coast and sufficiently stocked with snacks. After a short debate they’d decided to pack light and take the Camaro; Derek had been adamant that the jeep couldn’t be trusted to make the trip, and Stiles had argued that it just wasn’t right to take a mom car on a road trip.

It’s probably in his head, but Stiles swears he already feels lighter just from making it out of town. He hasn’t realized until now how heavy the expectations of his friends have weighed on him. He’s done his best to keep up the act for them all, the usual sarcastic goofball of a friend, but he’s been all too aware that it’s never quite reached his eyes.

It’s probably an unfair thought, but it’s been hard for him not to crumble under the weight of their stares, just waiting for the facade to crack and reveal the Nogitsune still lingering behind.

He feels like he’s been waiting for it too. Like he’ll never believe that he’s truly free of it.

Derek doesn’t make him feel that way. Derek doesn’t seem to have any expectations other than that Stiles will tell him the truth. It’s simple and uncomplicated in its own way, regardless of what other emotions Derek might stir in him.

They sit in a silence that Stiles would never have been capable of a few months ago. Back then he would let any and every thought out of his mouth, no filter to be seen. There’s still no filter now, he thinks; there’s a choice of on or off, and Stiles is terrified what might come out if he lets that switch shift to on.

Derek is comfortable with silence, used to it in a way that has always baffled Stiles. He may be managing silence now, but he doesn’t know that he could ever call it comfortable. It’s just better than the alternative that he’s currently able to provide. His head is a tangle of grief, uncertainty and self-loathing. And fear. A whole lot of earth-shaking terror. The best he can do is try to keep it all in until it inevitably ends up erupting messily all over whoever’s closest when the dam bursts.

Stiles stares listlessly out the passenger window, watching the scenery go by in an attempt to distract his head from doing anything as ill advised as thinking. He’s not particularly successful, but something like an hour of silence passes before he realizes he has no idea where they’re even going.

“Where are you taking me?” He looks over at Derek, takes in the way he fits so well in the Camaro, so used to the car that it’s like an extension of his limbs as he drives.

The corner of Derek’s mouth quirks up in a smile at the question, like he’s been waiting for Stiles to realize he hasn’t asked it yet. “Anywhere,” he says in reply, like that’s a real answer. Maybe it is.

Stiles watches the flex of the muscles in Derek’s forearm as he changes gear, feels a slight flush rise on his neck as he takes in exactly how attractive he finds it. He clears his throat, redirecting his gaze to the road in front of them. “Right. Great. Anything more specific than that?”

Derek gestures to the glove box and Stiles pops it open. The glove box of the jeep is a mess, full of all the random detritus of Stiles’ life. Derek’s is much more organized, stocked with practical items that don’t explode out at him as soon as it’s opened. “Map’s in there. Pick wherever you want, we’ll go there.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Derek pulls into the parking lot of a slightly dingy looking diner twenty minutes later, sliding out of the Camaro and pulling his hands up over his head in a languid stretch, joints cracking as he eases out the tension. Stiles puts a valiant effort into not staring at the strip of skin revealed as Derek’s shirt rides up, but inevitably fails, gaze drawn to the trail of dark hair leading down past his waistband.

He licks his lips and is struck by a sudden hot wave of embarrassment as soon as he realizes that he’s done it. Other than a tiny hint of a smirk, Derek doesn’t let on that he’s noticed anything, just lowers his arms and twists his torso a little to further loosen the muscles of his back.

Stiles clambers out of the passenger side, bringing the map with him as he tries to shake off the embarrassment. Derek had undoubtedly noticed the change in his scent, but then that’s nothing new. He’s pretty sure that’s been happening for a while now, even when he didn’t realize it - Scott’s told him as much. He should probably just be relieved that Derek is apparently too polite to bring it up.

They head inside and slide into the booth in the far corner, up against the windows that make up the frontage of the diner. Stiles flips open the map to start assessing their options, brow furrowed in concentration as he traces the roads with his index finger, searching for their current location.

It doesn’t take long for a waitress to appear with a friendly smile, dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and nametag fastened on the lapel of her dress, cheerfully announcing to the world that her name is Lacey. “What can I get for y’all?” Her gaze lingers on Derek for a little too long, and Stiles finds himself trying to quell the fizzle of annoyance that lodges itself behind his breastbone. Derek is attractive. Anyone with eyes can see it, it shouldn’t irritate him when other people notice.

It does though. It bothers him, the way people look at Derek; like he’s a piece of meat, something to be objectified and used. He hates that Derek uses it, sometimes. Hates even more that it works. Derek is worth more than that, and far too few people recognise it. Stiles isn’t sure Derek even recognises it himself.

He orders his coffee and pancakes, tries not to glare daggers into Lacey’s back as she walks away with their orders carefully jotted down in her little notepad. Derek raises an eyebrow in question and Stiles just shrugs, turning his attention back to the map and scanning the page.

Lacey comes back with their coffees and Stiles is more successful at hiding his disdain. He offers his most beguiling smile and asks her to borrow a pen, and she looks back at him somewhat bemused but amenable as she hands one over. “Sure thing, hon. You keep it.”

Stiles grins at her, biting the cap off with his teeth and reaching over to grab a napkin before starting to scrawl down some notes. Derek hides a grin behind his hand, shaking his head, and Lacey wisely walks away,

“What are you writing?” Derek nudges the cream towards Stiles and wraps his hands around his own mug, bringing it up for a sip.

It must be nice to not have to worry about burning your mouth on a too-hot coffee, Stiles thinks. When he tries that he ends up with a sore tongue for the rest of the day, but Derek just lets out a pleased little sigh like he enjoys the pain. He probably does, the weirdo.

“We need some sort of plan.” Stiles shrugs, pouring a healthy dose of cream into his own coffee and giving it a quick stir, blowing on it carefully before taking a much more tentative sip. “I’m making a list of the things we need to see.”

“On a napkin.” Derek raises an eyebrow, taking another gulp of coffee.

“On a napkin,” Stiles agrees, brandishing it in Dereks direction. “You need to choose some stuff too. I want some ideas, big guy.”

“I don’t mind really, Stiles. We can go wherever.” Derek looks down at his coffee, turning the mug around in his hands.

“Nope, not good enough. It’s our trip, not just mine. What do you want to see, Sourwolf? Anything you want.” He’s never seen Derek look hesitant like this, so uncertain about sharing his opinion. It occurs to Stiles that people don’t ask Derek what he wants. They demand information, they tell him what they’re going to do, or they just go ahead and do it without even offering the courtesy of letting him know. The betas never cared about what Derek wanted, they just listened to orders and did what he said because he was their Alpha. Or they didn’t.

Probably no one has asked Derek what he wants since Laura died, and Stiles suddenly feels a pang of guilt at the realization that no one has really taken the time to see Derek in all of this. Derek probably doesn’t even feel like he deserves to want anything, walking ball of guilt that he is. “I mean it, you know. What you want is important to me.”

“Can I think about it?” Derek looks up, meets his eyes. His expression is a bit lost, and yeah, Stiles thinks it’s probably a very long time since Derek Hale has let himself want anything at all.

“Of course.” Stiles grins, jotting down another idea. “As many things as you can think of, dude. It’s just you, me, and the open road.”

Derek smiles and shakes his head, watches Stiles scour the map as they wait for their breakfast to arrive.

They’re back in the car, stomachs pleasantly full and on their way to who-knows-where when Derek offers his first suggestion.

“Maybe Shasta Lake?” Derek’s voice is quiet, a hint of uncertainty in it, but he offers it nonetheless. Perhaps it’s easier for him here. They’re side by side rather than facing one another, and Derek has the excuse of keeping his eyes on the road to help him avoid eye contact. Stiles doesn’t even care, he’s just happy that Derek trusts him enough with this.

“Yes dude! We can totally do Shasta. It’s not even that far, we should make it stop number one. Do you want to go straight there or take the scenic route?”

Derek shrugs, checks his mirrors and takes the next right, “We’re not in a hurry.”

They take the long way round, going down whatever country backroads they fancy and stopping every time Stiles wants to jump out and see something or take a photo. They still arrive mid-afternoon and Derek gets them checked into a cabin while Stiles stays in the car, tapping out a message to his dad to let him know that they’ve arrived somewhere for the night.

Derek returns with a key in one hand and a brown paper grocery bag tucked in the crook of his arm, which he hands to Stiles as he climbs back into the car. “There’s a store just next to reception. Thought I’d pick up something for dinner.” He reaches into the bag on Stiles’ lap and fishes out a notepad, gently tapping Stiles on the top of the head with it, “Might be easier than napkins.”

“Dude, you’re the best. Really.” Stiles grins as Derek puts the car in gear and moves off. Their cabin is just a short way down the road, nestled in between two others, and Stiles wastes no time jumping out the car and up the steps to explore, groceries in hand.

Derek follows at a more leisurely pace, grabbing their bags from the boot and locking up the car before heading inside.

“This place is great! There’s a balcony and everything.” Stiles is already out on it, doors wide open as he leans on the railing to take in the view of the lake. The water is calm, barely a ripple on its surface, and the scene so tranquil that Stiles feels more at peace than he can remember being in a long while. Were it not so cold he’d feel compelled to run down to the water's edge and jump in, just for the satisfaction of breaking the stillness. Winter is well and truly setting in, though, the mountains in the distance already capped with a dusting of white, so he resists the temptation, instead pulling his hoodie a little tighter around him to keep out the cold.

Stiles had dumped the groceries haphazardly on the small counter that makes up most of the kitchen in his eagerness to get out and appreciate the view, so Derek deposits their bags on the sofa and starts putting produce away as best he can in the small space. It’s basic, but it meets their needs. Basic is probably exactly what they need right now, with everything else in their lives so complicated back in Beacon Hills.

It doesn’t take long for Derek to finish organizing all the fresh produce into the tiny refrigerator, so he heads out to stand next to Stiles on the balcony, elbows brushing as he leans against the railing.

“I like it here,” Stiles says decisively, shooting Derek a smile, “good suggestion.”

Derek’s silent for a moment, looking out across the water. “We used to come here.” His voice is quiet, but still clear enough for Stiles to hear. Stiles lets the silence sit there a little longer - gives Derek time to work up to getting out the rest of what he wants to say. “When I was a kid, Mom and Dad would bring us all here every year. Everyone. My siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents. We would have to get multiple cabins, there were so many of us. Last time we came was just before the fire. I made such a fuss about going. I wanted to stay home alone, thought it was lame spending that much time with my family rather than hanging out with my friends. I would give anything to be back here with them all now.”

Stiles shifts his elbow a little closer so that their arms are pressed up against each other, an unobtrusive touch of reassurance. They look out at the view in silence for a while before Stiles nudges Derek’s elbow and stands up straight. “We should take a picture to send to Cora. I think she’d like that.”

Derek gives a jerky nod and lets Stiles manhandle him into position. “Are you not going to be in it?” He asks as Stiles steps back to take the photo.

Stiles pauses, expression of surprise passing over his features briefly before he shrugs and steps back up to Derek’s side, “Sure,” he says, lifting the phone and switching the camera to front facing, “we can do that.”

It’s a little bit blurry, and Stiles’ grin is somewhere on the edge of manic, but Derek can’t help but smile when Stiles sends it to him, message pinging through on his phone.

It’s a good picture.

Stiles insists on them both having a shower and changing into comfy clothes before they settle down to have dinner. Derek nods his agreement, chivvying Stiles in the direction of the bathroom whilst he makes a start on preparing the vegetables. It feels domestic in a way that he never thought he’d be able to have, but it’s nice. He didn’t know if he’d be comfortable back here without his family, but Stiles has a way about him that makes it easy.

He thinks of his parents like this, in one of the bigger cabins, cooking dinner together with all the children tearing around, somehow always managing to be underfoot. It seems like a long time since he’s been able to think of his family and smile, usually too wracked with guilt to do anything other than try desperately not to think of them.

Today, though, he manages it. He thinks of his mother, standing like he is now, chopping vegetables ready for the grill. He thinks of his father, up to his elbows in meat and marinades. He thinks of his siblings, darting in and out of the kitchen to pinch little bits of pepper and carrot when they think Mom’s not watching, and he smiles.

“Looks good, chef.” Stiles slides up behind him, hair still damp from the shower, dressed in sweats and his ratty old BHPD t-shirt, “You go and cozy yourself up a bit, I’ll hold the fort here.”

Derek used to like cooking. Back when the Hale house was still standing he used to enjoy helping out in the kitchen, learning as he went from his mom and dad. They loved cooking together; the kitchen was always full of laughter and mess, and the results were usually well worth the chaos. In recent years cooking has become more of a necessity. You need to eat to live, and Derek has never been content to live off junk food the way all the teenagers that have ended up in his life seem to be.

Here, though, with Stiles next to him, he finds himself enjoying it again. He likes the way they move around one another in the tiny kitchenette. He enjoys bickering about what seasonings to use, and who gets to take charge of the grill. Until recently Derek has felt like a shell of a person, and then Stiles came along and started to breathe the life back into him without him even realizing he was doing it.

It’s his turn to be that for Stiles, now.

It’s only been a day, and already Derek can see that Stiles is doing better for being out of Beacon Hills. In all the times Derek’s cooked at the Stilinski house recently, not once has Stiles decided to get involved, but here that’s already started to change. He still catches the moments that Stiles starts to slip away though, no matter how hard Stiles tries to keep himself in the moment. There are instances where he flinches at nothing, where Derek catches him staring at his own hands like he’s not quite sure they belong to him, where he goes blank behind the eyes and Derek knows he’s slipped into some awful memory.

He’s doing better than those first awful days, though, where Derek could barely see the old Stiles through the fear and pain. Today is the first day that he’s truly seen Stiles acting like himself without second guessing it, and he wonders if Stiles has noticed it too.

Getting out of Beacon Hills is exactly what Stiles had needed.

They fire up the grill out on the balcony, cooking and eating their dinner outside on two rickety wooden chairs, side by side so they can both see the view as the sun sets and lights up the sky and the mountains with pinks and oranges. There’s a chill in the air, but they’ve both pulled on hoodies and Stiles has a thick blanket covering his lap, so they sit out long after they’ve finished eating, until the sun has set and Stiles is just barely holding back his yawns.

“We should get some sleep,” Derek says, making sure the grill is safely doused and gathering their plates to take inside. “You must be tired.”

Stiles follows him inside, shutting and locking the balcony door behind him. He doesn’t say anything, looks slightly grim at the thought of sleep. Stiles has been better today, but then the nights are when the demons really get him.

Derek stacks their plates in the sink to be dealt with in the morning, heading over to pull out the sofa bed. “I’ll take the pull-out, you can have the bedroom,” he doesn’t mention the fact that he’ll be between Stiles and the doors out of the cabin, but he knows Stiles thinks of it from the expression of relief that crosses his face. The only way Stiles will be sleepwalking out of here is if he climbs out the window - and Derek’s pretty certain he’ll hear any attempts at that plenty early enough to catch him.

They get ready for bed in near silence, the easy camaraderie from earlier conspicuously absent as they go through the motions of brushing their teeth and changing into pajamas in their separate rooms. Derek can feel the worry radiating off Stiles, but there’s not much he can do to stop it. This is something Stiles needs to work through himself; all Derek can do is be there to help him if he needs it.

“Night Derek,” Stiles says, offering a small smile that looks like more of a grimace before heading off to climb into bed, the door left wide open.

“Goodnight Stiles.” He flicks off the light and shucks his t-shirt, then slides under the covers, his ears already trained on the sounds of Stiles’ heartbeat and his breath. He knows how exhausted Stiles is, can see it in the dark circles that have taken up permanent residence under his eyes and the pallor of his skin. He’s tired to the bone, but still Derek knows that he’ll fight the sleep until he can’t any longer.

Derek won’t sleep until Stiles does.

It’s going to be a long night.

Stiles loses the battle with sleep somewhere around two in the morning. The sound of his even breaths and steady heartbeat is enough to finally lull Derek into sleep as well, for as long as it will last. He’d set an alarm for the morning, but somehow he doesn’t think they’re going to need it.

Sure enough, an hour later Derek is jolted awake by the sound of a racing heartbeat and choked whimpers; the sound of Stiles pleading with something in his dream. He’s out of bed and next to Stiles in a matter of seconds, trying to gently shake him awake before the dream gets too bad. It doesn’t work and Stiles gets increasingly restless, lashing out with his limbs so it’s all that Derek can do to hold onto him as he shouts.

He pulls Stiles closer, says his name firmly, letting a little bit of wolf slip into his voice. He may not be the Alpha any more, and Stiles might be human, but he’s still pack and Derek will take any small fragment of a chance that it will work. “It’s just a nightmare, Stiles. You need to wake up now.”

Stiles wakes with a start, scream caught in his throat as he tries to push Derek away, struggling against the arms that have firmly wrapped around him.

“It’s me, Stiles. It’s Derek. It was a dream but you’re awake now. Count the fingers, come on. How many?” He holds up a hand, lets Stiles count them, then reaches for Stiles’ so he can count those too.

“I’m awake.” Stiles’ voice is reedy and thin as he catches his breath. He slumps in Derek’s arms, hand reaching out to grasp Derek’s bicep as though it’s a lifeline, like Derek is the only thing tethering him to the here and now, and he can’t afford to let go.

“You’re awake,” Derek confirms, pulling Stiles more tightly against him again, so Stiles can bury his face in the crook of Derek’s neck and block out the rest of the world.

They’re silent for a while, the most prominent sound in the room that of Stiles’ breath as he tries to get it back under control. Derek can feel fingers tapping against his arm, keeping up a silent count, and a wetness against his shoulder as a few stray tears leak free to slide down his skin. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes Stiles a little tighter and gives him the time that he needs.

“I felt like I was getting better today,” he says eventually, his breath hot against the skin of Derek’s collarbone. “I felt almost normal. I should’ve known it was too good to be true.”

“You were doing better today. I could see it too. That doesn’t mean you’re magically cured of all the shit that’s happened to you. It’s going to take time, but today was progress. It’s still a good thing.”

“I don’t want to be like this anymore. I hate everyone looking at me like they don’t understand why I can’t just go back to normal.” Stiles sits up, disentangling himself from Derek and pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe away the tears. “It’s like they think the reason is because I’m still not the normal Stiles; they’re just waiting for me to flip and start killing people again.”

“The reason you can’t go back to normal is because you went through something traumatic and you need time to heal from it. You might never go completely back to how you were before, and that’s fine too.”

Stiles shuffles back to lean against the headboard and Derek swings his legs up onto the bed, shifting to sit next to him. “I know. Logically I know that, but it’s hard to make myself believe it.”

“I know,” Derek says, letting his head fall back to rest against the wall. “Trust me, I know.”

Stiles is quiet for a minute, fingers pulling idly at the blankets as he lets himself take comfort in Derek’s presence next to him. “I do, you know,” he says eventually, when enough time has passed that Derek isn’t sure he’s going to say anything else tonight. “Trust you. Probably more than I trust anyone else right now. Definitely more than I trust myself.”

Derek reaches out to curl a hand around Stiles’, halting the movement of his fingers as they pick at a loose thread, “I trust you too.”

They don’t get as much sleep as they need, after that, but Derek thinks it’s still probably the most Stiles has managed since before the Nogitsune. He makes them both steaming mugs of hot cocoa, and they watch a few episodes of some mindless comedy Stiles has queued up on his laptop until Stiles drops off and Derek takes himself back to his own bed.

The next time they wake it’s with another nightmare, but the sun is peeking over the horizon already so they call it morning and give up on any more attempts at sleep for the night. Stiles sets about making coffee and Derek starts cracking eggs to make breakfast. It’s domestic in a way that he hasn’t truly had since Laura was still alive, when they had lived together in their cramped little New York apartment.

He misses her so much that it aches. It actually physically hurts him, every time he remembers that she’s gone.

He feels the loss of all his family members like a gaping wound right at the core of him, but Laura hits differently. They had lost everyone and everything, except for each other. They had been what got one another through it, and losing her had been all his worst fears come true. She had always been the strong one - far stronger than Derek.

Right at the beginning, when he had been at his lowest point, swallowed by the grief and the guilt, she had been what pulled him through it all. She had organized them both, kept them safe and found them somewhere to live. She’d dragged him out of bed, put food in front of him and watched him eat it to make sure that he actually did. She’d sat with him when he woke from his nightmares, choking on phantom smoke, the sound of Kate’s laughter ringing in his ears. She’d held him tight whilst he sobbed, stroked his hair and shushed him - told him he didn’t need her forgiveness because none of it was ever his fault.

He’d confessed the whole truth to her and still she never blamed him, just made it her mission to heal him as best she could.

He’d never truly forgiven himself - he doubted he ever would - but by the time he and Laura had been in New York for a few years he could honestly say he’d started to feel something like happy. Now, in this little cabin with Stiles, he thinks he might be getting there again.

They sit at the little dining table with their breakfast and too-strong coffee, knees knocking together as they eat. Stiles has the map open, balanced at the edge of the table so that there’s enough room for both of their plates.

“I think we should go and see some of the falls today,” he says, gesturing haphazardly towards the map with his fork and sending a little piece of egg flying across the room.

“Sounds like a plan.” Derek suppresses the urge to cover his coffee cup with his hand, lest he end up with little bits of Stiles’ breakfast in it. “Anything else you want to do today?”

“I kind of like it here.” Stiles shrugs, glancing around their little cabin, “Maybe we could stay in a bit. Play some cards, watch a movie, read a book?”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, “we could do that.”

Stiles stretches out to grab the notepad from the counter, flipping it open to the first page, still blank and waiting for him to fill it with plans. “Shit.” He looks around, frowning as he casts his gaze over the table, then turns to start scanning the rest of the room, “What did I do with the pen?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, reaching out to pluck it from its perch behind Stiles’ right ear.

“Oh.” A flush spreads across the bridge of Stiles’ nose as he reaches out to take the pen from Derek, “That makes sense. Somewhere safe. If I ever need to start wearing glasses I’m going to spend the rest of my life losing them on top of my head, aren’t I?”

“Almost definitely,” Derek agrees, shoveling another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Stiles bites off the pen cap and starts to write, constructing the start of their plans. He’d stuffed his note-filled napkins in the back cover of the notepad sometime the previous night, so he fishes them out to start consulting them for ideas, idly scooping food into his mouth with his left hand.

Derek genuinely isn’t sure how he’s managing not to drop everything on the floor, with everything balanced so precariously on the edge of the table. It still might end in disaster, so as soon as their plates are empty he whisks them away to start washing up, giving Stiles more space to spread bits of paper across the surface to his heart's content.

By the time he comes back to the table with a refill of coffee for both of them Stiles has marked up the map with a series of circles, stars and arrows that will probably only ever make sense to him, and the first page of the notepad is divided into three columns with a couple of wonky lines, each of which have a few lines of Stiles’ distinctive scrawl in them.

“So,” Stiles says, eagerly accepting his coffee from Derek’s hands and gesturing for him to sit back down, “we need to make some lists. Places we definitely have to visit, places that we’d like to go, and places that would be nice to see if we happen to end up that way. I’m also thinking we should have an ‘experiences’ list. Like, things we want to try doing on the trip. Might as well get started on those bucket lists, you know?”

Derek smiles, settling back into his chair and dragging the map a little closer so he can take a look, “Sounds like a plan. What have you got so far?”

They spend the morning filling in Stiles’ lists and finishing off the coffee before jumping in the car and driving out to see the first of the waterfalls they’ve decided to visit. They’re only in the car for about fifteen minutes before Stiles is slumped against the window, mouth lolling open as he settles into a more restful sleep than he’d managed all night. Derek is almost loath to wake him as they pull into a parking spot at the start of the trail down to the water, but as soon as the engine cuts out Stiles is sitting up, rubbing blearily at his eyes and looking around.

“Shit, that was quick,” he says, stretching his arms above his head as he shakes off the sleep and works out the crick in his neck. “We’re there already?”

“You were out for about an hour.” Derek smiles at him. “Seems like you got some rest.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “No nightmares or anything. Is it weird that a car nap is the best sleep I’ve had in months?”

Derek shrugs, clicking off his seatbelt and opening the car door, “If it works, it works.”

The trek down to the pool is a fairly easy one, and they’re soon stood at the edge of the water, looking up at the falls in front of them. It was worth the journey. The cascade of water is impressive, a powerful torrent into the pool below that churns with a mesmerizing swirl of white foam. “Oh wow. That’s pretty cool.”

Derek nods his agreement, taking a moment to let the scents and sounds wash over him. It’s calming, the rush of the water a constant, soothing roar in his ears. He can smell the tree sap, and the scent of Stiles next to him, not overwhelmingly tainted by grief and fear and pain for a change. This is a moment he wants to keep, to come back to when he needs a memory of a time where he was completely content.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to reach down and stick his fingertips in the water, snatching them back almost immediately and wiping them dry on his jeans, “Fuck that’s cold. We should come back in summer if we want to swim, it would probably be alright then.”

Derek shrugs, gives the water an appraising look before tugging off his jacket and shirt, then reaching down to undo his belt.

“Are you kidding?” Stiles’ eyes are wide as he glances between the water and Derek, flush rising on his face as Derek kicks off his shoes and shucks his jeans, depositing his pile of clothes in Stiles’ arms.

“Nope,” he says, starting to wade into the water clad only in his black boxer briefs, left on for Stiles’ benefit more than anything else.

Stiles can’t help but let his gaze slide over Derek’s body, watching the mesmerizing shift of his back muscles as he dives into the water, sinking under the surface before bursting back up through it with a splash, pushing his soaked hair back out of his eyes. He looks like some kind of Greek god like this, all wet, tanned skin, and muscular physique. Stiles can feel the flush spreading down his neck and chest as he tries to pretend he isn’t totally checking Derek out.

From the sharp grin Derek shoots his way, he doesn’t quite succeed, but he doesn’t say anything about it, just starts swimming towards the falls like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Stiles and is totally fine with it.

It’s almost like he’s showing off.

Stiles dumps the pile of clothes on a nearby rock and fishes in his pocket for his phone. Derek is crazy to be swimming in temperatures like this, and Stiles absolutely needs to capture the moment for posterity. Not in a weird way. Absolutely not. He genuinely can’t let this moment of ridiculousness go undocumented, particularly when Derek decides to swim under the spray of the waterfall itself.

He snaps photos until Derek emerges from the water, wading back over to Stiles with all the presence of an exceptionally successful underwear model. Stiles laughs, taking one last photo of Derek shaking the water from his hair, pointedly not making mention of how canine the action is.

“You’re actually insane. How were you in there that long? Have your balls not retreated so far up into your body you won’t be able to retrieve them? Do you even have balls left? I’m aware I should probably stop talking about your balls. I’m shutting up now. Just know that I hope for your sake they remain undamaged. Actually shutting up now. Here are your clothes, please go and put them on before we have to find out whether or not werewolves can get hypothermia.” Stiles grabs the pile of clothes from the rock he’d deposited them on and stuffs them into Derek’s grasp, shooing him over towards a grouping of trees to change behind. Stiles is pretty sure he won’t be able to take it if Derek just goes ahead and drops his boxers right there in front of him.

Derek sensibly ignores all mention of his balls, instead accepting his pile of clothes and letting himself be herded towards the trees. “It wasn’t that cold Stiles.”

“Pah,” Stiles makes a sound of disbelief, turning his back to make sure he doesn’t catch any glimpses of things he really doesn’t want Derek to smell his reaction to seeing. “So you say.”

It doesn’t take long for Derek to emerge from behind the trees, fully dressed aside from the dripping pair of underwear grasped in his hand. Stiles makes a valiant attempt not to think about the fact that Derek is now definitely going commando as they trek back up the hill towards the Camaro.

They drive a little further to take in another waterfall, without any swimming this time, then decide on a short hike before they decide to call it a day.

As Stiles settles into the passenger seat to start the drive back to the cabin he slides his phone from his pocket and pulls up the photos he’s taken through the afternoon to scroll through. There are some good ones in there, where Derek looks so free and light it sort of cracks Stiles in two with the depth of the feelings he’s trying his best not to think about.

If he lets himself think about it he’s pretty sure he knows what conclusions he’ll draw, and he’s not ready for those kinds of feelings. He’s still too lost, too engulfed in everything the Nogitsune left him with to go there, and Derek is no Lydia to safely pine over with no chance of ever having to do anything about it.

Stiles is self-aware enough to know he’s always tended towards love of the unrequited variety; it’s always seemed safer somehow, knowing that he can bestow his affections on someone without the risk of ever getting involved with them. He’s not sure what it says about him, how much that kind of emotional vulnerability scares him, but it does. It leaves him feeling flayed open and weak, and Stiles has always hated feeling that way.

Nowadays he feels little else.

All those weeks ago, when he’d had his bisexual crisis and Scott had hit him with a few home truths, he’d figured he'd managed to do his usual trick without even realizing it. They don’t come any more unattainable or emotionally unavailable than Derek Hale, so who better to fixate his attentions on?

But Derek doesn’t make him feel scared to be vulnerable with him. Just as much as Stiles has been relying on Derek, letting him see the messy horrors that make up Stiles’ head, Derek has been sharing back, offering his own snippets of information and starting to bare the painful parts of his own soul. Stiles knows, now, that Derek might not be as unattainable as he first thought.

It doesn’t feel like pining anymore, it feels like waiting.

It’s a big difference.

Stiles sleeps a little better that night. The nightmares still come, but Derek manages to wake him before they fully take hold and he drifts back off a little more easily each time. It’s nowhere near enough to make a dent on Stiles’ accumulated sleep debt, but it’s something. One of these days Stiles is finally going to hit a night without nightmares, and Derek thinks he might just sleep right through the next day when that happens.

Around nine o’clock Derek wakes to find Stiles puttering around the kitchenette, bag already packed up and near the door, ready to go. He gratefully accepts a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of toast, offering Stiles a mumble of thanks and a smile.

“You’re welcome,” Stiles beams back at him, mood much improved for the hours of sleep he’s managed. They eat at the little table, Stiles keeping up a constant stream of chatter which Derek intersperses with little noises of agreement and snorts of amusement. It’s easy to listen to Stiles like this, talking about whatever comes into his head. There had been points where he had worried he’d never get to hear him talk like this again.

“So,” Stiles says, finishing the dregs of his coffee. “We don’t really have anything else on our list up this way, so I figure we might as well head straight towards the coast.” He flips open the map and points at Eureka, chosen solely on the basis that Stiles is amused by the name; he’s hoping for some big epiphanies whilst they’re there, purely so he has an excuse to exclaim it.

Derek nods his agreement, leaning over to peer at the map, “It’s about three hours from here if we go the direct route.” He traces it with his finger, looking over the other options, “Or we could take a detour and head up past Mt Shasta. Should get some good views that way, but we won’t get there until evening.”

Stiles nods, opening up the navigation app on his phone to check the route, “It should take just under six, plus time for stops. I’m up for it if you are, big guy?”

“We’d better get a move on.” Derek downs the last of his coffee, lets Stiles whip the mug out of his hand to go and wash up while Derek hops in the shower.

He emerges fully dressed and slightly damp around the edges fifteen minutes later, to find that Stiles has got everything tidied away and packed into the car aside from Derek’s own things. He stuffs everything haphazardly into his duffel and pulls on his shoes and jacket, giving the cabin a quick once over to check they haven’t missed anything.

“Let’s get checked out and on the road then, Sourwolf.”

Derek smiles at the old nickname as Stiles presses a travel mug of coffee into his hand and chivvies him out the door.

They pick up some food from the little store in case they want to have lunch on the go, and Derek chucks in a few souvenirs that he sees Stiles eyeing as well. Stiles gives him a questioning look and Derek shrugs, picking up a postcard for good measure, “There’s a lot of things around you at home with bad memories attached. You should have more stuff with good ones.”

Stiles grins at him, bumping their shoulders together, “Sappywolf.”

Derek can live with that.

It’s a lot of driving for one day, but Derek doesn’t mind. He enjoys being behind the wheel, feels in control here in a way he doesn’t always get to. Too many things in his life are taken out of his hands, situations foist upon him with no warning. This is simple, it’s just him, the Camaro and the road.

The scenery is worth the detour, and there are a lot more unscheduled stops than anticipated when Stiles decides that he absolutely has to get out and take a photo. Derek is quickly learning that he has a hard time saying no to Stiles when it comes to things like this, particularly now. If it puts a smile on Stiles’ face, if it takes away the haunted look in his eyes, even just for a moment, all Derek can do is say yes.

That’s how he finds himself in the passenger seat, clinging onto the handle above the door for dear life and reminding himself that he absolutely doesn’t want to put claw marks in the upholstery. Stiles isn’t a bad driver, not by any means, but he’s used to the jeep and he’s enjoying the smooth ride and responsivity of the Camaro a little too much. Derek wouldn’t call himself a control freak, but he loves this car. It’s a struggle to be in it when he’s not the one driving, unless he’s actively bleeding out in the backseat; that has happened more times than he really likes to recall.

Stiles pulls over when they come to a trailhead, patting Derek reassuringly on the thigh as he shuts off the engine. “Don’t worry, it’s over,” he says, climbing out of the car with a stretch. “You can have your baby back before you clench your jaw so hard you crack a tooth.” He fishes in the back for their picnic lunch, and they eat it perched on the hood, Stiles bundled up in enough layers to keep out the chill.

“Thanks for letting me drive.” Stiles stuffs the last bit of sandwich in his mouth, brushing the crumbs off his lap, “It was kind of meant to give you a break, but it didn’t look like you found it all that relaxing.”

“It was fine.” Derek takes a sip of his drink, glancing over at Stiles as he starts to gather the trash leftover from their meal.

“Nah, I get it. I can deal with other people driving the jeep, but not when I’m actually in it. She drives like a dream though, so thanks for letting me.”

“You can drive again, if you want,” Derek offers - can’t quite believe he’s saying it. It’s Stiles though, and if it will make Stiles happy he can deal with it.

“Another time, sure. Maybe on the nice big easy roads, or when you’re feeling like you actually need a break. For now she’s all yours, I’ll man the radio.”

They make it to Eureka around dinner time, so they find a reasonably un-shady, clean looking motel with a twin room available and get checked in. Stiles toes off his sneakers and flings himself onto the bed furthest from the door, already pulling out his phone to research the local takeout options. “I’m feeling pizza. How about you? We’ve been driving all day, and I need some sweet greasy sustenance to recover.”

“Pizza’s fine.” Derek dumps their bags in between the beds and starts filling the little under-counter fridge with the leftover groceries from the cabin. They’ll get eaten eventually.

“Where’s the enthusiasm, Derek?” Stiles is already tapping in the number for the local pizza place with the best reviews; a minute later their order is placed without Derek even having to tell Stiles what he wants. He’s not sure when Stiles learned his usual order, but he’s quickly realizing that Stiles is the kind of person who notices these little details. When it comes to the people he cares about, he seems to remember them like it’s nothing. Derek doesn’t know when he became one of those people, but it makes him happier than he can express to realize that he is.

Stiles is out the front door of the motel room and halfway across the parking lot before Derek wakes up enough to realize what’s going on. He grabs the key card on his way out the open door, not willing to get locked out, and catches up with Stiles in a matter of seconds, gripping him firmly by the shoulders to stop him in his tracks.

Are you supposed to wake someone who’s sleepwalking? Derek isn’t sure, but it seems like the safest option right now. Stiles’ heart is racing, his breath coming faster than usual, like he’s on the edge of a panic attack despite not being awake. “You need to wake up, Stiles. You’re having a dream, I need you to wake up for me.”

He pulls Stiles closer, wrapping an arm round his back so their chests are pressed together in the hope that even asleep Stiles might manage to match his breathing and fend off the impending attack. “Come on Stiles, you can do this. Breathe with me, deep breaths in and out. I want you to wake up now, it’s too cold to be outside like this.”

It feels like it takes forever, but finally Stiles wakes with a start, head whipping around to take in his surroundings. “Derek?” His voice is small, uncertain, like he’s not sure he isn’t still in the dream.

“I’m here,” Derek loosens his grip, leaning back so he can look Stiles in the eye. “Let’s get inside, you must be freezing.”

Stiles lets himself be directed back to their room, unsteady on his feet and shaking - though Derek doesn’t think it’s from the cold. He’s malleable and compliant as Derek sits him down on the bed, wrapping the comforter around his shoulders. “I didn’t know where I was.”

“I know,” Derek says, crouched in front of him. “But I did. Can you trust me with that, for now? Can you trust that I’ll be with you?”

Stiles nods shakily, burying his face in his hands and sinking his fingers into his hair as the fear turns to frustration, “I hate that you have to. I know you’ll wake up, I know you won’t let me get far, but you shouldn’t need to, Derek. I just want to sleep through the night without worrying that I won’t wake up in my own bed, or that I’m going to wake up screaming, or that I’m going to wake up and not be myself anymore because I’ve been possessed by an evil fucking fox.”

“I hate that you have to deal with this,” Derek says, disentangling Stiles’ fingers from where they’re pulling at his hair and grasping them with his own. “I hate that you have to get through it and we can’t just skip to the bit where magically you’re sleeping through the night more often than not. But I don’t hate that I’m the one here helping you through it. Not even a tiny bit, ok?”

Stiles lets out a sigh and nods, squeezing Derek’s hand, “Thanks.”

Stiles is in a foul mood the next day. It hovers over him from the moment he wakes up, and he just can’t seem to pull himself out of it. The rest of the night had been full of fractured snatches of sleep, where he spent more time staring at the ceiling and the curve of Derek’s shoulder than actually getting any rest. They have a piecemeal breakfast made up of their leftover groceries, and then Stiles retreats back to the bed, pulling the covers up around his ears like he can block out the outside world.

After the long day of driving they’d already decided to spend another night here so Derek can have a bit of a break, but this isn’t a day for exploring. Stiles can hear Derek moving around the room, listens to the sounds of him getting ready for the day as he steps in the shower and dresses, puts on the coffee machine and digs around in one of the bags.

It’s followed by the flipping of pages and the scratch of a biro against paper. He must have got out the map and notepad. Ordinarily Stiles would be happy that Derek is adding his thoughts to the page, excited to see what ideas he’s had, but today he just can’t bring himself to care. The sound is soothing, though, so he listens to Derek flip through pages and jot down notes like he can use it to block out the sound of his own thoughts.

Eventually Derek puts the books down and comes to crouch in front of Stiles, pushing the covers back slightly so he can see his face. “What do you need?” His voice is soft and his hand comes up to push Stiles’ hair back off his forehead with a tenderness that Stiles can’t make himself believe he deserves right now.

“I don’t know,” Stiles whispers, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the expression on Derek’s face. “You don’t have to stay here. You can go out and explore, I’ll be alright. I just can’t today.”

“No,” Derek says firmly, “it’s our trip, I’m not doing any of it without you if it’s because you’re hurting, that’s not what this is about. I’ll only leave if it’s because you think it will help you for me to leave - don’t forget that I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Stiles shakes his head, “Stay.”

“Alright,” Derek says, running his hand through Stiles’ hair briefly before pulling it away to toe off his shoes and go and change from jeans into sweats. “Budge up, we’re having a TV day.”

So they do.

They keep the blinds pulled shut and Derek arranges the pillows from both beds against the headboard to create a nest for them to sit in. He lifts up the covers and slides in next to Stiles, rearranging them both so that Stiles is leaning against him, head resting on Derek’s chest and Derek’s arm around his shoulders.

Any other time Stiles’ heart would be pounding out of his chest at their proximity, his mind an anxious mess of wondering what it means, and what to do with his hands, and what Derek might want from him. Not today. Today he just takes the comfort that’s offered, tangling his legs with Derek’s and settling into the embrace. He might not be a werewolf, but he can smell Derek all around him and it calms him, makes him feel safe as he sinks into this little cocoon that Derek has made for them. He’ll freak out about it later, he’s sure, but he doesn’t have it in him now.

They stay there most of the day, flicking through channels with the volume on low. Stiles dozes a bit when his eyes won’t stay open any longer, never really committing to sleep. Derek watches over him, a constant presence with the exception of a quick run to the store around the corner for provisions. He returns to the room a little flushed, like he’d made the effort to run back just in case Stiles needed him.

It’s not a good day. It’s not the day they were meant to have, but it’s the day that happened. Not every day can be a good one, but it could have been worse. At least he had Derek here to anchor him, to keep him from falling too deep into the depths of his grief and guilt.

He’s in the preserve again. He can’t see it, but he knows the Nemeton is nearby. It calls to him, tries to draw him nearer, but he doesn’t want to go to it. He starts running in the opposite direction, branches whipping at his face and bare arms. They sting his skin, slashing at him until they draw blood but still he keeps running. No matter which way he turns he can sense it in front of him, drawing him in.

A clearing opens up in front of him, and there it is. A girl sits cross-legged on top of the stump, silent and still. She’s facing the opposite direction, but he knows who it is. She’s been appearing here more often, coming to him in his dreams. He can’t shake her off; doesn’t know if he even wants to. He definitely doesn’t deserve to.

Allison.

She turns to stare at him, eyes cold and accusing.

“You did this, Stiles. It’s your fault.”

“I know.” He’s right in front of her now, on his knees at the foot of the Nemeton. “I’m sorry, Allison, I tried to stop it but I couldn’t. It was too strong, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t going to bring me back, Stiles.” She’s leaning forward, staring into his eyes, furious. “It’s your fault they don’t have me anymore. Scott will never forgive you, none of them will. What are you going to do? How are you going to fix this?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry Allison, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix it. Tell me what I need to do?”

“It needs a sacrifice, Stiles. You need to take my place.” She reaches out, grabbing his wrist with a painful grip, fingernails digging into his skin as she yanks him forward into the stump of the Nemeton.

He wakes up with a shout, clawing at the sheets where they tangle around his legs. His dad comes running through the door, reaching out to pull him into his arms as he tries to catch his breath. Just a dream. It was just a dream.

He climbs out of his jeep, starts walking towards the school. Scott’s over by one of the benches with Kira and Malia so he starts heading towards them, hitching his backpack up onto his shoulder.

He sees a flash of something familiar out of the corner of his eye, turns to look but it’s already gone. Scott’s giving him a puzzled look, like he might’ve actually lost his mind. Stiles shrugs. “Thought I saw something”.

Kira gives him an encouraging smile. It’s the same one she gives him every time she sees him, like she’s worried he might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces if he isn’t given enough reassurance to keep holding himself together.

He sees it again. Over by the doors. It’s her. She’s staring him down, eyes burning with anger, then someone walks in front of her and she’s gone.

“Are you ok Stiles?” Kira’s reaching out to touch his shoulder, bringing his attention back towards them. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He’s in class. Economics. Finstock is pacing at the front of class, deep in a rant about something that has nothing to do with anything. He can hear something behind him. A sort of dripping. He doesn’t want to look round, but the compulsion is too strong; he can’t stop himself. She’s there again, staring at him. She doesn’t look angry this time - she’s crying. He looks down at her stomach and there’s so much blood. There’s a puddle of it forming, dripping steadily onto the floor.

“STILES!” He whips his head around, Finstock is shouting at him. Everyone is staring. He looks back around and she’s gone.

He’s in the locker room, changing after lacrosse practice. Everyone else has gone. Finstock had kept him late running suicides after he’d zoned out in class. He bangs his head against the locker. He’s not sure if he’s losing it or if he’s being haunted. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye again and he knows it’s her. He follows her around the corner, into the showers. It’s still humid in here, not enough time has passed for the steam to finish dissipating after practice. The ground is wet and one of the pipes is leaky, dripping onto the ground in a way that sounds eerily similar to Allison’s blood on the classroom floor.

She turns to look at him again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Allison. I can’t take it back, I don’t know how. If I could take your place I would.”

She takes a step closer, then another until she’s right in front of him. She’s crying again, and as she reaches up to press a cold hand against Stiles’ cheek he realizes that he’s crying too.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry. I wish I’d been stronger, I wish I’d managed to keep it out. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t bring me back.” She steps back, turns away, and Stiles reaches out, tries to pull her back but she’s already gone.

“No! Come back! Allison, come back!”

He’s in his jeep, driving home. Derek’s in the passenger seat, earnest expression on his face.

“I need you to think about something carefully for me, Stiles.”

Stiles glances at him, then back at the road. “Sure thing, what’s up sourwolf?”

“Do you remember how you got to school this morning?”

“I drove.” He shoots Derek a questioning look. The answer’s obvious. He’s driving home now, so he must have driven to school. Surely Derek is clever enough to put that one together.

“Yes,” Derek says, “but I need you to think carefully about it. Do you remember driving?”

Stiles frowns. He thinks back to the morning. He’d woken from his nightmare, his dad had come in and then… he’d been at school. “I- no. I don’t remember it. What does that mean?”

“How about after that? Do you remember what happened next?”

“I was at school. I was talking to Scott and Kira and Malia for a bit and then we went to our classes.”

“Do you remember that? Do you remember going to class, or were you just there?”

“I-” Stiles thinks harder. The memories feel fuzzy around the edges, like they’re resisting him. “I was there. It was economics. I don’t have economics first period.”

“You don’t,” Derek agrees.

“And then I was in the locker room, after practice. But I don’t remember practice. And then I was here, but I don’t remember getting in the car.” He looks sharply over at Derek, eyes wide with fear. “What does that mean, Derek?”

“You know what it means.”

He looks away from Derek, eyes back on the road but it’s too late to stop it. He slams on the brakes, but she’s stood there in the middle of the road screaming his name.

She hits the windscreen with a sickening crack, her scream still echoing in his ears.

It’s his fault.

Stiles wakes with a scream, inconsolable. Derek holds him close, rocks him gently as he sobs. The nightmare had been a bad one; probably the worst that Derek has witnessed. He hadn’t been able to wake him from it, Stiles had been stuck too deep in the dream for Derek to reach him and pull him out.

It takes a long time for Stiles to calm down, but Derek holds him through all of it, making soothing noises as he cards his fingers through Stiles hair. Keeping him close until finally the sobs tail off and Stiles’ breath starts to return to something approaching normal.

“It was Allison,” he says eventually, voice raw and shaky, his fingers tangled in the fabric of Derek’s shirt. “She’s been showing up more and more. This one she- It sounds stupid, but it’s like she’s haunting me.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” Derek says, burying his nose in Stiles’ hair as he holds him a little closer. “It sounds like you haven’t forgiven yourself for her death. Logically you know it isn’t your fault, but emotionally you still feel like it is. Your brain is still working through that.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“It has been known to happen.” Stiles snorts a little laugh, and Derek has never been more grateful for the sound. They’re quiet for a little longer. He can feel that there’s something else Stiles wants to say, but he needs the time to say it.

“You were there too, at the end. You were trying to help me figure out that I was dreaming.”

“Did it work?”

“Sort of,” Stiles says, taking a shaky breath. “We were in the jeep together, driving home. I’d taken my eyes off the road whilst we were speaking, and I looked back just as I figured it out. Allison was there, in the middle of the road. It was too late. I hit her.”

“You’re not sure which one woke you up?”

Stiles shakes his head, another tear escaping down his cheek into the damp fabric of Derek’s shirt. “I’m not sure it matters.”

They leave Eureka the next morning. They’d planned on spending the day here, particularly having not seen any of it the day before, but after the past two nights Stiles just wants to get on the road and Derek agrees with him.

Maybe one day, when Stiles is most of the way past this, they can come back and see the things that stay unchecked on their list, but right now it’s time to move on.

They hit up a Starbucks drive-through for breakfast on their way out of town, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief as they finally leave the city, coffee and breakfast sandwich in hand. They decide to travel on the smaller roads for now so they can stick to the coast, a choice that they seem to be taking more often than not. It’s nice to get off the beaten track, somewhat, it feels a little quieter - more like they’re in their own little world.

They stop off to see the redwoods on the way, spend some time hiking in the state park and taking photos with the enormous trees. It feels good to be so dwarfed by something; when everything in their lives seems to hold so many consequences it’s nice to be made to feel insignificant every once in a while.

Stiles is quieter than usual, but it’s still an improvement on the day before when leaving the motel room had been a task too great. He seems calm, almost, in a way that Derek suspects doesn’t happen very often. Calmness isn’t something Stiles has ever been known for.

They climb back into the Camaro once they’ve had their fill of trees, carry on down the coast for a couple of hours until they see somewhere they want to stop for the night. It’s out of season, so they have no problem renting a cabin just out of town, booking in for three nights on a whim and immediately being assured that it’ll be no trouble to extend their stay further if they want to.

It’s the longest they will have stayed anywhere so far and it’s not somewhere on their list, but sometimes the best places are the ones you stumble across. Derek likes the feel of it. It feels like somewhere he wants to spend some time. It’s idyllic, with its ocean view and surrounding redwoods, and Derek feels more at peace here than he has in a long time. He hopes Stiles does as well.

They get settled in and head out onto the deck to watch the sunset, standing in companionable silence as shades of pink and orange fill the sky, reflecting off the water and making the whole world glow golden. It’s cold out, so as soon as the sun has disappeared below the horizon they bundle themselves back inside for dinner.

Stiles curls up on the couch, dragging a thick knit throw over his lap as Derek makes a start on the food in the little kitchenette. It’s nothing fancy, but then Derek has never been one for fancy things and neither has Stiles. He likes good food, filling and tasty without too many airs and graces. Stiles has his phone in his hand, is fidgeting with it like he’s working up to something.

“I should probably call Dad,” he says eventually, looking over at Derek. “I haven’t spoken to him properly since we left.”

Derek nods, “I think he’d like that. Do you want to take it in another room, or are you ok with me hearing?”

Stiles shrugs, unlocking the phone, “I’ll put it on speaker. He’d probably like to talk to you as well, make sure I’m not driving you crazy.”

Derek smiles, continues preparing the vegetables as Stiles hits the call button. The Sheriff answers almost immediately, and Derek suddenly feels bad that he didn’t think to call himself. He had been worried enough about Stiles when he had still had him in his sights, it must be even harder with Stiles out of reach like this.

“Hey Dad,” Stiles sets the phone down on the coffee table, fingers twisting in the blanket on his lap as he fidgets with it, “I’ve got Derek here as well. He’s making dinner; it’s all very domestic.”

“I hope you’re pulling your weight too, Son, not just using him as a skivvy.” The Sheriff's voice is tinny through the speakers, but he sounds relieved. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“But he’s so good at it! It would be a waste not to put those talents to use,” Stiles shoots him a grin.

“He made me toast the other day,” Derek confirms, “and there’s been a constant stream of coffee.”

“Oh hell, Son. How are you still standing? I love the kid, but I will never understand how he manages to make it so strong. I don’t know why he doesn’t just chew on the grounds and be done with it.”

“I’m right here, Dad! And my coffee is awesome. Derek loves it, don’t you Derek?”

“It’s a good job I’m a werewolf,” Derek replies diplomatically, laughing as Stiles squawks in protest.

They talk with the Sheriff for about half an hour, until the food is ready and Derek brings it over for them to eat on the couch, Stiles’ laptop propped up on the coffee table so they can watch a movie as they eat.

Finally, when Stiles is holding back yawns and the credits are rolling they make moves to bed shuffling through the bathroom and getting changed, making sure the doors and windows are secure and the log burning fire is properly extinguished. Derek listens to Stiles check it from the bathroom, then watches him check it again when he’s back in the living room. It’s thoughtful, in the way that most people don’t realize Stiles can be, that he checks it twice just so he can be sure Derek’s seen him do it. So that Derek will be reassured.

“Ready for bed?” Derek sets his blankets on the arm of the couch, flashing Stiles a quick smile of thanks, which Stiles returns with a nod.

“Yeah.” He heads towards the bedroom, lingering in the doorway. Derek shoots him a questioning look.

“I don’t suppose-” Stiles pauses, looks away from Derek, eyes averted in embarrassment. “You can say no. But would you mind… Sharing?” He glances towards the bedroom, then back at Derek and his stack of blankets. “I would rather not be alone after…” He tails off, no need to say anything more about the hell of the past two nights.

“Sure,” Derek says simply, picking up his stack of blankets - just in case they need them - and following Stiles through to the bedroom.

No matter how domestic cooking and washing up together felt, sliding into bed next to each other is something else entirely. It’s not like the nights when Derek ended up on Stiles’ bed, holding him close in the aftermath of a nightmare before eventually retreating to his own space. It’s not like the day spent curled up in bed watching TV in Eureka. It feels purposeful, in a way that none of that had been. It’s a decision, not a reaction.

Stiles takes the left, leaving Derek to climb in on the right side - his usual preference. They roll onto their sides, facing each other, and it feels like another world. This is a place where it’s easier to be open and say things that need to be said, shielded by the protection of the bedcovers, like the nights as a kid when the sheets could be trusted to keep the monsters out.

“Goodnight Derek,” Stiles says, voice almost a whisper.

“Night, Stiles.”

And they sleep.

Sharing a bed doesn’t magically fix things. Stiles still has nightmares, and Derek is still only able to sleep lightly, one ear always trained on Stiles’ heartbeat and the cadence of his breath. It’s better, though. Derek can catch the little signs sooner, is able to pull Stiles out of them before he sinks too deeply.

“You’re there with me more,” Stiles mumbles one time when Derek has woken him up around three in the morning. “Maybe because I can feel you next to me, you’re there too. You help. You help me realize it’s a dream.”

They wake the next morning tangled with each other, Derek’s arm draped across Stiles’ middle and nose mashed in his hair. They wake slowly, drifting back to consciousness with an ease that has all but eluded Stiles recently.

Stiles hums in contentment, shifting to press back against Derek’s body, into his embrace. It makes Derek very immediately aware of a problem he probably should have foreseen, which is now pressing firmly against Stiles’ backside.

“Shit, sorry,” he groans, shifting away as the tips of his ears redden with embarrassment.

“S’fine,” Stiles mumbles, slowly pushing himself up to sitting, arms reaching up above his head in a stretch that pulls his t-shirt up to reveal the hair on his stomach in a way that isn’t at all helping Derek’s situation, “happens.”

He stifles a yawn, sliding his legs out of bed and stumbling out of the room towards the kitchen muttering something about coffee, and Derek flops onto his back with a groan, pulling his pillow over his face for a minute to try and bury the mortification before he pulls himself together and rolls out of bed so he can head to the bathroom to sort himself out.

By the time he’s out of the shower, evidence of his activities long since washed down the drain, there’s a pot of coffee ready and waiting in the kitchenette. He pours himself a cup and joins Stiles on the couch where he’s poring over the map, notepad open on the arm of the couch for him to jot notes on, half cup of increasingly tepid coffee forgotten on the table.

“I’ve been thinking,” Stiles says, drawing a little star next to something on the map. Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles swats him on the leg as he notices it. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!” He grins.

“You didn’t have to. I heard it.”

“You heard my eyebrow?”

“I heard the little ‘that’s dangerous’ that your eyebrow was clearly implying. Very funny. Anyway, I’ve been thinking,” he gives Derek a pointed look and Derek raises his hands in surrender. “We’re probably going to hit up San Francisco next, yeah?”

“If you want.” Derek shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I’d like to visit Berkeley. I know, things are crazy in Beacon Hills so I can’t really leave, and my grades have taken a hit recently with all the- you know. So it’s probably Beacon Hills Community College for me, but I’d like to see it. Just in case, y’know?”

“Of course.” Derek reaches out a hand to squeeze Stiles’ knee, a little gesture of physical reassurance. “For what it’s worth, I think you can do it. You’re clever, Stiles, you can get the grades back up. And you shouldn’t let Beacon Hills hold you back - I don’t want you to feel trapped there. You can’t let it stop you from living your life.”

“You say that like it’s so easy.”

“It can be. There’s enough of us there to keep things under control, and Berkeley’s close enough if we need you. Don’t talk yourself out of it before you’ve even tried.”

Stiles nods, drops his hand down to squeeze Derek’s, “Thanks, Derek.”

“Any time. Now where’s breakfast? I was reliably informed by the Sheriff that it’s your turn this morning, and I’m expecting pancakes.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, giving Derek’s shoulder a gentle shove as he stands up, “Yeah, alright bossy, I’m on it. I was just waiting on you.”

They wander down to the beach after their pancake breakfast and a leisurely morning in the cabin. Derek takes a video of Stiles dipping his toes in the freezing water and shrieking as he jumps back out again with a long stream of expletives; he sends it to the Sheriff along with a photo of the pancakes, just to prove that Stiles did indeed make them.

The Sheriff’s immediate reply prompts him to send a few more photos from the past few days, Stiles with the redwoods, in front of the waterfalls at Shasta, on the balcony of their cabin. After a moment’s thought he sends the selfie Stiles made them take in front of the waterfall as well, the one where Derek was still dripping wet from his swim, hair pushed messily back from his face to keep the water from trickling into his eyes. It’s a good photo - Derek is half tempted to set it as his phone background, a reminder that there are moments of joy to be found even in the times when it’s never seemed further away. He second guesses himself, though, quickly tapping away from the photo and looking over at where Stiles is skimming stones across the water, jeans still rolled up to his knees. Maybe they aren’t at that point just yet.

The Sheriff replies again, commenting on each photo individually like the proud parent that he is.

That’s a good one of the two of you. You look happy.

Derek smiles, taps the photo to look at it again. They do look happy, it was a good day; probably the first properly good day Stiles had had in a long time. His phone buzzes again with another message from the Sheriff and his face falls.

Nothing from Eureka?

No, Derek taps out in response, thinking carefully about how to word his reply without alarming the Sheriff too much, Eureka wasn’t good. He’s doing better now, though.

Ok. I’m glad you’re with him, son. I’m not as worried knowing he’s with you. Now go and stop him from freezing his toes off.

Their time at the cabin passes in a curious kind of way. It almost feels like they’re outside of time here, in their own little world. They read books and watch movies, they walk down to the beach to spend time by the water, they go for walks up in the forest, and they document the whole thing in photos and little notes written in the margins of Stiles’ notebook. It feels idyllic, in a simple kind of way. Easy. Stiles sleeps a little better the next night, and on the third night he sleeps right through for the first time in months.

He looks rejuvenated the next morning, like a version of himself that he’d almost stopped believing ever existed.

“Can we stay one more day?” he asks, setting another plate of pancakes down in front of Derek with a clatter. They’re his specialty, apparently, and Derek has had the pleasure every morning they’ve been here.

“Let’s ask,” he agrees, tucking in with vigor. “I think it’ll be fine.”

They finish their breakfast and Derek runs over to the main house to see if the cabin is free for another night. He returns to the cabin a few minutes later with an answer to the affirmative and an armful of freshly baked bread and fresh produce that the owner had loaded him up with, refusing to take no for an answer.

“Did you rob a grocery store whilst you were gone?” Stiles asks as he comes through the front door and sets his wares on the table.

“I think we’re their favorite guests,” Derek says, walking over to see what Stiles is up to.

“We’re their only guests,” Stiles says with a snort. “No one else is mad enough to go on a trip to the beach in December.”

“I think they’d love it if we stayed for Christmas, honestly.” Derek says with a laugh.

Stiles hums thoughtfully, reaches for the map and notepad and pulls up the calendar on his phone. He looks over them for a few minutes, flips through the notepad until he finds a blank space to jot some notes in. “We could, if we wanted to,” he says. “Hypothetically, I mean. I kind of figured we might be home for Christmas, but…”

Derek nods, filling in the end of the sentence on his own. If Stiles isn’t ready for Beacon Hills yet. “We can ask. See if it’s even possible. Then we can see how it goes - we might end up somewhere else we want to stay even more.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “Sounds like a plan. We should ask.”

They spend their last day there hiking in the forest until Stiles’ legs burn from exertion and his ankle starts to twinge, still not quite fully healed from its injury that night in the Beacon Hills Preserve. It feels like so long ago, now, that night which set this trip into motion; back then he had been surviving, just barely dragging himself through each day. Now it feels like he’s starting to live again.

Derek is so used to keeping a watchful eye on Stiles nowadays that he notices almost immediately. Stiles puts up a token protest, but Derek will hear none of it and Stiles finds himself on Derek’s back once again in an echo of that night as they make their way back to the cabin. This time, rather than worrying and trying to put Stiles at ease, Derek is muttering to himself about stubborn teenagers needing to look after themselves as Stiles rolls his eyes at him. It really is just a twinge, but there’s no telling Derek - not when it comes to Stiles’ wellbeing - and Stiles is content enough to let him do his wolfy protector thing. Particularly if it means he doesn’t have to walk back.

It’s kind of nice, enjoying the forest like this. Despite the added load, Derek shows no sign of tiring, and Stiles lets himself enjoy the moment. There’s not much wildlife to be seen, long scared off by the scent of predator on the air and the sound of Stiles’ voice carrying through the trees, but the aroma of the redwoods is comforting even to Stiles’ human nose, and he can just about make out the crashing of the ocean as they get closer to the cabin. That’s nothing, though, compared to the feel of Derek, warm and solid against his front, the scent of him overwhelming when Stiles allows himself the indulgence of leaning forward to rest his chin on Derek’s shoulder, so close that Derek’s hair tickles his nose with every other step.

It doesn’t take them long to reach the cabin with the benefit of Derek’s werewolf speed, so they take it in turns to shower off the sweat and grime of the forest, and Stiles doesn’t protest too much when Derek insists on bandaging up his ankle. Just to be sure.

They watch the sunset from a blanket on the beach, travel mugs of hot cocoa in hand. It’s been another good day, the extra sleep having done wonders for Stiles’ mood. He’s started to seem hopeful again today, like he’s finally starting to truly feel like he can get past everything. Derek doesn’t think Stiles has ever actually believed it until now. He’d been going through the motions, saying what everyone wanted to hear, but Derek had seen it in his eyes; he’d been resigned to a lifetime of guilt, fear and paranoia.

“I’ll be sad to leave,” Stiles says, draining the last bit of his drink as the sun dips below the horizon, the last of the light glinting off the waves as they crash towards the shore. “This place has been special.”

“It has,” Derek agrees, finishing off his own drink and rising to his feet in one fluid motion, holding out a hand to pull Stiles up as well. “It’s what we needed. It’ll still be here if we need it again.”

“I like that.” Stiles stumbles a little as Derek pulls him to his feet, the extra strength behind it throwing him ever so slightly off kilter. “You’re very wise sometimes, you know that big guy? Insightfulwolf.”

“No,” Derek groans, picking up the blanket and shaking off the worst of the sand before he folds it neatly and drapes it over his shoulder. “You’re not making that a thing.”

“It could be a thing, Derek.”

“I’m not letting you make that a thing.”

“That sounds like a challenge, Grumpywolf.”

Derek groans again, just barely resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands and pray to a higher power as they start making their way back up to the cabin. “You’re relentless.”

He’s warm. There’s a wall of heat against his back. Firm, solid warmth that he wants to sink into. He groans, feels himself pulled closer. There’s the sensation of lips brushing against his neck and another groan escapes him at the feeling.

“You like that?” The voice is husky with sleep, and he feels the vibrations of it through the chest pressed up against him, feels the shape of the words against his neck.

He does like it. He likes it a lot, and he must say something to that effect because he can feel those lips shifting into a smirk as they press another kiss against his skin. Then another and another, until tongue and teeth start to get involved and he can feel the marks blooming on his skin, a declaration to the world that he’s taken. He belongs to someone.

The arm around his waist shifts, hand moving up to skate over his chest, brushing lightly against sensitive nipples before it makes its way downwards, slowly. Teasing. It stops before it gets to where he wants it - where he needs it - settles onto his hip instead to push him so he’s lying on his back.

The warm body is over him in an instant, pressed tightly along his front, and those lips are finally on his own. He kisses back with enthusiasm as the passion builds, arms coming to wrap around a strong back, fingers sinking into dark hair.

It’s perfect.

He can feel the hard line of an erection against his own, and the sensation leaves him moaning into the kiss as hips start to shift against his in a dirty little grind. It feels like nothing he’s ever felt before, and he lets a hand wander lower to cup a firm ass, pulling him in further.

He feels wanton like this, legs spread around strong hips, coming up to curl around them, head thrown back as lips and teeth mark their way down the column of his neck.

It’s incredible.

He can feel it building, but he doesn’t want it to end. Not ever. He wants to stay in this moment, live in it forever.

“Derek,” he moans, “please.”

The lips leave his neck, and he whines in protest. He wants them back.

“Stiles. Wake up, Stiles. I need you to wake up for me.”

Oh shit. That’s his first thought as he comes back to consciousness, Derek’s hand on his shoulder, concerned expression on his face because he hasn’t realized. Apparently his sex dreams don’t sound all that different to his nightmares.

He reaches down to grab the comforter, pulls it up over his head. Maybe if he stays under here he’ll never have to face his mortification.

“Stiles? Are you ok?” Derek sounds worried, and Stiles feels even worse. He had a sex dream about Derek, with Derek in the same bed as him in a totally platonic kind of way. This is awful.

“Oh god,” Stiles groans, voice muffled by the comforter, “I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you-” There’s a moment of silence, where Derek must finally sort through the confusing mess of chemosignals that Stiles is emitting until he strikes on the right one. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Stiles agrees. “Oh.”

He’s painfully hard, genuinely a little worried that he still might go off at any second, as if this couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

“It’s fine, Stiles. It happens.”

Stiles flushes. He’d kind of attributed that half asleep little memory from the other morning to the tail end of a dream, but he remembers it now. The hard line of Derek’s dick pressed up against his ass. No wonder he’d dreamed about it. It had felt impressive.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, “it’s not the same. You woke up with morning wood, I had a sex dream.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t a nightmare.” Derek’s grinning right now. He knows it. He can hear it in his voice.

Stiles flips the covers back to glare at him, “This is not the time for jokes, Cockywolf. I apparently had a sex dream so loud you mistook it for a nightmare. This is objectively mortifying.”

Derek shrugs, still smiling, “At least it was a good one. It’s not a bad thing, Stiles, think about it. Isn’t this the first time you’ve-” Derek makes a vague sort of gesture towards Stiles’ crotch, “Since before.”

That makes Stiles stop for a second as his brain makes its way through the fog of mortification to find Derek’s point. “Holy shit,” he says, glancing down at his own crotch then back at Derek, “I’ve actually got a hard on.”

“You do,” Derek confirms, clearly trying his absolute best not to look at it as well as trying to hold in his amusement.

“Holy shit, Derek. It’s been weeks. I need to jerk off right now. I don’t think I can even be embarrassed any more. I’m too excited.”

“Yes,” Derek says, looking far too pleased with himself, “I can see that.”

Stiles throws a pillow at him and Derek lets out a laugh. “Shut up. I’m going in the bathroom, close your nose and ears. Maybe your eyes too, just in case.”

“What, in case it takes one out?” Derek laughs again, and Stiles can’t even begrudge him that one. He doesn’t get to see Derek smile often enough, if this is what it takes to get him laughing Stiles will take it.

“Oh, Funnywolf’s got jokes.” Stiles climbs out of bed to shuffle to the bathroom, clutching a pillow in front of his crotch because he does still have some sense of shame.

“Take as long as you need,” Derek shouts after him, just as he closes the door.

“Trust me,” he shouts back, “I really don’t think I’m going to need long.”

Derek’s back in bed, propped up against the headboard with the bedside lamp on and book in hand when Stiles returns.

He tries not to feel awkward about the fact that they both know what he’s just been doing in the bathroom. And the fact that they both know it’s because he’s just had a sex dream about Derek. It’s a hard thing to not be awkward about, so he figures he’ll just brazen it out with his usual brand of humor and oversharing. He would say it’s never failed him yet, but that would be an enormous lie.

“All done,” he says, raising his right hand and wiggling the fingers, as if Derek could be in any doubt about what he meant.

Derek snorts a little laugh, tucking a bookmark between the pages and setting his book down on the nightstand. He waits until Stiles has crawled back into bed before he flicks the lamp off, plunging the room into sudden darkness.

They both settle down, curling up so that they’re face to face; as his eyes adjust he can just about make out Derek’s face in the darkness, slight hints of light from outside highlighting his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t start overthinking it,” Derek’s voice is soft and low, not joking anymore. “I know you’re probably ready to start freaking out, but you don’t need to.”

“Derek, that’s up there as one of the most mortifying experiences of my life,” it’s easier to talk like this, through the veil of darkness where he can barely see Derek; can’t make out his expressions.

“Why though?” Derek’s voice is gentle. “Really Stiles, why does it have to be mortifying? Everyone has sex dreams, you don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

“Most people don’t have them when they’re platonically sharing a bed with the other party of said sex dreams,” Stiles’ heart rate starts to pick up at the realization that he might have just revealed something that Derek didn’t necessarily know. It’s not like Derek had been in his head to know for sure it was about him.

“Maybe not,” Derek acquiesces, “but I’m telling you I don’t mind. It doesn’t make me feel awkward, it doesn’t have to change anything.”

“Why though?”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that conversation?” Derek asks softly, and Stiles understands.

They both know the answer to that question already. Stiles isn’t ready for that conversation. He might be one day soon - he hopes he is - but that time isn’t now. He’s still healing, and a few good days and a sex dream don’t mean that he’s there yet.

“No,” Stiles answers honestly. “But I- Can I just ask?”

“Whatever you want, Stiles.”

“I’m not going crazy am I? I mean, we both know I have been, but not over this, right?” Stiles has been worrying about this, perhaps more than he realized until this moment. “This is a thing. You and me. Or it’s going to be, at least. I’m not seeing things that aren’t there because I want it so bad, am I?”

“You’re not going crazy,” Derek agrees. “Not at all, but especially not in this.”

Stiles lets out the breath he didn’t notice himself holding, body relaxing into the mattress with his relief, “There’s a thing.”

“There’s a thing,” Derek agrees, and neither of them moves for a moment, just letting that truth hang between them like a promise.

It’s Derek that breaks the silence a few minutes later, when so much time has passed that Stiles almost thinks he’s fallen asleep, “Would it help if I told you I’ve had a sex dream about you too?”

A bark of laughter escapes Stiles at the unexpected admission. It does, in fact, make him feel a bit better, “Was it any good?”

He can hear the smirk in Derek’s voice as he replies, “Now that would be telling.”

“Asshole,” Stiles laughs, giving Derek's shoulder a gentle shove. “When I’m ready for the conversation you best believe I want all the details.”

“I think I can manage that.”

It’s bittersweet leaving the next morning, but it’s time for them to go. Both of them are keen to get some miles under their belts after staying in one place for so long, so they decide to push straight on to San Francisco, following the coastal highway the whole way down. It’s a long drive - longer than it really needs to be - but the views are worth it.

Stiles is quiet for the first part of the journey, but Derek doesn’t think it’s because of any lingering embarrassment from the night before. It feels more like there’s something he’s trying to process, that he wants to talk to Derek about but he’s not sure where to start.

They don’t stop too many times before lunch, but they do take a quick detour to see a lighthouse that Stiles has spotted on the map and wants to explore. Derek sends a photo of Stiles with it to the Sheriff, and a passing stranger offers to take one of both of them. It turns out well, the two of them standing in front of the lighthouse, Stiles’ arm around Derek’s shoulders and grins on both their faces. Derek sends that one to the Sheriff as well and then, after a moment’s thought, sets it as his lock screen.

They get back on the road after that, and it’s about another hour and a half before Derek spots a sign for a coffee shop and they pull over to check it out. They don’t have much of a food selection, but the pastries look good so they buy a few different ones along with a couple of takeout coffees as a makeshift lunch.

There's a little trail down to a beach a short way down the road that Stiles spots on the map, so they decide to take their lunch there, drinking their coffee as they walk. It’s only half a mile down to the beach and it’s quiet, no one else on the beach at all when they get there.

It’s peaceful, eating on the sand with the sound of the ocean in the background. Derek can still practically hear the sound of Stiles’ mind whirring; he’s so physical with it, his restless mind manifesting itself in his body - fingers tearing at the paper bags their pastries came in, feet nudging at the sand so that it buries the toe of his sneaker then kicking it away in a repetitive motion that’s almost hypnotic to watch.

Derek stands once he’s finished eating, brushing sand off the seat of his jeans in a way that makes Stiles stare unashamedly at his ass. He’s not sure Stiles even realizes he’s doing it - an assumption that proves to be correct when Stiles suddenly averts his gaze, cheeks flushing pink. “Come on,” he says, holding out a hand to pull Stiles up, “we should get back on the road.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, letting himself be yanked to his feet and bending down to collect the paper bag debris and deposit it in one of the empty coffee cups, “still a long way to go.”

“Not too bad,” Derek says consideringly, starting to head back up the trail towards the Camaro. “Probably only a couple of hours as long as we don’t hit traffic.”

“You’ve jinxed it now.” Stiles grins, following him up the narrow path. “There’s no way you can say that and not expect to get caught in the traffic jam to end all traffic jams.”

Derek shrugs, shooting a smile back over his shoulder, “I’ll take my chances.”

They do catch a bit of traffic on the way into San Francisco, but it’s nothing too terrible. They check into a hotel fancier than anything Stiles is used to, but Derek shrugs, handing over his credit card as if it’s nothing. “It’s fine. I have the money and it’s only a couple of nights.”

Stiles puts up a token protest, but it’s clear on Derek’s face he’s having none of it. They’re staying at the fancy hotel that night.

“It’s not even that fancy,” Derek mutters as they make their way to the elevator, “call it your Christmas present if it makes you feel better.”

“What?!” Stiles is suitably distracted, whirling around to look at Derek with outrage. “Don’t think this gets you out of getting me a Christmas present, Big Guy, that’s not how this works!”

Derek shrugs, “Fine, it’s part of your Christmas present. Do I even want to know what you’re getting me?”

“I’m considering my options.” Stiles says primly, digging his phone out of his pocket in what he clearly thinks is a surreptitious manner. It isn’t, but Derek doesn’t say anything as Stiles taps frantically away at his phone, clearly considering the matter for the first time despite his protests.

Derek rolls his eyes fondly as they make their way up to the room, both of their bags slung over one shoulder. It doesn’t take them long to locate their room, and Stiles lets them in with a flourish of the key card, immediately making a beeline for the bed closest to the window and flinging himself onto it.

“See, I told you.” He kicks off his shoes before they can make the sheets dirty and stretches out across the mattress. “Fancy, Derek. I bet they put little chocolates on the pillows.” He twists around to look in a contortion that looks impressively uncomfortable, and Derek sighs.

There are little chocolates, and Stiles crows as he sees them, holding one aloft in triumph before swiftly unwrapping it and stuffing it in his mouth. “Come on Fancywolf. Eat your little chocolate.” Stiles gestures at the other pillow, flopping over onto his back and wriggling to get comfortable.

Derek groans, dumping their bags onto the other bed and toeing off his own sneakers so he can crawl onto the bed next to Stiles. Stiles gives him a pointed look and Derek gives in, picking up his little chocolate and unwrapping it carefully before putting it in his mouth. “Satisfied?”

“Very,” Stiles grins, rolling onto his side so that he’s facing Derek. “What do you want to do now? We’ve got the whole of San Francisco waiting for us.”

Derek flops down onto the bed with a yawn, “Nap?”

“Thank fuck.” Stiles grins, flinging out an arm to shut off the light.

Stiles wakes with a start, fragments of dream still clinging to the edge of his consciousness. He struggles against Derek’s arms for a moment before he realizes who they belong to, then lets his body go limp, relaxing back into Derek’s embrace. He lets the sound of Derek’s voice soothe him, tries to match his breath to the rise and fall of Derek’s chest until the worst of it passes.

“Do you think humans have anchors too?” He asks eventually, voice throaty and raw.

Derek makes a considering sound, holding him a little tighter, “Maybe,” he says. “I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“If there’s something trying to pull them adrift.”

“I think you’re mine,” Stiles whispers, so quiet his voice is almost just a breath. Derek hears it anyway, reaches a hand down to tangle their fingers together.

‘And you’re mine’ He doesn’t say.

“We should probably go out to eat.” Stiles’ tone is not that of someone who wants to go out to eat. He manages to make that one sentence sound like a looming threat that needs to be dealt with, and Derek looks over at him, amused.

“Want to get room service?”

“Fuck yes. Can we? I know we’re somewhere new and exciting, and I don’t want this to be Eureka all over again, but I really don’t want to go anywhere tonight.”

Derek shrugs, “It’s fine Stiles, it was a long day. We’ll go out tomorrow. Or we won’t, it’s fine either way.”

“Dude, no, we have to go out tomorrow. There’s so much to do here. There’s stuff we need to see!” Derek gives him a look and Stiles acquiesces, “As long as we’re both feeling up to it because this journey is about healing, not pushing ourselves to do things beyond our limits. But we absolutely need to try to go out tomorrow because San Francisco is our oyster, and our to-see list is long. As long as we’re up to it.”

“Better,” Derek agrees, chucking the room service menu in Stiles’ direction and leaving Stiles to catch it with a flail of limbs.

It doesn’t take too long for their food to arrive once they’ve ordered it, and Stiles is delighted to see that it arrives on a little trolley with covers over the dishes. “Fancy,” he hisses to Derek as soon as the door is shut, and Derek rolls his eyes again in a way Stiles will insist is fond.

They eat it curled up in the spare bed at Stiles’ insistence, in case they spill food on the sheets, and set a movie playing on the tv. It feels like a bit of a routine for them now, setting up something to watch and getting comfy for dinner, be it on a couch or in bed. Derek likes it. It feels like them, like something they could carry forward and look forward to every night if he and Stiles were ever to live together properly. He’s scared to admit how much he wants that, but he does. He can’t imagine wanting anything more. It feels like home, like family, and that’s something Derek hasn’t allowed himself to wish for in a long time.

“Why did you get a room with two beds anyway?” Stiles gestures at them both with a confused frown. His expression turns worried, scent turning a little sour as the pieces click into place in his brain, all in the wrong formation. “Are you planning on sleeping separately again? Because of, you know, last night?”

“Shit. No Stiles, I didn’t even think of that.” Derek is an idiot. He really should have thought of that, “I’m still happy to share if that’s what you want. I just thought it would be good to have in case you decide you need the space.”

Stiles looks dubious, “I don’t think there’s any danger of me wanting the space, Derek. In case you hadn’t noticed I’ve kind of turned into a really annoying limpet where you’re concerned, especially when I’m sleeping.”

“I don’t mind you touching me,” Derek says with a frown, unable to let that part go unremarked upon. “It isn’t annoying,” he clears his throat, not really wanting to say the words but knowing that Stiles isn’t going to accept less than an actual explanation. “It just seemed safer. Less suspicious to have two. I’ve been arrested before, and I don’t really want to experience it again.”

“Arrested? Why wou- Oh. Because you’re…” Stiles gestures at Derek, then at himself, “and I’m…”

“Yes,” Derek agrees. “Because legally you’re still a minor, and I’m really not.”

“Reasonable doubt,” Stiles nods. “Makes sense. So if anyone asks we definitely aren’t sharing a bed. And you’re a family friend chaperoning me on a visit to see prospective colleges because my dad is too busy Sheriffing.”

“I’m not sure we need that level of detail, but yes.”

“Could’ve just got me a fake ID,” Stiles winks at him with a grin and Derek groans, letting his head roll back to hit the wall as he looks up at the ceiling.

“Yes, Stiles. I’m sure your dad - the Sheriff - would be absolutely thrilled with that plan.”

“But he’s A-ok with his underage son sharing a bed with a twenty-something ex-murder suspect?” Stiles’ tone is joking, but Derek’s expression goes hard, shoulders tensing as the atmosphere in the room abruptly changes. “Hey- no, Derek, I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said it, I was just joking.

Derek is still tense, looks almost like he might bolt at any second, “It’s not like it isn’t true.”

“That’s not fair, Derek,” Stiles reaches out to switch off the TV. This conversation is too important to have with whatever random movie running in the background. “That’s not fair to you. Our circumstances are way more complicated than normal, and the ex-murder suspect thing is just bullshit.”

He shifts position, turning so that he can look at Derek properly, even if Derek is determined to avoid his gaze, “Dad actually is fine with it, you know? He loves you, he thinks you’re great. He totally trusts you with my virtue or whatever. He says you’ve proved yourself and he thinks we’re good for each other. He gave me the safe sex talk the morning we left, Derek, then he told me to be careful with your feelings and stuffed a load of lube and condoms in my bag when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

Derek looks at him then, eyebrows raised in an incredulous expression.

“I know, Derek. It was ridiculous and mortifying in equal measure. He was honestly more worried about us hurting each other by rushing into things we weren’t ready for than he was about me being underage. It was a whole thing. You can call him and ask, if you think you can handle the genuine horror and awkwardness of that conversation.”

“Ok,” Derek says, reaching out to clasp Stiles’ hand briefly.

“Ok you’re going to call him, or ok you’re going to stop beating yourself up about something that hasn’t even happened yet?” Stiles asks, squeezing Derek’s hand in return. “Because honestly, if it’s the first one I’m genuinely worrying for your sanity right now. And if it’s the second, please don’t start beating yourself up about it when it does happen, because that would definitely be a mood-killer. Along with being totally unnecessary.”

“The second one,” Derek confirms. “Please never make me have that conversation with your father.”

“Thank god,” Stiles shifts to sit back against the headboard again, keeping Derek’s hand in his own. “Though I can make no promises about him not forcing you into having it. The man’s like a sex-talk ninja. He just pounces on you with it and you can’t get away. Be warned.”

They’re quiet for a moment, letting the moment settle. Stiles tangles their fingers together, glancing over at Derek, “Have you really been worrying about it?” he asks, voice gentle.

Derek shrugs, averts his gaze for a moment. “Yeah, a bit. There’s- There are things I haven’t talked to you about. Things that make it kind of a sore subject.”

“You mean Kate?”

Derek looks up in surprise, eyes meeting Stiles’, “You know?”

Stiles shrugs, “Suspected, didn’t know for sure. Figured it out a little while ago, but it wasn’t my business. Your story to tell, if you ever wanted to.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it right now,” Stiles has never seen Derek quite like this, so raw and open. It’s not so long since this conversation would’ve had Derek reacting like a wounded animal, retreating so far that Stiles would have worried about him ever coming back. It’s not just Stiles that’s been on a journey here. “I will be, but not now.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Stiles agrees, “If you’re ever ready. I’m not going to make you tell me if you don’t want to, Derek. For now, can I just say something, because I think maybe you need to hear it?”

“Yeah,” Derek nods, voice quiet.

“You’re not her, Derek. Whatever you’ve been telling yourself all this time, you’re not her and you never could be. You’ve already proven that so many times, I just really hope you can start believing it.”

They get ready for bed and relocate to the bed by the window, claiming their respective sides and getting comfy to watch a bit more of a movie in bed. It’s surprising, the ease with which they settle into each other now. If Stiles could go back and tell the Stiles of a few weeks ago that this is where he’d be, there’s no way his past self would have believed him. But it feels right, and for once in his life Stiles isn’t in a rush to get to the next part.

He’s excited for it. He’s eager to know what it would feel like for Derek to kiss him, touch him, do dirty dirty things to him, but he can feel the importance of getting it right, and he’s not willing to hurry things at the expense of that.

He’s nearly there, though. He can feel it, and he thinks Derek can too.

Somewhere amongst the covers his phone vibrates with a message, and Stiles groans, leaning forward to grope around for it until finally his fingers close around it and he holds it up in victory, flopping back against Derek’s chest.

He checks the notification and sits up with a squawk, turning to level Derek with an accusatory look, “You fucker.” He flails the phone in Derek’s general direction. “You didn’t tell me your Birthday was Christmas.”

Derek groans, trying to manhandle Stiles back into their previous, comfortable position, “Who told you? It’s not a big deal. I don’t like doing anything for it.”

“This is the kind of thing I should know. As your… Stiles. As your Stiles I should know when your birthday is.”

“It was Cora, wasn’t it? Can you please just not make a big deal out of it?”

“Fine,” Stiles says with a huff, settling against Derek’s side, “but you’re having a Birthday cake. And separate presents, no Birthday/Christmas combo.”

“Fine. Thank you. Now can we please go back to the movie?”

Stiles doesn’t sleep too badly. The night is interspersed with nightmares, but Derek manages to pull him out of most of them before they have him too deep in their grasp. It’s not the most restful night they’ve had by a long shot, but it’s so much better than the nights before the trip that it almost bears no comparison.

They decide to spend the morning being tourists, seeing the famous sights and taking an obscene amount of photographs. They’d already ticked the Golden Gate Bridge off the list when they’d driven into the city over it, but Stiles digs out his notepad with the list of things to do and they do their best to work through as many of them as they can before hopping on the metro over to Berkeley.

Stiles is a ball of nervous energy as they travel, leg shaking up and down until Derek rests a hand on it to settle him. “What if I hate it? What if I love it, but I don’t get the grades to go? What if I love it and I do get the grades to go, but I get possessed by another evil fox spirit and am forever bound to an ancient magical tree?”

“It’ll be fine Stiles. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, just say the word.”

“I’m just nervous. I want to. I think.”

“Ok,” Derek says in reply, offering him a smile.

It is fine. They spend time wandering around, looking at the buildings and getting a feel for the place. The holiday break has already started so there aren’t many students around, but Stiles thinks that’s probably a good thing. He’s still not the best with big crowds of people and busy places, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to focus on anything other than getting out of dodge if it were at its usual capacity.

He can see himself here, maybe. He can imagine it, and it doesn’t feel like it would be the wrong fit, but it doesn’t feel like it would be the end of the world if it’s not the place for him either.

Perhaps that’s the best outcome he could’ve hoped for.

“Ready to go back?” Derek asks, once they’ve made their way around most of the campus.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, and he realizes when he says it that he’s not sure if he means he’s ready to go back to San Francisco or ready to go back home. He thinks he might be ready for Beacon Hills. He thinks he could go back without it being a disaster, but then he also thinks that this road trip doesn’t feel done yet.

He and Derek still have things they need to do.

They leave San Francisco the next morning. There’s still a hefty chunk of things on their sightseeing list that haven’t been checked off, but that’s ok. Maybe they can make a start on the rest if Stiles ends up at Berkeley, or maybe they’ll just have to come back to visit another time.

By unspoken agreement Derek gets back on the Pacific Coast Highway, following it ever further south. They’ve only been driving for about half an hour when Stiles hits Derek’s shoulder lightly, gesturing at the road sign and his map. “Dude! It’s called Half Moon Bay! It’s calling to your wolfy soul, we have to stop there.”

Derek snorts a laugh, shaking his head, but does as he’s told and follows Stiles directions until they’re parked up at a beach. It’s cold out, but Stiles insists on them going down onto the sand and walking next to the water until they’re both thoroughly windswept and chilled around the edges. Derek turns the heating up to max when they climb back into the Camaro because Stiles hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket and is starting to shiver somewhat alarmingly, but he’s grinning so it must’ve been worth it.

Stiles directs him into the town next so they can find lunch. It’s a little early, really, but it’s as good a place as any to stop and Stiles seems to like it even if it is just because he’s amused by the wolfy connotations.

They only have a short driving day planned, but they press on further down the coast anyway rather than hanging around. Stiles doesn’t know why, but it’s like he can feel a sense of anticipation building, like everything is moving into place. He thinks Derek feels it too.

Things have been changing between them, gradually. They’ve been growing into one another, learning each other, and Stiles thinks back to what Derek had said to him that night in the cabin a few days ago.

“Are you sure you’re ready for that conversation?”

He hadn’t been. He knew it then and he knows it now; he definitely hadn’t been ready to go there yet. Time seems to pass strangely in Stiles’ life at the moment, though, because that night in the cabin feels like forever and a day ago. He feels different now. He feels like a different person to the one he’d been leaving Eureka, let alone the one leaving Beacon Hills.

He’s not better. He’s probably never going to be a hundred percent back to the Stiles he was before, but he’s accepted that now. He’s still going to have nightmares, he’s still going to remember all of it. He’s going to have bad days sometimes, but it doesn’t feel like it’s beating him any more.

He’s not better, but he thinks it might be enough.

It feels like there’s something waiting for him at their next destination, if he’s brave enough to reach out for it.

He thinks Derek might feel the same.

They check into their motel early afternoon, almost as soon as check-in opens. It makes a nice change to have had a shorter driving day, but somehow it doesn’t feel that much less tiring, so they get settled into their room and take turns in the shower so they can wash off the film of travel that clings to their skin.

When Derek comes out, freshly scrubbed and feeling refreshed, Stiles is sat on the end of one of the beds, map spread out in front of him, “17-Mile Drive is only, like, five minutes away. We should check it out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Derek agrees, grabbing the keys to the Camaro and holding them up. “Fancy taking the wheel?”

Stiles grins, leaping up to snatch the keys out of Derek’s hand as if he’s worried Derek might rescind the offer if he doesn’t take them immediately. “Hell yeah! Let’s go, Passengerwolf. We’ve got things to see.”

“I can take those back, you know.” Derek raises an eyebrow at him at the nickname. It really doesn’t need to be a thing.

Stiles clutches the keys to his chest, hunching around them protectively, “You wouldn’t dare. You’ve done enough driving, me and the Camaro need a bit of quality time.”

“You want me to leave the two of you alone? I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel.”

“Would it make you a sixth wheel?” Stiles ponders, heading for the door. “I’m not sure. I’m feeling generous though, so I’ll let you join in on the epic bromance me and your car have got going on. It’s a special thing, isn’t it baby?” Stiles strokes the hood of the Camaro as he reaches it, a fond look in his eyes.

“Please stop molesting my car.”

Stiles pulls his hand away and situates himself in the drivers seat as quickly as possible, slightly concerned that this might be the tipping point that makes Derek change his mind.

It actually does only take them five minutes to get there, so they pay the toll, accept their little visitor's map and start on the drive. The map has various points of interest marked on it, and Stiles insists on stopping at every one so they can get out and properly appreciate it with a series of photos and narration of the information boards.

By the time they’ve made it around the whole thing the sun is starting to hang low in the sky, so they drive back to the motel to park the car and head out on foot to walk along the coastal trail that winds around the headland with the backdrop of the setting sun.

There are a surprising number of cars parked along the route with people just sitting to watch the sunset, and Stiles can see why. It’s beautiful. The water glistens, tinged with the warm tones of orange from the sky, waves crashing gently across the rocky outcrops that lead into the ocean. He can imagine this place in spring and summer, erupting with color as the plants carpeting the ground burst into bloom, and he knows that it’s somewhere they’ll come back to. This is one of their places, now, like Shasta and their little cabin amongst the redwoods.

As Stiles walks next to Derek, shoulders bumping together, he knows he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be at this moment in time. He thinks that sense of anticipation that’s been building throughout the day might have been leading him here.

They’ve been walking in silence for a while, just taking in the moment. Derek is always so content to be quiet; he’s never seemed to feel the need to fill every gap in conversation like Stiles. He says things when he has something to say, and the rest of the time he just doesn’t bother, content to let his eyebrows do the rest of the talking for him. Stiles swears one move from those things is worth a thousand words.

Before the Nogitsune, Stiles wouldn’t have been able to let the silence stand. He’s surprised how easy it’s become not to fill them, but they’re comfortable with Derek in a way he isn’t used to. At first he’d forced himself to keep the words in because he was scared of what might come out - too dark, too painful, too revealing. Now he increasingly finds that it’s just because he doesn’t need to. He’s become comfortable with Derek in the same way he is around the people closest to him, because Derek is one of those people now.

By the time they make it most of the way around the headland Stiles knows it’s time. The sun has mostly set, and the people who had gathered to watch it have started to drift away, back to their own busy lives.

“The other day you asked me if I was ready for the conversation,” Stiles says, watching as the last few people disappear from view. “I wasn’t. We both knew I wasn’t.” He turns to look at Derek, meeting his eyes with a determined expression, “I’m ready now.”

Derek smiles, just a small thing, but it lights up his whole face. Stiles loves that smile. “You are, but I don’t think you need the conversation any more. I think you already know.”

“I think so too,” Stiles agrees. “There’s a thing. You told me that too. There’s a thing between us that’s been waiting until we were ready to make it something more. I’m ready for that too.”

Derek’s smile widens, and he reaches out to catch Stiles hand squeezing it gently, “So am I.”

Stiles grins in return, pulling Derek in close enough that he can feel his body heat against his front and reaching a hand up to rest against Derek’s jaw, “I’m going to do something incredibly sappy now and kiss you at a place called Lovers Point, if that’s alright.”

Derek laughs, a deep, pleased chuckle that warms Stiles from the inside, “Did you plan that?”

“Sort of thought about it earlier and when we got here it felt right,” he admits, resting their foreheads together. “So. About that kiss.”

Derek lets out another laugh as he brushes his lips against Stiles’, just a gentle touch before his hand comes up to tangle in Stiles’ hair, cupping the back of his head as he draws him into a kiss that Stiles feels in every fiber of his being.

It’s all he can do to hang on, sliding an arm around Derek’s back to pull him closer as he returns the kiss with every bit of feeling he’s had building for Derek over the past few weeks. Months. Who knows how long? It doesn’t matter when Derek’s kissing him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Finally, after the greatest few minutes of Stiles’ life he’s forced to pull away to catch his breath, noses bumping together as he rests his forehead against Derek’s. “Wow,” he says, unable to do anything to stop the grin that’s spread across his face. “We’re good at that.”

Derek hums his agreement and presses another gentle kiss against Stiles’ lips with a smirk, “We are. I’m pretty sure we walked past a rock formation called Kissing Rock earlier. Want to go and make out in front of that one too?”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs, “Maybe later, Smugwolf” he says, leaning back in to murmur in Derek’s ear, “I seem to recall you’ve got a dream to be telling me about.”

A little shudder goes through Derek at the brush of Stiles lips against the shell of his ear, and Stiles files that little bit of information away for future reference. “I suppose I do,” he agrees, turning to catch Stiles’ bottom lip between his own, tongue flicking out to taste as Stiles opens up to him, lets himself get caught up in the sensation of Derek’s lips against his own for another few moments.

Eventually they break away from each other, stepping back to put a little space between them so that they don’t just stay here for the rest of the night. It would be easy to do. Derek is looking at him with an expression so fond that Stiles doesn’t know how he could’ve ever thought Derek didn’t return his feelings.

He runs a hand through his hair to try and tame it where Derek’s fingers have inevitably left it sticking out at odd angles. It’s getting increasingly dark out now that the sun has set, the temperature dropping further the longer they stand here, but the heat from Derek’s body has been more than enough to keep him warm.

They should probably go and find something to eat, but Stiles can’t imagine going from this to sitting in a restaurant surrounded by strangers. He’s waited long enough. Stiles has never been known for his patience, but in this he has allowed himself to take the time to be ready. Now that he’s there though, now that he’s finally had a taste he wants more.

Apparently his stomach has other ideas. The moment he thinks about food it makes itself known with an almighty grumble, as if to remind him exactly how long ago lunch was. It isn’t wrong. Stiles has a feeling that once he finally gets Derek alone in their motel room neither of them are going to be leaving for a while.

“Come on, let’s find something to eat. I think there’s a restaurant somewhere around here,” Derek says, sliding his palm against Stiles’ and tangling their fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As it turns out, there is a restaurant around here. It’s a seafood restaurant right on the waterfront, with a deck over the water that looks like it would be the perfect place to sit on a warm spring day, and a menu outside that showcases a list of prices high enough to make Stiles wince.

Derek silences him with a look before Stiles can even start to lodge a complaint, squeezing Stiles' hand and leading him up the little wooden staircase and through the doors. It’s nice in here. Romantic. All the tables have little vases of fresh cut flowers and candles on them, the low light in the room lending to the intimate atmosphere.

Stiles has a moment of self consciousness as he remembers he’s just wearing jeans and a hoodie and his beat up sneakers, but it’s over as quickly as it starts when the maitre d’ doesn’t give Stiles’ outfit a second glance, instead leading them to a cozy table for two in the back corner by a wall of floor to ceiling windows that make the most of the sea view.

It’s properly dark now, but the moon is reflecting off the rippling waves of the ocean and lights dot the coast as far as Stiles can see. The maitre d’ smiles at them, offering them both a menu once they’ve got themselves seated before bustling off and leaving them alone, knees knocking together under the table.

The flickering candle on their table lights up Derek’s features with a warm glow, and Stiles finds himself captivated by the sight. He isn’t sure how they got here, but somehow they’ve made it.

“We’re on a date.” He can’t quite help but state the obvious. It feels like a fact that needs to be acknowledged, a milestone that deserves its proper recognition.

“We are,” Derek agrees, tone amused as he looks down to survey his menu.

“Is it bad that I already feel out of my depth? Dating isn’t really my forte. So far my track record primarily involves my dates getting attacked by creepy uncles or getting abducted and ritually sacrificed. I’m afraid things aren’t looking great for you, Big Guy.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, shaking his head fondly, “I’ll take my chances.”

“You sure about that? Dating disasters aside, I have no idea what I’m doing. This is a first for me with the whole romantic dinner thing. I’m probably going to spill food down myself and set fire to the tablecloth.”

“It’s simple,” Derek shrugs. “We order food, we talk to each other, we enjoy each other's company. It’s no different to all the other meals we’ve had, but this time you have to be mindful of the candle. Don’t overthink it.”

Derek isn’t wrong. It kind of makes Stiles wonder if they’ve pretty much been dating this whole time without actually calling it that, but then none of their other meals have felt quite like this. This one has a sense of something more; an ever-present undercurrent of anticipation.

Stiles can feel it building, a low grade simmer of arousal that starts in his belly and spreads through his whole body the longer they sit here together. Now that he’s had a taste, he can’t stop thinking about the feel of those lips against his own, the scrape of Derek’s stubble against his skin.

He’s staring. He knows he is, but he can’t quite help himself. He’s always known Derek was attractive, even when he hadn’t quite figured out what that meant for him. Derek is objectively an extremely good looking man, but he’s more than that. Over the past few weeks he’s become the steady constant in Stiles’ life, the lifeline pulling him out of the dark, and Stiles has seen sides to him that he never could have imagined when Derek was just a stoic, broody pain in his ass. They’ve both come a long way since then.

It’s too soon to say it, but Stiles knows that his feelings for Derek go far beyond some stupid teenage crush.

They eat their meals, sneaking looks at each other and sharing secret little smiles when they catch each other's eye. In a moment of boldness Stiles hooks a foot around Derek’s ankle, nudging toes up a muscular calf and basking in the heated look Derek levels at him in return.

Stiles always thought he would be in a hurry, when it came to this. He’s waited so long, been so desperate to finally have sex that he figured he’d drag whoever it was straight to bed, no need for romance and niceties. But this is Derek, and if Derek has taught him anything it’s that sometimes it’s better to take your time. Enjoy the journey.

So they sit at their little table with its flowers and candles and romantic ocean view, and they enjoy their food. They talk about everything and nothing, and they order dessert because they aren’t in a hurry. Right now it feels like they have all the time in the world, on this vacation from their real lives.

They look at each other, in a way they haven’t allowed themselves to until now. No more sneaking glances, trying not to get caught out.

Stiles watches as Derek rolls up his sleeves to reveal strong forearms, remembers the way he’s used that strength before to lift him, carry him, hold him up against his bedroom wall and imagines how that might translate to doing all those things again in a more enjoyable context. It sends a wave of arousal coursing through him, which Derek can no doubt smell if the flare of his nostrils and the little smirk that sneaks onto his lips are anything to go by.

Derek looks too. He watches the way Stiles laughs with his whole body, throwing his head back to highlight the pale skin of his neck. He imagines kissing his way along it, up to the hinge of his jaw, imagines the marks he could leave behind with little nips and kisses and the scrape of his scruff against delicate flesh.

All they’re doing is sitting and having a meal together, but it feels like a seduction. The heat of their gazes on each other. The little touches, knees pressing together, the grazing touches of their hands as they share their dessert.

By the time they’ve got the check Stiles is half hard in his pants, heart pounding in his chest at the thought of getting Derek’s hands on him just as soon as they’re finally alone. He doesn’t think Derek’s doing much better; he has to know the effect he’s having on Stiles. There’s no way he’s not listening to the thump of Stiles’ heartbeat, no way he can’t smell the heavy cloud of lust that’s settled over Stiles’ scent.

It seems ridiculous, to be so keyed up from so little, but they’ve waited so long for this that it was kind of inevitable.

It’s going to be an interesting walk home.

It takes a matter of seconds for Stiles to drag Derek in close once the motel room door shuts behind them. It’s quite frankly a miracle that he’d managed to hold off this long, and Derek doesn’t waste any time in pushing Stiles up against the door, leaning in to meet Stiles’ lips in a bruising kiss.

It’s nothing like the kisses they shared earlier, at Lovers Point. Those were gentle, full of passion and longing. This one is full of promise.

Stiles gives himself over to it, hand coming up to curl around Derek’s back, holding him close. He thinks back to Derek slamming him up against his bedroom wall in altogether different circumstances all those months ago, when his heart had beat nearly out of his chest and his breath had caught in his throat in a way that he’d attributed to fear, at the time. Now that he’s here, their position so similar, he realizes that he probably should have caught on sooner. It’s a marvel that it took until the blacklight party in Derek’s loft for Stiles to consider this; now that he’s here he can’t imagine being anywhere else.

Derek breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t go far. Lips graze Stiles’ cheek, his jaw, stubble scratching against Stiles’ skin as Derek sets to work biting little kisses down the side of his neck. Stiles lets out a groan, head slamming back against the door in his eagerness to give Derek more room to work, and Derek huffs a little laugh against his skin as Stiles’ groan cuts off with a yelp, breaking away to meet Stiles’ eyes with a look of such fondness it makes Stiles’ heart skip a beat.

“Careful,” Derek murmurs, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Stiles’ head, a few faint lines of black snaking up his wrist as he draws away the pain.

“Maybe we should move this somewhere a bit less dangerous,” Stiles suggests, corners of his lips turning up in a little smirk as he leans forward ever so slightly to graze them against Derek's. “Somewhere with less hard surfaces, a bit more bed-shaped, y’know?”

Derek seems amenable to the idea, if the speed with which he has Stiles across the room and on the bed is any indication. Stiles laughs, reaching out to pull Derek down on top of him, a pleasantly heavy weight settling against his front. “We’re still wearing shoes. Should probably do something about that.” Stiles’ voice is low, teasing, but he makes no moves to remedy the situation himself.

“Probably,” Derek agrees, leaning back in to capture Stiles’ lips in another kiss, just as hot as the last. Stiles can still taste traces of rich chocolate from their dessert on Derek’s tongue, the slightest hint of sharpness from the raspberry sauce, and it seems almost impossible that less than an hour ago they were sat in a restaurant, talking and laughing instead of being here. Doing this.

The entire world seems condensed down to this moment, now. Just him and Derek here, in this motel room on the California coast. It’s easy to forget about everything else. In this moment there’s no Nogitsune, no hunters, no deaths and funerals and pain. There’s just the two of them, finally together. Finally.

Stiles slides his hands down Derek’s back, and he lets himself feel, exploring the expanse of taut, strong muscle before slipping his hands up under Derek’s shirt to stroke over warm skin.

Derek bites out a groan, pulling away just long enough to drag his shirt off over his head and chuck it somewhere over the side of the bed before leaning back in to nose against Stiles’ throat. “Tell me what you want, Stiles.”

“Everything,” Stiles murmurs, sliding his hands down to grip Derek’s ass firmly through rough denim. “You.”

Derek presses a kiss at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, then another just behind his ear before he leans back, putting a little space between them so he can see Stiles’ face clearly, “We should probably talk about this first.”

Stiles makes a noise of protest, already reaching out to pull Derek back in. “What’s there to talk about? Less talking, more doing. As in, you should be doing me. Imminently.”

Derek sighs, allowing Stiles to pull him in just enough to brush a kiss against his lips before he moves off Stiles completely, coming to sit on the edge of the bed and gesturing for Stiles to join him. “Yeah, that’s one of the things we should talk about. Communication is important, Stiles. Particularly, uh- this is your first time, right?”

Stiles sighs, cheeks pinkening slightly as he peels himself off the bed and pushes himself up to sit next to Derek, rubber toes of his sneakers nudging against the worn carpet. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“It is, though. Getting this right is important to me, I want it to be good for you. How much have you done before?”

“It’s pretty much just been me and this guy,” Stiles snorts, raising his right hand and wiggling the fingers at Derek - an echo of the other night in the cabin when they’d finally ended up acknowledging the potential of this. “Other than that just making out, y’know. I came close to more a couple times but… Yeah.”

“When you say came close?”

“Heather,” Stiles says, voice quiet at the thought of his childhood friend. Derek already knows that story, there’s no need to go over it again. “And, uh, Malia,” he winces a little at the memory, still can’t quite make sense of how they’d even ended up there on that grimy old couch in his nightmare basement.

Derek raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, just reaches out to clasp Stiles’ hand in his own, giving it a little squeeze in a gesture to go on.

“In Eichen,” Stiles clarifies, hand reaching up to rub at his neck in a nervous gesture he’s never quite been able to train himself out of. “In the basement, of all places. We didn’t get that far, but I’m pretty sure we would have if it hadn’t been for-” he gestures vaguely at his crotch, wincing again at the mortification of the memory. “Little Stiles wasn’t exactly on board, y’know?”

Derek nods, squeezing Stiles’ hand again, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Probably a good thing. I was pretty convinced I was going to die, and it started happening and I didn’t want to die a virgin, you know? Not the best reasoning for getting it on with someone, I’ll admit. I’m not even sure how much was me and how much was the Nogitsune at that point - the wolf lichen was pretty much gone, and it was just before the Nogitsune took over completely. I’m glad it’s going to be you. I want it to be you. Now, if possible, because this conversation is kind of a downer and I was really enjoying what we had going on there.”

“And when you say you want it to be me-”

“I want you to fuck me, Derek,” Stiles cuts him off, turning to look Derek in the eye. “I really want you to fuck me, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”

“Yes,” Derek’s voice is low, his gaze turning heated in a single moment. “Yes, we can definitely do that.”

“Good,” Stiles grins, toeing off his sneakers and moving to straddle Derek, knees settling either side of Derek's hips so that they’re pressed closely together once more. “I want to do everything with you, Derek Hale, but tonight I want you inside me. As soon as possible.”

“Fuck,” Derek groans, sliding a hand up to cup Stiles’ jaw and pull him into another deliciously filthy kiss.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes between kisses, “that’s the idea, big guy.”

Derek huffs a little noise of amusement and starts to kiss his way down Stiles’ neck again. Stiles is swiftly gaining the impression that it’s kind of a thing for him; maybe a werewolf thing, maybe just a Derek thing. Stiles isn’t even sure it matters because he’s embarrassingly into it, tipping his head back with a moan as Derek’s teeth scrape lightly across his collarbone.

“Fuck,” the word is almost just an exhale, a little note of reverence on his breath as his hand rises to cup the back of Dereks neck, fingers sliding up to tangle in Derek’s hair. He can feel the curve of Derek’s smirk against his skin before Derek does it again, nipping lightly at sensitive flesh. Teasing.

Stiles groans, rocking his hips forward in a little grind that sends sparks of pleasure shooting through him and has Derek grabbing at his ass to pull him in again. He can feel Derek’s dick, hard against his own even through the layers of clothing, and he pulls Derek back up into another kiss as they rock together, gasping against Derek’s mouth.

It feels good. Better than anything he’s felt before, purely on virtue of it being Derek that he’s doing this with, and Stiles never wants it to stop. Unfortunately Derek doesn’t seem to have got that memo, because he’s pulling back, strong hands holding Stiles hips still as they catch their breath, slowing things down.

Stiles’ dick is straining against his jeans, and he realizes now why Derek had put the brakes on things. Too much more of that and Stiles is pretty sure he wasn’t too far off coming in his pants.

That’s not what he wants from tonight.

“Slow down,” Derek murmurs, breath ghosting over Stiles’ lips. “We’ve got all night.”

“If you think I’m going to last all night, I’m here to tell you now that you’re vastly overestimating my stamina.” Stiles shifts his hips back a little, giving himself a little space to cool off. “I’m a seventeen year old virgin, Derek. I’m kind of working on a hair trigger here.”

“Don’t worry.” The corners of Derek’s mouth quirk up in a wicked grin that Stiles is pretty sure means all sorts of good things, “I’m not going to let you come until I’m inside you.”

Stiles’ breath hitches just at the thought, and he can’t help but lean back in to pull Derek into another kiss. It’s just this side of frantic, but Derek calms it down, turns it into something slow and sensual that leaves Stiles breathless.

Derek’s hands slide from his hips to grip Stiles thighs, and in an impressive show of strength Stiles finds himself on his back once more before he even realizes what’s happening. Regrettably, Derek doesn’t follow, instead pressing a quick kiss against Stiles lips and climbing off the bed in a move that has Stiles confused until Derek leans down to untie his shoelaces and he realizes that Derek is still wearing his goddamn boots.

Stiles takes the opportunity to grapple with his hoodie, wrestling his arms out of it with an eagerness that is almost definitely serving to make things more difficult than they need to be. By the time he’s got it off Derek is over in the corner of the room, bare feet poking out from the bottom of his jeans as he crouches down to unzip Stiles’ duffel.

The action does all sorts of wonderful things to showcase his ass, and for a moment Stiles is too distracted to take in what Derek’s asking him. “Lube and condoms?”

Stiles flushes at the thought of it, heat prickling up his neck as he imagines exactly what Derek is going to need those for. On the morning that this trip began he’d thought his dad was being ridiculous, insisting on giving Stiles the safe sex talk and sneaking supplies into his bag when Stiles’ back had been turned. At the time he’d never thought that there was any chance of him needing them, but right now he’s thankful that his dad had a bit more faith in him. In them.

“They’re, uh, side pocket,” he gestures uselessly with one hand, propping himself up on his elbows to watch as Derek finds what he’s looking for.

It doesn’t take long for Derek to return, depositing his haul on the bedside table and leaning down to brush his lips against Stiles’. Stiles can feel his heart racing. He’d known what was going to happen here tonight as soon as he’d kissed Derek for the first time in the dying light of the sunset, but somehow the sight of the lube and condoms by the bed is what makes it feel real.

He wants it. He’s pretty much shaking out of his skin with his want for it, but that’s not enough to quell the nerves of his first time.

He knows Derek can hear the pounding of his heart, the quickened hitching of his breath, can smell the bitter tang of anxiety creeping through the heady scent of his arousal. It doesn’t phase him, though, he just cups Stiles’ cheek with a broad hand and ghosts a gentle kiss over his lips, “Relax. Don’t forget you’re allowed to change your mind. We’ll only do what you're comfortable with.”

“Pretty sure I’m not going to change my mind, big guy. I want this.”

“But if you do.” Derek looks so earnest that Stiles is hit with another wave of affection for him.

“I know,” Stiles says, reaching out to haul Derek onto the bed with him until they’re pressed up against each other once again. “I trust you.”

Apparently that’s all Derek needs to hear before he’s pressing Stiles back down into the mattress, mouth trailing against his skin. Warm, strong hands glide down his sides, gripping the bottom of his shirt until Stiles gets the message and sits up enough for Derek to pull it off, flinging it somewhere over the edge of the bed and out of the way.

It’s the most naked Stiles has been with someone else outside of the locker room, and he just about suppresses the urge to cover himself. He’s all too aware how skinny he looks nowadays; the Nogitsune had done a number on him both mentally and physically, and he’s lost more of the lean muscle that he’d been steadily building than he’d like.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind, though. He trails fingers reverently across the exposed skin, over the ribs that are showing through more than Stiles is comfortable with, through the coarse hair on Stiles’ stomach, and he looks at Stiles like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch.

It takes Stiles a moment to remember that he’s allowed to do the same. He’s seen Derek shirtless countless times before, but never quite like this. Never when he’s allowed to explore all that defined muscle with more than just stolen glances.

He runs hands over defined abs and powerful biceps, lets his fingers play over the muscles of Derek’s back as he pulls him down into another hungry kiss.

The feeling of Derek against him is intoxicating, bare skin a burning heat where it’s pressed against his own. A leg slides between his, applying a delicious pressure against Stiles’ crotch that makes him throw his head back with a moan, brain ceasing all function for one glorious, blissful moment.

“Pants off,” he says, as soon as his brain can form words again, fingers already reaching for the fly of Derek’s jeans. “We need less pants.”

He fumbles at the button and zipper, unfastening them with shaky hands as Derek braces himself over Stiles, giving him enough room to work. Derek looks obscene like this, muscles flexing as he holds himself up on his forearms, pupils dilated, jeans undone and hanging low on his hips. Stiles can’t help but slide his hand down and into the open fly, knuckles dragging lightly over the outline of Derek’s cock through the fabric of his underwear. Derek’s breath hitches, and it emboldens Stiles to take him in a firm grip, exploring the feel of him and giving an experimental stroke that makes Derek’s hips jerk into the touch as he hisses out an expletive.

He does it again, lips curling up in a grin as Derek groans, grinding his hips into Stiles’ grip. It’s not that different to doing it to himself, really. It’s a different angle, slightly awkward with the way the fabric of Derek’s jeans restricts his movement, metal teeth of the zipper biting into the skin of Stiles’ wrist, but this is still in the realm of things Stiles feels like he has experience with, even if that experience is only with himself.

It’s such a simple thing, such a basic touch but it makes Stiles feel powerful to bring Derek pleasure in this way. To be able to make him moan. To be trusted to touch Derek like this.

It gives him a little boost of confidence, helps him to shake off the nerves. He can do this. He can make Derek feel good. It doesn’t have to be complicated or difficult, it’s just touching and observing, taking note of the reactions to each touch and putting the things he discovers into practice.

He remembers earlier at Lovers Point, when his lips had brushed against Derek’s ear and Derek had shuddered at the touch; he figures now is as good a time as any to recreate it. He slides a hand up to cup the back of Derek’s neck, pulling him in close so he can murmur into Derek’s ear, lips just barely ghosting over his skin, “Is it good?”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes with a shudder, turning his head to meet Stiles’ lips with his own as he grinds into Stiles’ hand once more. “I thought the pants were meant to be coming off, though.”

“Yeah. Got a bit distracted.” Stiles grins, releasing Derek’s neck from his grip and letting him roll onto his back next to him so he can slide his jeans off over firm thighs and toned calves until they’re heaped in a pile on the floor.

Derek’s tight boxer briefs don’t leave much to the imagination. Stiles can see the shape of his cock outlined in thin fabric, straining for release, and he doesn’t see any reason to deny it. He curls his fingers around the waistband, glancing up to look Derek in the eye as he does so. Derek nods his permission, gaze heated as he watches Stiles slowly tug at the elastic. He lifts his hips so Stiles can work the fabric down over his hips, cock springing free, eager and hard where it comes to rest against his abdomen.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, tugging Derek’s underwear the rest of the way off and dropping it over the edge of the bed, forgotten. He’s thick and uncut; large, but not overwhelmingly so. The perfect size for Stiles to get his fingers around, the weight of him satisfying in Stiles’ hand. It’s not that dissimilar to jerking himself off, but Derek’s foreskin adds another dimension to the movement, an extra glide that eases the way without the need for lube.

Derek inhales sharply as Stiles adds a little twist of his wrist, thumb dragging over the sensitive head and through the bead of precum forming at his slit as he tries out a few of the things he likes to do to himself. By the looks of things Derek approves, pulling Stiles down into another kiss as he rocks into Stiles’ grasp.

By the time they break apart Derek’s cheeks are flushed, his hair in disarray as he rolls them over so that Stiles is beneath him again. He looks almost wild, but in a way so different to the wolf. His eyes are blazing, but it’s with lust rather than a flash of electric blue.

Stiles buries a hand in Derek’s hair, fingers tangling in disheveled strands, as Derek drags his lips over Stiles’ neck, stubble scraping against pinkening skin and hips lightly rocking against Stiles’ denim clad thigh. This time he keeps going, trailing lips and tongue over the skin of Stiles’ chest, tracing his tongue over a nipple and sucking kisses just hard enough to leave faint bruises as he goes.

It’s stupidly hot, the sight of Derek looking back up at him as he works a mark into the skin of Stiles’ hipbone, just above the waistband of Stiles’ jeans. He can hardly look as Derek brings his hands to Stiles’ fly, too worried that the sight of Derek undressing him like this will cause him to come right there and then. It’s impossible to look away, though. He can’t drag his eyes away from the sight of Derek’s fingers working the button of his jeans, sliding the zipper down so slowly that Stiles almost thinks he could combust from the anticipation.

“Derek.” His voice is hoarse, almost embarrassingly desperate. “Please.”

Derek shoots him a wicked grin, fingers curling around the waistband of Stiles’ jeans to tug them down, just enough to get at Stiles’ underwear-clad cock.

If Stiles didn’t know better, he would think Derek was trying to kill him. That’s the only explanation for the way Derek catches his eye before nosing along the hard length of Stiles’ erection, flicking his tongue out to taste the damp patch of fabric at the tip before he sucks the whole head into his mouth.

“Fuck.” Stiles’ hips buck up, but Derek’ holds them still with a firm grip, thumbs stroking gently over Stiles hipbones in a way that feels entirely at odds with the sinful things he’s doing to Stiles’ cock.

It’s almost too much, and Derek seems to sense it, pulling off before Stiles can’t stop himself from coming too soon. “Good?” Derek looks altogether too pleased with himself, and Stiles rolls his eyes at him, running a gentle hand through Derek’s hair as he tries to get himself back under control, cataloging the sensation of soft strands and slightly tacky product against his fingers in an attempt at distraction.

“You know it was.” Stiles rubs his fingers in little circles against Derek’s scalp, taking a couple of deep breaths until he feels like he’s less on the edge. “Ok, I think we’re good. Get me naked, big guy.”

Derek laughs but does as he’s told, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Stiles’ underwear and pulling them off along with his jeans until finally they’re both fully unclothed.

Stiles doesn’t have time to feel self conscious about it. As soon as the last of his clothes are on the floor Derek is crawling up the bed to kiss him stupid, slotting their bodies together in a way that makes Stiles gasp against Derek’s mouth.

He couldn’t have imagined how good this would feel, how intimate it could be just kissing like this, bare skin pressed against bare skin. Derek rocks against him and Stiles hooks a leg around his waist pulling him in closer so that their cocks slide together with a delicious friction that has Stiles crying out Derek’s name. He would probably be embarrassed at the sound, if he weren’t too turned on to care.

“Derek, fuck. Please, I need more.”

“What do you need Stiles?” Derek rocks against him again, trailing a line of kisses along the edge of Stiles’ jaw. “Tell me.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, fingers digging into Derek’s back in a vain attempt to pull him impossibly closer. “Need you in me.”

“Yes,” Derek’s voice carries the edge of a growl. It’s a wild sound, the wolf side of him showing through just a little. Usually it would send a little frisson of fear prickling over Stiles’ skin, but instead he feels his cock twitch in anticipation, heat pooling in his belly. It’s a sound of want rather than a sound of warning, and it’s like nothing Stiles has ever heard from him before.

Derek kisses him deeply, and Stiles lets himself get caught up in it, losing himself in the sensation of Derek’s tongue against his own for a minute until he’s brought back to the moment by the sensation of slick fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin of his hole.

“Yes,” he breathes against Derek’s mouth, hitching his leg a little higher around Derek’s waist and wrapping an arm around Derek’s shoulders to give himself something to hold on to. “Do it. Please.”

Apparently Derek isn’t of a mind to tease him now. He does as he’s asked, pressing in slowly with one finger to start, giving Stiles time to adjust.

He’s tried this before, in the privacy of his bedroom when his curiosity had taken him down an internet rabbit hole that had led to him discovering the potential joys of the prostate. It had never been quite like this. He’d been too worried about someone walking in on him, either his dad, or one of any number of werewolves appearing at his bedroom window. He’d never quite managed to relax enough, the angle too awkward to really make himself feel good.

Derek doesn’t seem to be having that problem.

He’s murmuring words of encouragement into Stiles’ ear, keeping up a steady monologue of praise that keeps Stiles from tensing up. It doesn’t take long at all before he’s slipping in another finger, and Stiles finds that the stretch feels good, a delicious kind of burn that leaves him wanting more.

More is something that Derek is all too willing to give.

He shifts Stiles’ position slightly so that he can find a better angle, drawing Stiles into a kiss as his fingers slide that little bit deeper and they hit something that has Stiles seeing stars.

“Fuck, Derek,” he gasps against Derek’s lips. “There. Right there.”

Derek takes that as his cue to do it again, sliding his fingers over the same spot with a steady pressure until Stiles is shaking with pleasure, moaning out Derek’s name. The feeling is indescribably good. It has him clutching at Derek’s shoulders and begging him for more until he feels so tightly wound up that he thinks he’s about to fly apart at the seams.

Finally Derek relents, taking him right to the edge and then pulling back, sliding his fingers out and climbing off Stiles so he can reach the bedside table. It leaves Stiles feeling strangely empty, even though he knows the feeling is only going to be temporary, but he takes the opportunity to catch his breath, closing his eyes and trying to calm the racing of his heart in this moment of pause.

He hears the tear of foil as Derek fumbles with a condom, and Stiles cracks open an eyelid, reaching out to grasp Derek’s wrist. “You don’t have to,” he says, as Derek pauses what he’s doing. “I mean, you can if you want, but werewolf, right? There’s no risk?”

“No risk,” Derek confirms with a nod, leveling Stiles with a careful look. “I can still use one though, if you want. Whatever makes you comfortable. It’d be less cleanup later.”

Stiles shrugs, sitting up and shooting Derek a grin as he plucks the half open condom wrapper from Derek’s grasp and chucks it in the vague direction of the trash can, “I’d rather feel you.”

Derek groans, pulling Stiles into a kiss that’s more tongue and teeth than anything else. “You’re going to be the death of me, saying things like that.”

Stiles shrugs, flopping back onto the bed and shooting Derek a wicked smile, “You’d better hurry up and fuck me then.”

Derek swears, grabbing the lube from the side table so he can slick up his cock. Stiles watches with rapt attention as he takes himself in hand, gaze fixed on the slide of Derek’s cock through the tight channel of his fingers, the way the head emerges, shining with a mix of lube and precum before it disappears back into Derek’s grasp.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he murmurs, and Derek shoots him a slightly embarrassed smile, biting his lip as he adds a little twist over the head to his stroke, showing off a little for Stiles’ benefit. “C’mon, get over here.”

Derek crawls up the bed, but instead of lowering himself on top of Stiles like expected he props himself up against the pillows next to him. “Might be easier if you ride me to start. You’ll be in control of the pace that way.”

Stiles scrambles his way onto Derek’s lap. It’s not a particularly elegant move, but if Derek had been expecting grace from Stiles then he’s pretty sure that Derek needs to work on his powers of observation.

A warm hand comes to settle on Stiles’ hip, guiding him so that Derek can line himself up, and Stiles wraps an arm around Derek’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together as he feels the blunt pressure of Derek’s cock against his entrance. He starts to sink down, feels the stretch as Derek pushes into him slowly and it leaves him breathless.

“Take your time,” Derek murmurs, voice slightly strained. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

The sensation is indescribable. It’s like he’s being carved open, but in the best way possible. It seems like it takes forever, taking Derek in inch by careful inch, but finally he’s fully seated, ass settling against Derek’s thighs. He didn’t know it was possible to feel this full.

He can feel the way his rim is stretched around Derek’s cock, but the initial burn has faded into a pleasurable kind of ache, and he rocks his hips experimentally, drawing a low moan out of Derek and sending a pulse of pleasure through his lower half.

“I think I’m good to move,” Stiles murmurs, using his grip around Dereks’ shoulders to help him rise an inch or so up before slowly rocking back down. Derek’s hands come to his hips, offering his support as Stiles sets up a rhythm, rising a little higher and moving a little faster until he’s riding Derek’s cock in earnest.

It feels so fucking good. He can see what all the fuss was about, why everyone around him seemed to be so obsessed with sex. He wants to do this forever, wants to feel like this for the rest of eternity. Now that he knows what it’s like to feel Derek inside him he never wants to feel anything else.

He rides Derek until his thighs are burning with the exertion of it and he can’t keep it up anymore, and without missing a beat Derek wraps a strong arm around his waist to flip them over without his cock slipping out of Stiles. It’s an impressive maneuver, a show of strength that Stiles appreciates all the more as Derek shifts the angle, stuffing a pillow under Stiles’ hips and hitching one of Stiles’ legs over his shoulder in a way that means he nails Stiles’ prostate with every thrust.

Stiles grabs at him, burying a hand in his hair and pulling him in for a kiss that’s more an occasional brush of lips as they breathe into each other's mouths. Derek keeps the rhythm slow, a torturous roll of hips that drives Stiles out of his mind with every thrust.

It’s everything, but it’s not enough.

He slides a hand down Derek’s back, over firm glutes to try and pull Derek’s hips in harder, faster, but Derek doesn’t give in, he just gives Stiles one short, sharp thrust that has him whining before he resumes his previous pace.

It’s sweet, sweet torture, and Stiles loves it. Derek lets the pleasure build, just enough that Stiles thinks he’s about to combust, then he backs off again, letting it settle back down to a low simmer. Then he does it over and over again until Stiles is all but begging for release.

He trails kisses down Stiles’ neck, less gentle than before, sucks a series of marks across his collarbone that stand out starkly against the pale skin. He noses his way back up to Stiles’ ear, tracing the shell of it with his teeth, then he trails his lips back over to draw Stiles into a slow, passionate kiss.

Finally, finally, when Stiles can barely take it anymore Derek starts to pound into him with a single minded determination that has each thrust hitting just right. It’s all Stiles can do to hold on, letting Derek take charge as he fucks into Stiles, hand wrapping around Stiles’ cock and jerking once, twice, three times, until the pleasure becomes too much and Stiles comes hard enough to see white, Derek’s name on his lips.

He rides the shockwaves of it, feels Derek thrust a handful more times before he goes still, hips jerking as he comes inside with a low moan. He can feel the pulse of Derek’s cock inside him, and just the thought of it makes his own cock give a feeble twitch.

After a few moments to catch his breath Derek pulls out carefully, flopping onto his back next to Stiles, and reaching out to pull him up against him. Stiles goes happily, tangling their legs together and resting his head on a firm pec as Derek gathers him in close so that they can bask in the afterglow together.

“So, that was awesome,” Stiles says eventually, once he’s got his wits about him again and the silence becomes too much for him to ignore.

Derek snorts a little sound of amusement, burying his nose in Stiles’ hair and brushing a kiss against his forehead, “Yeah.”

“We’re doing that again, right? Like, I know we said this was a thing, but we didn’t really define what a thing is. Is this an on the road only thing? Or a friends with benefits thing? Or, you know, a thing thing. A boyfriends kind of thing. With feelings and declarations and stuff?”

Derek reaches down, finger nudging Stiles’ chin up so that Stiles is looking him in the eye, “Don’t tell me you’re doubting this now. That wasn’t just sex, Stiles. Trust me, when it’s just sex it doesn’t feel like that.”

“So, feelings and declarations then?” Stiles grins up at him.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, tracing fingertips lightly over the purpling mark he’d worked into the soft flesh on the ridge of Stiles’ hipbone. “Feelings and declarations.”

“Good,” Stiles settles his head back down onto Derek’s chest with a yawn. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Sexywolf.”

Sleep comes easily that night. It isn’t hard to drift off with the warm contentment of the evening still hanging over them, Stiles’ head still pillowed on Derek’s chest and the comforter haphazardly dragged over their naked bodies to keep out the cold.

A nightmare-free night is too much to hope for, but as they go it isn’t a bad one, and Stiles wakes in the morning feeling pleasantly sore in all the right places, and surprisingly refreshed from a semi-decent night of sleep.

They indulge in a languid kind of morning, one where they’re content to fill the time before checkout lazily making out, exploring each other's bodies further rather than rushing to get back on the road. Hands roam unhurried over exposed skin, mouths following in their wake until both of them are pleasantly sated and they’re left with only fifteen minutes to speed through the shower and shove their things in the Camaro.

Rather than getting straight back onto the Pacific Coast Highway to continue their journey south, they drive back over to Lovers Point. They had been too distracted to take any photographs here the night before, but it doesn’t feel right to leave without documenting this place; it’s too much of an important part of their journey, so they huddle close together and take a selfie, the site of their first kiss visible in the background and stupid smiles on both of their faces.

“What now?” Stiles asks, looking out over the sea at the coastline that they had followed to get here.

“Whatever we want,” Derek answers, and yeah, Stiles’ thinks that’s as good an answer as any.

“As easy as that?”

“Probably not,” Derek grins at him and Stiles laughs. Nothing in their lives is ever that easy.

Maybe this can be though.