(no subject)

[wannabebatman]

In hindsight, this wasn't his smartest idea ever. Not the rescue op; that was pretty genius, if he did say so himself. A loud conversation with Scott in his bedroom while half the Alpha pack was home about Isaac being hurt in the woods, some BS about Derek being missing, Scott running off towards the preserve...half an hour later, every Alpha they'd seen enter the house that day was gone again. At that point, Stiles and Alison broke in the back door to see what was happening, along with a totally not hurt Isaac. It was pretty brilliant, and actually worked. They found Boyd and Erica, bound with wolfsbane and silver, bruised and barely breathing in the basement, broke their bonds and hauled them upstairs. It was so easy. He couldn't stop being surprised about that.

Too bad they hadn't counted on the twins. Two alphas, lying in wait for this very reason. Just in case. They jumped the bunch of them at the top of the stairs, Isaac dumping the much-larger Boyd on top of Stiles to take the brunt of the attack. Alison made hauling the mostly-unconscious Erica while working a crossbow one-handed look almost effortless, and Stiles was trying to drag Boyd towards the door, but Isaac could only hold two of them off for so long. As he went flying into the wall, Alison made the door, and Stiles had to make a choice. It was stupid, made no sense at all, was based entirely on a dumbass idea and desperation. Grabbing one of Alison's silver arrows, he dumped Boyd back on the recovering Isaac and told him to leave. He didn't stop to see if Isaac listened, because if he stopped he'd have to think about what he was doing, running past the two snarling werewolves and yelling anything he could to get them to follow. He just wasn't planning on both of them actually following him.

He almost made it. All those layers of his working in his favor for once. They'd grab him, he'd wriggle out of another layer of clothing. Coat, hoodie, flannel... he was at the back door when they finally grabbed him for good. His resistance bought the rest of them maybe five minutes at most, but hopefully that was enough for Scott to make it back. Not that he could think or worry, after everything went black.

When he finally came to, with the worst migraine and blurry vision, Stiles was alone. Down in that same basement they'd just grabbed the others from. Alone was probably good, but being tied to a chair? Probably less good. Yeah, not his smartest idea ever. All he could hope was that Scott and Derek had managed to get the three alphas into the trap in the woods, and that the others had actually made it to the clinic. And maybe that this was just a concussion, and not actually brain hemorrhaging. He couldn't think beyond that. Probably a good thing, because nothing good was coming of this.

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[meanttobeabeta]

Derek hadn't been happy about the plan. At all. But in the end he'd had to concede it was their best shot at getting the Alphas out of the way and getting to Boyd and Erica, because there'd been no way in hell they'd have a chance of getting past the front door if they'd all still been there. Hell, if even two of them had. That didn't mean he'd been happy about it, though, even when he had concrete proof that it had worked, and he'd watched from concealment as all three alphas had charged into the clearing in the woods, so confident and sure of themselves (and Derek's incompetence) that they'd never even considered it might be a trap.

Killing them hadn't necessarily been part of the plan, but Derek had always known that death, for him or them, was the most likely outcome. The rage they'd turned on he and Scott when they'd found themselves tricked and trapped had made it inevitable. And much as he'd hated to accept it, Chris Argent's presence was the only thing that had made it possible. Wolfsbane bullets slowing them enough to give he and Scott a chance... and, christ, the strain of making sure Scott didn't strike the killing blow on any of them felt like it had nearly killed him. In the end, Argent took down the biggest of them, a massive man whose name Derek never caught, with a clean shot to the head, and slowed down Deucalion and Kali enough that Derek could take them both out.

In the end, it leaves he and Scott both broken and battered, their own blood seeping into the mulch of the forest floor as they slump down, exhausted, next to the already cooling bodies of their enemies... and Derek barely resists the urge to snarl at Argent as he moves between them, checking that they are in fact dead. The surge of power from having killed two alphas in such short order is terrifying, and it's making it harder to control his rage and suspicion of the man, despite the fact he's just helped them. He's bent over, eyes closed tight as he listens to Scott pant for breath and Argent move around the clearing when he realizes that something has changed. Something important. Something terrible, and Derek's on his feet, snarling as he heads back towards town at a run before he even realizes he's moved.

He barely registers Argent yelling after him, or the sound of his and Scott's and Argent's phones starting to go off one after the other. He can feel his whole pack again, felt it the moment Boyd and Erica broke away from whatever the alphas had done to dim the connection to him, but what he feels now isn't them. It's something sharper and brighter and stronger and it's radiating pain and he needs to stop it. Now.

[wannabebatman]

Stiles only has maybe ten minutes to sit down there alone and wonder what's happened and what's to come. Still feels like forever, though, especially since there's no way for him to know if everyone is okay, if Scott and Derek got out, if Boyd and Erica are still breathing. He's testing the bonds on his wrists for the hundredth time when they hit him, his head rocking back, taste of blood heavy in his mouth. He didn't even see them coming. Then again, why would he? He's so very human. Fragile and soft. Hell, if he's honest he isn't even all that strong for a human. No, this wasn't a good idea, but there weren't any others. No other way he could think of to get everyone else out. Of course, he was supposed to get out, too.

One of them hits him again as the other paces across the room, snarling, and as he blinks away the stars all he can think is, boy, they look pissed. Something must be going right for Team Scooby. Briefly, he wonders if he's the Xander to Scott's Buffy. If that makes Derek Angel, and then shakes that image away. Maybe they hit him harder than he thought.

"He isn't coming for me. You're wasting your time," he manages, before one of them hits him a third time and snarls at him to shut up. It's pointless. They all know better. In his heart, Stiles can feel it. Derek won't leave him here. He's coming. And that's the most terrifying thing of all of this.

[meanttobeabeta]

It feels like it takes twice as long to get back into town as it had taken to reach the preserve, though in reality he's covering the distance in a fraction of the time. It doesn't seem anywhere near fast enough, though, and when he finally reaches the city limits he has to force himself to shift back, to hug the shadows on the streets as he makes his way towards the feeling of Stiles' pain and distress. He doesn't slow down, and he's just going to have to hope that if anyone sees him they find some comfortable fiction to tell themselves about the man running faster than humanly possible through the suburbs.

He bypasses Scott's house entirely, doesn't wait to see if there's anyone there ready or willing to help him, though he knows none of the others are in the innocuous looking house next door anymore. Just Stiles. Stiles and the ones they hadn't noticed, though he can smell them all now. Whatever had been protecting the place must have been somehow tied to one of the now dead alphas, or maybe drew from all of them together, because it seems to be gone. Whatever it was, he can smell two other alphas in there somewhere along with Stiles... and Stiles' blood.

The door is still hanging open and he doesn't slow on the way in, follows Stiles' scent down the hall to another door that has actually been closed. And locked... and reinforced enough that when he hits it it buckles but doesn't break. It will give, but it's going to take effort.

"The others are dead!" he roars, voice shaking the walls. "And if you touch him again you're joining them!"

[wannabebatman]

Stiles is definitely bleeding by the time he hears that heavy thud against the door. His entire face feels like one giant throbbing hurt, and the room is spinning as he jerks his head up, yelling back up the stairs. "Derek, stop! It's a--" Another blow stops him before he can finish the cliché, but that doesn't stop his sudden panic. There's two of them down here and if the others are dead that means Derek's been fighting and what if--what if--

He doesn't want to watch someone else he cares about die. He can't do that again. He'd rather he were dead. And it still doesn't occur to him that he's been expecting Derek all along, and not Scott. Scott's chosen who matters. And so has Derek.

[meanttobeabeta]

The stench of Stiles' blood from the other side of the door enrages Derek, and some part of him knows that his lack of control is at least partially--maybe largely--due to the shock of killing Deucalion and Kali, of absorbing their power. He was never meant to be an alpha at all, was never prepared to deal with the flood of power and instinct that comes with it, and this is almost as bad as right after he'd killed Peter.

The sound of Stiles' voice on the other side of the door just makes it worse. That's Pack down there, captive and bleeding, completely under the power of two rival alphas and, and the sound of the blow, the way Stiles' voice cuts off, has him seeing red in both the literal and figurative senses of the word. He digs his claws deep into the frame of the door, wood splintering under his hands, and digs in deep, growling deep in his chest. The door might be holding for the moment, but it's very clear that it won't be for long, and with no threat at his back and the power pulsing through his blood, making his skin feel a size too small and entirely too hot, he can't find it in him to give a shit about whatever threat might be in front of him.

[wannabebatman]

He can hear the splintering of the door, hear the low rumble of a growl even over the sounds of his inept struggling as the two alphas split and circle around him, clearly meaning to ambush Derek. He can't see anything, facing away from the door like he is, and that kills him almost worse than watching. He doesn't know if one of them is coming for him, he won't be able to see anything coming and practically his entire body is prickling and itching with anticipation and panic.

He has to stop. He has to think. He knows from experience that Derek can smell his emotions, and if Alison or Isaac called him to tell him about what happened chances are he's already freaking. He has to calm down or his panic and pain might get Derek killed. Taking a few deep breaths through his mouth (he's pretty sure his nose might be broken, that's gonna be fun to deal with later if he isn't dead), Stiles tries his damnedest to still his racing heart. Derek is here. Derek needs his help too, even if he's coming to rescue Stiles' dumb ass, and using all his strength Stiles rocks his chair to the side, trying to get out of view of the stairwell. If Derek can't see him right away, maybe he'll slow down and think before running into the trap. He hopes. Really, he just wants everyone to make it out alive for once, and without too many more scars. They all already have more than they need.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek can hear the other two alphas on the far side of the door, even if their scent is somewhat lost in the stink of them and the other three all over the house, even moreso in the stench of Stiles' blood and pain and fear. But he knows they're down there, with Stiles, and the fact that they're waiting for him, using Stiles as bait, doesn't matter nearly as much as the fact that he needs to get him away from them. Now. He's lost too much already, failed too many times, and he's not going to fail the one person left who might still trust him, at least a little.

With another heave he manages to rip completely through the door frame, claws scrabbling at the hinges on one side and the bolt on the other until they rip free as well. He pauses then, just for a moment, to try and pinpoint Stiles' heartbeat so that he knows exactly where he's going when he moves. He's surprised to realize that Stiles' heart rate is slowing, steadying.

"Last chance," he snarls, rather than just throwing the door down the stairs and following it. "If you let him loose to walk out of here I'll consider not killing you." Though with the history of the Alpha Pack he's not sure that's an ethically defensible position if he has it in his power to destroy the last of them.

[wannabebatman]

As he hears the splintering and shrieking of wood and metal rending, Stiles overbalances his chair and falls. His shoulder and elbow take the brunt of the impact, but nothing breaks, and he's out of the immediate line of their ambush, he thinks. Strangely, now that he's heard Derek's voice, it's a lot easier to breathe. He can think, and he can breathe, and he can plan. Not that he can do much to execute at this point. His bonds are still tight, despite the fall, and whatever harebrained idea he might've had when he took that arrow from Alison vanished along with that makeshift weapon. All he's got left is what he started the night with: a big mouth, and a dumbass plan.

"You might wanna consider his offer, furbrains," Stiles chimes in, aiming for distraction as the better part of valor. He can see one of the two of of the corner of his eye as he turns his head, trying to gauge reaction. "Seriously, you think kidnapping is something you can get away with? You've got one pissed-off pack and an entire family of hunters in this town. And even if you're smart enough to take that offer, which I seriously doubt, you've got nowhere left to go." Yeah, maybe it sounds like he's trying to convince them to off their only hostage, but it's only a little that, really. Because it's working. One of them turns and snarls, moving to shut Stiles up, and as he screws his eyes closed and braces himself for the coming blow, he sincerely hopes Derek takes the opportunity he just gave him.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek actually holds position at the top of the stairs, a low growl rumbling through his chest as he waits for an answer. He's half hoping that one or both of the alphas will charge up the stairs to attack him, but when he finally hears something besides the almost silent shifting of bare feet, it's Stiles' voice. Taunting them. God dammit, Stiles.

It's the snarl he hears immediately on its heals that has him crashing down the stairs, though, the door flung down in front of him with the assurance from the position of his voice that it won't hit Stiles. It catches the other alpha, the one not menacing Stiles, and slows him for just long enough that Derek ignores him for now, just makes straight for the other one.

His claws are still rust red with the drying blood of the other alphas as he lashes out, digging deep red channels into the younger man's flesh, catching on his spine and then tearing through and he drops with a cry, blood fountaining from the wounds. He's not dead yet, but Derek knows, from the limp way he hit the floor, that the blow severed his spinal column and it will take him precious minutes to recover enough to move, and he spins to the other alpha, making himself ignore Stiles where he's lying on the floor as he does so. He's just in time, catching a blow aimed at him with a flash of his own claws, ripping through the other man's--maybe boy's--forearm and leaving it a shredded mess before stepping in and burying his other hand deep in his belly, grabbing anything he can in a clawed grip and yanking as fangs sink deep into his own shoulder.

[wannabebatman]

His eyes are still screwed tight, and he leaves them that way as he hears the resounding crash of what he can only assume is Derek charging down the stairs to his rescue. Again. Derek wouldn't have to be doing this if he hadn't gotten himself caught. Again. And now there's only one real conclusion, because of course Derek won't leave him and of course the two alphas can't just let him go, and if he's honest he doesn't want them to survive. Not after seeing what they did to Erica and Boyd, what they'd been doing for months. They had to die. It was them or the pack, or another person's family in some other city, and he couldn't--they couldn't let that happen.

But those sounds. Oh God, those sounds. Ripping and crunching and the unmistakable sound of blood pouring and spattering with that unique sound only it has. He can't not hear those sounds, and deep down Stiles knows he'll be hearing them for the rest of his life. If nothing else has, this one moment brings home to him the impact of what they've done, what they're doing, what Derek and Scott and all the others really are. What Derek has to do. And while Stiles doesn't cry, as he lies there, bound and gasping for air and waiting for it all to be over, he almost wishes he could.

[meanttobeabeta]

It's over faster than it feels like it should be, and Derek let's the second alpha slide limply to the floor, his chest a complete ruin where Derek had simply reached in and up and ripped his heart free. After that it's only a moment's work to turn to the other, the man's twin, apparently, crouch down and take his throat out with an almost casual swipe of claws.

Except there's nothing casual about watching his red eyes go human and then dark. Nothing casual about killing a paralyzed opponent. He can't find it in himself to regret it, though, not with the stink of Stiles' blood and fear thick in his nostrils, of Erica and Boyd's layered so deep into the concrete of this place it might never wash clean.

He stands for just a moment, looking down at his handiwork, then turns back to Stiles almost on autopilot, bending to set him and his chair upright and facing away from the carnage, then slash his bonds with uncharacteristic gentleness before he turns away. Stiles shouldn't see this. "Don't look," he rasps, his voice sounding rough and unused. Broken. He can hear someone else upstairs now, quiet and careful. Scott, he expects. Or maybe Allison. She's brave enough. He can't scent whoever it is over the overpowering stench of blood and death. "I'll find some towels. Or something. Just... don't look."

[wannabebatman]

Telling Stiles not to look is asking for the impossible. He can't not. He has to look, has to acknowledge what he in large part is responsible for. This was his plan. This was his fault. These two deaths, more than any of the others. He feels it, and he has to see it. And besides, Derek sounds so worn and so broken and he can't not check to see if there are any more wounds he's responsible for--visible ones, not the ones on Derek's psyche that he knows are his fault too, because this was his plan--

Stiles turns in his chair, and his eyes immediately find Derek. It wouldn't be exaggerating to say that he's covered in blood; his jeans are covered in dark splashes and torn across one knee, his shirt ripped and clinging to him wherever it's still intact with a stickiness that speaks of blood and sweat. There's dark brown-red splattered across his face that brings out that deep, violent red in his feral eyes, and his arms... Derek's arms are covered from claw tips to past his elbows. He knows what it's from, and his brain helpfully provides the sound to accompany it, and for a long moment he fights to breathe past the smell of blood and violent death that fills the room. His head's swimming, vision blurry enough that the bodies on the floor are just swirls of red and white, and his hands clutch tight at the back of the chair as he sways, dizzy and nauseated and guilt-stricken in a way he hadn't expected. Fighting nausea and a scream that wants to never stop, he can only stare at his hands and whisper "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again. All his fault, all of this.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek freezes under Stiles' gaze, jaw tight and expression flatly blank as he resists the urge to hide his blood-soaked hands behind his back. He can hear more than one person upstairs now, movements cautious, obviously expecting attack. The sound of Stiles voice, though even whisper soft, drowns out anything else, and Derek frowns.

"Don't. Don't be sorry," he rasps, and he starts to move closer before stopping, looking down at the blood drenching him. "You saved them. Don't ever... don't be sorry for that." He takes a half step back and tips his head towards the stairs. "Down here," he calls, voice tight and painfully controlled. "Stiles is... he's safe." Fine would obviously be overstating it. "Bring... bring towels and sheets or something."

[wannabebatman]

"I didn't do anything except almost get myself killed." The rest of it was them. All them, his friends, and there's Stiles just letting them take those risks too. It was stupid. And it's good that Erica and Boyd are still breathing. He assumes they all are, but maybe he shouldn't. The need to know overrides his urge to find a place to quietly vomit and maybe hit a wall or two, overrides everything, and he finally manages a couple shaky, nearly steady breaths as he crams everything else into a corner of his mind and locks it up tight to ferment for a few more hours. He can't be broken right now, no matter what his face looks like or how close he came to...

"Did anyone get hurt?" Any of theirs. Of his, at least, since he isn't sure what they all are right now. This has had at least one silver lining: Scott and Derek working together. Probably better to keep the contact short, before one of them does something irredeemably stupid again.

Breathing again, Stiles finally takes his hands from the chair and lifts the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe the blood and sweat off his face, only to pause halfway to gasp and curse when careless fingers hit his nose. Yeah, probably broken. Another thing he'll have to think about after they figure out what they're doing with the bodies, and after he sees with his own eyes that everyone's okay. It's almost unsettling the way he manages to compartmentalize everything, and shove away all the horror of their surroundings, but he can't let the others see it. They wouldn't understand. Not like Derek does.

[meanttobeabeta]

"You got them out," Derek almost snarls back. "Good plan got them out." And probably his stupid human courage, too, given how he ended up trapped. "Everyone got out safe, no one else got hurt." Or at least he doesn't think they did, the only fresh blood he can smell is his and Stiles', at least, and his doesn't count. Neither does Scott's either, they'll heal. "That's all on you."

He can hear someone coming, close enough to realize it's Scott, and Derek steps reflexively in front of the stairs, blocking his path. "Stiles, man, are you-" He cuts off as he runs into a wall of Derek, and Derek deftly relieves him off his pile of sheets. "Hey, lemme past, asshole!" He shows hard at Derek's shoulder, not so much as rocking him, and then goes up on tiptoe to look past him... going Green as he catches sight of the room beyond. "Are you okay, Stiles?"

[wannabebatman]

Maybe eventually he'll be able to accept Derek's words as truth, be able to realize that he really did play a part in saving the others, in putting together a plan that got everyone out and eliminated the alpha problem with the least amount of trouble. Right now...right now he isn't sure what he's feeling. This is all too real. He's seen death before, he's seen all sorts of weirdness in the last few years, he's come close to death, but...but this is different. This wasn't just Stiles going with the flow or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was him. It's that simple.

When he hears Scott's voice, there's a sinking in his stomach, a resignation for what comes after. It figures he'd be worried now, when Stiles just can't handle his worry. Words can't explain how grateful he is to Derek when the older man steps up to the stairs, not letting Scott past. Scott doesn't need to be part of this mess, and the last place he wants to do this is here.

"Don't be a douche, Scott. It's a mess down here, you don't wanna be walking in it. I'm fine. You'll just have to love me for my personality instead of my looks for a while." There's still a faint tinge of something tired there, but it's actually a pretty reasonable facsimile of his normal voice. Funny how he can fake it okay.

Finally letting go of the chair with one last breath, Stiles heads for the stairs, careful not to look at the mess around him any more than he has to. Just enough to not step in anyone. Putting a hand on Derek's shoulder, he squeezes just slightly as he slides by him. The gratitude and appreciation in the touch should be evident, to Derek at least. "See? All limbs intact, no bites to see. Still a squishy human. We need to get upstairs and figure out how we're gonna deal with all this. And you gotta figure out what I'm telling my dad about my face, cause otherwise I'm blaming you."

Heading up the stairs, pushing Scott ahead of him to make sure he's focused on other stuff, Stiles glances back at Derek and nods. He doesn't want to leave him to do this alone, but Scott is only gonna make it worse.

[meanttobeabeta]

The only reason Derek doesn't growl and flash his eyes at Scott is because he's honestly too damn tired. And too damn focused on Stiles. Derek doesn't like the scent of him, or the weary droop of his shoulders even as he steels himself to deal with Scott. He starts to reach out to help him as he nears, then pulls his hand back as blood audibly drops from his fingertips to splash into a spreading puddle on the concrete floor at his feet. Scott's not exactly pristine either, after the fight in the woods, but he doesn't look anything like he just took a bath in a tub full of blood either. And he's Stiles' friend. His best friend. He's better equipped to help Stiles, and Derek... he's better equipped to deal with the death and destruction that seems to follow in his wake no matter where he goes.

He takes a half step back, just enough to let Stiles ease past him without smearing himself in blood. He freezes for just a moment at the hand on his shoulder, startled at the contact and even more by the gentle squeeze. By the clear gratitude in the touch and in Stiles' scent, even over the almost overwhelming reek of blood. And he's not thinking about when or how Stiles' scent became so familiar to him that he can pick it out even in the middle of this charnel house.

"Get Argent. They're good at figuring out how to clean up this kind of mess," he calls after them, not as gruff as he would have been if it had been only Scott he was speaking to. Or Stiles as little as a month or two ago. The bitterness is clear in his voice, though. The implication that the Argents have plenty of experience of disposing of bodies. Wolves' bodies. "And get Deaton to check you out," he adds, unmistakable command in his voice. A command he doesn't even bother wasting on Scott, but doesn't think twice of delivering to Stiles... and expecting to be obeyed.

[wannabebatman]

It's easy for him to pick out the bitterness in Derek's voice. Easy for him to pick out a lot in Derek's voice, now, if he's honest. He's had a lot of practice the last few months. Now, he can discern vague irritation, awkward gruffness, and mildly pleased grumpiness. Derek's voice has lots of gravelly flavors, most of them sounding somewhere between sleep-deprived bear and totally hot metal vocalist. A part of him wonders when Derek got to be so communicative. The rest realizes it's just him, and shies away from thinking about it. But it's hard not to think about it, especially when Derek and Scott are both right there, and Derek gets it, and Scott just...doesn't. He doesn't even realize, just tries to glare back over his shoulder for good measure, and Stiles is just too friggin' tired for this. Too tired for all of this, and of all of this, and the night is only getting longer. Derek's command gets a wave over Stiles' shoulder as he pushes Scott up the stairs, an okay that he actually intends to follow through on, for once. It's concern goading Derek on, he knows that. Scott, on the other hand, doesn't. "This is BS, how can he just stand there like that and order us around like--" There's arrogance and anger and beneath it all, fear and bewilderment in Scott's voice, a fundamental disconnect from reality Stiles can practically feel happening as he propels Scott towards the back door. It's something he isn't gonna let happen again. Derek isn't gonna be Scott's scapegoat for reality forever. "Hold it right there, dude. You need to hear a few things, and I've gotta say a few things, so just shut up for a minute, okay?"

Scott seems surprised enough to actually comply, and Stiles' searching eyes catch one of the Argents' men standing towards the edge of the yard, in conversation with the man of the hour. Alison, he assumes by Scott's presence, is somewhere else, and safe. Probably with Erica and Boyd and Isaac, and that probably means with Deaton. But it isn't any of them he's looking for right now, and he isn't gonna get a better opportunity to talk to Scott. Walking up to Chris Argent, Stiles can feel the half-clinical, half-horrified looks the men are giving him, and whatever shred of vanity he has left vanishes, replaced by irritation and a stubborn bloodymindedness. "Need you inside. Downstairs," he says shortly and with a surprising amount of authority. Not sure when that happened, but at least his voice didn't crack. Chris is smart enough to see what's coming, nods, and goes inside, and Stiles steels himself for a moment before turning back to Scott. Poor, confused Scott, who doesn't understand this at all, who just wants the world to be black and white and easy and not what it is. Scott who used to talk about his mom and Stiles' dad getting married and them being brothers for real. In that one moment, Stiles sees both who they were and who they are, and God it makes him tired.

"Scott, this was my plan." He can see Scott opening his mouth to argue, surely Stiles never meant for this, and he cuts him off before he can get the words together. "Not Derek's. None of this was his idea. If he could have, he'd have done this all himself and died trying, because it's easier than facing another day of accusations and mistrust and all the guilt that moron carries on his stupidly gorilla-like shoulders. But this was my plan. So don't you go blaming him. Yeah, he can be an asshole. But as much as you think you're trying to do the right thing, so is he, and he's trying to do it for all of us, not just some girl or maybe a friend. This isn't easy for anyone, and maybe we've got a lot more going on than normal high-school kids. I didn't ask for this, and I know you didn't either. You're always saying you wish it hadn't happened. But for once, Scott, stop trying to make everything so black and white, us or them. It isn't that easy. People aren't just good guys or bad guys, dude, and in case you forgot, you're one of the monsters, too. You're a furry freak, and you're still my best friend, even if you haven't remembered I existed for weeks at a time, I still think that. Derek saved my ass again tonight. Even if you can't get past whatever you've made him out to be in your head, you owe him that much, at least. You owe me. Stop acting like he's the worst person on the planet and start looking around. There's worse out there. A lot worse. And some of it, we used to think was pretty cool. He's my friend, too, even if he's a dick sometimes. Just start thinking Scott, okay? Stop making excuses. I need you to have my back again. I want my best friend back."

It's stupid and it's childish and he's sure none of the right words are coming out again, because Scott just looks more confused than ever, but all Stiles can do is shake his head, and then wince and sway as the adrenaline starts to wear off and his everything starts to throb. "I'm gonna tell my dad you cracked me in the face with a lacrosse stick, you know," he adds, shaking his head and looking at Scott with a peculiar mix of sorrow and nostalgia and regret and hope burning in his chest. "Unless you have something better?"

[meanttobeabeta]

Much as he'd hated it, Derek had made himself not follow, made himself let Scott take care of Stiles and see that he got to Deaton, and then home, safe. Made himself focus on the mess in the basement, the remains of two wolves... two more wolves he'd killed, and he'd wondered if his mother had ever killed. Ever looked down and watched the blood of an enemy drip from her claws. If it had left her feeling this... hollow. Empty. Soiled.

It had taken more effort than it should have to keep his cool with Argent. To agree on how to dispose of the bodies, and the story he was allowed to tell to the hunter community. Just as much effort as he'd expected to stand at the treeline and watch the house begin to burn, stay until he could smell the unique, sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh and hear the sirens in the distance, and then, finally, he'd let himself approach the McCall house, go to check in with his pack.

He'd meant to just... get close, scent them and listen in for a minute, maybe two. Make sure they were healing and being taken care of. They'd nearly knocked him off his feet when they'd charged out the back door and wrapped themselves around him, oblivious or indifferent to the blood still caking his skin, soaked into the shredded remains of his clothes. Probably because they weren't any better themselves, though some effort had been made to clean them up. He'd expected they'd want to stay with Scott, but they'd followed him into the darkness, away from the lights and sirens and back to the loft. All three of them, even Isaac, and they'd left slipped into the pre-dawn light as the fire truck pulled up, the alphas house already completely ablaze.

It had still felt like there was an empty place when they'd all gotten back and settled in, though. Like the pack... wasn't complete, even once everyone had showered, been fed, changed into Derek and Isaac's spare clothes and sprawled themselves across his bed in an attempt at finding comfort, at reinforcing bonds they hadn't even realized were important until they'd been functionally cut off by the alphas. Derek hadn't even been able to muster a spark of irritation at having his bed co-opted, had just sat at the head of it, a hand each on Boyd and Erica's heads and watched his pack, most of his pack, sink into restless, fitful sleep.

He hadn't been able to leave them, even to get groceries, the first day, and they'd ended up having pizza delivered, then sending Isaac out for more supplies. They hadn't wanted to talk about any of it, had seemed to be waiting for him to criticize or punish them for their lack of loyalty or their stupidity, but how could he? How could he blame them for leaving him? How could he do anything but everything he could to fold them back into the broken remains of Pack after what they'd been through because of him?

And so it had taken almost thirty-six hours before he'd been able to ease himself away. To leave them with assurances that he'd be back soon, that they were safe, because he had to check on Stiles. No matter if he'd likely be better off if Derek stayed away from him, staying away just... wasn't an option, not with the feel of him at the back of Derek's mind. Exhausted and jittery. Frightened, he thought. And the smell of him when Derek finally got close enough.

He's perched on the roof outside Stiles' window without any memory of the last half block, pushing up the sash and sliding through and having to hope that he actually hadn't been seen, because he hadn't been careful not to be. "Stiles?" It comes out more harsh than he'd meant it to, laden with worry and guilty.

[wannabebatman]

Scott hadn't had anything revolutionary to say to Stiles, but to his credit he had at least recognized there wasn't anything to say. He'd just said something about it not being like that, looked sufficiently lost and hangdog, and gotten Stiles back over to his place, where Doakes had been waiting. Stiles had felt better, once he'd learned Erica and Boyd were going to be okay; malnutrition, slow silver poisoning, and abuse notwithstanding, they were gonna be okay, and that was the part that mattered. It meant something, made that tight thing in his chest ease just a little to see Erica smile just a little at him, even though for once he was fresh out of clever lines. He was so tired, soul-tired, and that look was enough.

He hadn't been expecting them to run to Derek like that, hadn't expected Isaac to stop clinging to Scott and go, but they all felt the pull. It was hard for him to resist, because god would it have been easier to just go where no one would ask questions. But responsibility held him, as always, and it made it easier when it was just Scott and him and Alison. Easier still when Chris came by to let him know--not Scott, not them, him, and how weird was that--and to pick up Alison. It was easy then to just throw on the piecemeal clothes of his that even now still lurked around Scott's room, and to hop in the Jeep and have Scott drive him to the hospital, where Ms. McCall was working the overnight. Scott, being the good friend that he still sometimes managed to be, took the fall, and even managed to lie convincingly about them roughhousing and Stiles taking a knee to the face and then falling on something, or something. Luckily, the bruising from the broken nose covered all the other bruising, and after both of them suffered the chewing out (and the promise of another one from Sheriff Stilinski), Stiles' nose was set and he and Scott both were almost sent back to the McCalls'. The call from the fire department stopped that, and amid concern for their young new neighbors--and a near heart attack on Stiles' part--they both ended up back at Stiles' place.

He couldn't really sleep that night. Stayed up until his dad got home, Scott stoically trooping through the hours with him, then casually grilled the Sheriff for details until they both got shooed away. After that, the waiting started. And the nightmares.

He was sure Derek would come by that night, god knows why. Instinct. Because he had nearly every night prior. Restless and barely dozing, he tossed his way through the hours until being awake was socially acceptable again. The day passed slowly and in a haze of pain, even with the lecture from his dad, but he couldn't even nap. Finally, Scott's hovering was too much for his raw nerves, and he sent Scott home with reassurances that he was gonna take the pain meds Ms. McCall had given him and sleep it off. That he'd see Scott Monday, and they were cool. Alone, it was harder to ignore the tight ball of stress in his chest, to ignore the pounding in his head and a panic he felt building under the edges of consciousness.

That night, it was impossible to sleep. Every time he'd start to drift, he'd hear...things. And then he'd have to get up, move, do anything to make it go away. Loud music only helped a little. Comics not at all. He couldn't even think about porn, and that was saying something. But it was okay. Derek would come by. Only, when he didn't, Stiles started thinking. Maybe Derek blamed Stiles, too. Yeah, Erica and Boyd were safe, but those things Derek had to do...he couldn't blame him. If he blamed Stiles for it. Stiles blamed Stiles for it, too. He shouldn't have had to kill. All Stiles' fault, all of that. And that knot got tighter, and the ball got heavier, and sleep remained elusive.

It was late afternoon the following day before his dad finally left for work, reminding him he was grounded under pain of worse things, and while his eyes burned and everything ached, he still couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but let his mind chase itself in circles and prepare for Derek never coming back again, because that was how things happened in the Stilesverse. Bad things happened and good people left. So that's why when Derek calls for him, he doesn't hear it at all, lost in the too-loud music in his headphones and eyes focused on the beat his fingers are tapping on one bare foot as he curls in on himself on his bed. Trying to drown out the sounds. Trying to not remember.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek's usually careful not to touch, or at least not too much, no more than a brush of fingers or a hand on Stiles' shoulder in passing. Things that used to be just the tip of the iceberg and come as easy as breathing, but it's been so long since getting close had been a risk worth taking. Since there'd been anyone who'd welcome his touch even if he wanted to put himself out there like that. He knows that's part of the reason his attempt at Pack has failed so badly, that no matter how good his intentions were, how much he'd wanted to help his betas, provide them with strength and safety and family, he doesn't know how to open up like that anymore. Doesn't know how to be the kind of Alpha his mother had been. Or even Laura. But he's been agitated as hell for almost two days now, feeling his Pack still broken and scattered, feeling Stiles here and trying to give him the space he probably needs and wants. He's not a wolf, and no matter how Derek feels about it he has no doubt that Stiles doesn't want to be Pack. Or at least not his Pack.

Derek can't fight the wolf anymore, though. Not with Stiles right there, radiating pain and fear and exhaustion, and where the fuck is Scott? How is he not here, after everything that happened? His scent's no fresher in this room than it had been three days ago, and Derek moves without thinking. Again. Drops heavily onto the edge of Stiles' bed and curls a hand around his shoulder to tug him over so he can see his face. "Where's Scott?" he demands. "Why are you alone?"

[wannabebatman]

That's another thing the two of them have in common, Derek and Stiles. The lack of touch, the personal space that's practically an abyss between them and the people nearest them. Stiles was always a pretty independent kid, but after his mom died, he withdrew absolutely. Couldn't bear to touch or be touched, and when that passed, he couldn't bring himself to ask anything of his dad. Not when it was his fault she was gone. And so he'd compensated in other ways, and his dad never pressed, and a silence full of unspoken things lay between them. Scott had gotten close, and Stiles had taken some comfort from the wrestling and playful ease that Scott always had, but that had been different. And lately, the last year or so, even that had diminished and then stopped. There was no contact, nothing except the little touches he'd allowed himself. Limited contact with his dad, with Scott, with Derek. More, with Derek, not that he ever thought about what he was doing or why.

Still, that doesn't stop him from flinching and freezing when Derek grabs him. Grabbing is sudden motion, and if the fairies hadn't done enough to damage his reactions, being held in that basement sure as hell had. Ripping his headphones off, he starts, relaxing minutely when it sinks into his sleep-deprived brain just who it is sitting there. Takes another minute past that for Derek's question to sink in, and the sheer length of time it takes him to process should speak volumes about how tired he is. Stiles and his normally lightning-quick mind, now struggling to keep up. Without that, what does he have? Nothing.

"I told him to go home yesterday. I just needed some time alone," he answers, wondering why Derek's bothering. He doesn't have to do this. Not after what Stiles made happen. "I'm fine. Alone is fine. It's no big deal." Every word is a bigger lie, but it's not like he's lying to Derek. Just himself. Just trying to convince himself again that being alone is okay, because once his stupid sense of honor is assuaged there's no way Derek is staying. Not when he's got his pack back and the Alphas are dead. Why would be stay? No, better to just focus on getting back to level and quashing everything yet again.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek lets go like he's been burned at the flinch, though it's too late to stop him from pulling Stiles over, and folds his arms defensively over his chest. Stiles looks blank and worn thin, reeking of exhaustion and sorrow fear, and his heart stutters erratically at lie after lie after lie. How can Scott not see this? He's so intent on not wanting to join Derek's pack, on supposedly protecting 'his' people from Derek, but he's left Stiles to... to this.

Derek can't really maintain his rage past a first, quick spike, though. Not when he's just as much at fault as Scott. He can't use Boyd and Erica and Isaac as an excuse, he felt Stiles here, fading, and he hadn't come. Telling himself he was leaving him to Scott's care doesn't absolve him of complicity in this, and his shoulders slump. He was never meant for this, and he's never going to be anything but a failure at it.

"You shouldn't be alone. Not after that." He doesn't mean to growl, but it comes out as one anyway. "And you need to sleep." Which he clearly hasn't been, and if Derek hasn't been either, well... his body's better equipped to handle the stress.

[wannabebatman]

He doesn't want Derek to pull back. He doesn't like that he's responsible for making the older man flinch like that, either, but it's too late. He can't take it back now, and there's nothing in him that will let him reach out again. He has no right to ask that of Derek. But he can't make himself move away, even as he can't move closer. He just hovers on the edge of Derek's personal space, shoulders hunched in and hands tucked between his legs, one leg bobbing incessantly as he jigs it up and down.

It might be lies, he might be thin and worn, but his stubbornness is only increased, if anything. That's one thing that Scott has always understood. Once Stiles makes up his mind, there's no dissuading him. Sometimes he wishes Scott would be a little less understanding, or more; that he'd realize sometimes Stiles needs someone to ignore what he's saying and do what he needs, despite him. Derek might be the only person he's ever met who both gives a damn and can outstubborn him, and that's another thing he isn't sure what to make of. It hurts, when he thinks of losing this other unexpected presence in his life. A bond he didn't know he'd made. But whatever. He can do this.

"You need to sleep," he shoots back at Derek, eyeing him critically while still avoiding eye contact. Derek looks nearly as worn as Stiles feels, and he worries maybe more than ever now that Erica and Boyd are back. He can't work himself to the bone, and he can't waste time taking care of Stiles. "I'll be fine. I've been sleeping, when I can. My face is just sore." It's less of a lie this time, one that almost sounds like the truth. Almost.

[meanttobeabeta]

It's something, at least, that Stiles doesn't actually pull away after that first startled flinch, though it says too much about the state he's in. The state they've all let him get to--the lone, fragile human in their number, who throws himself into everything without regard for how easily broken he is.

"My body can deal with it," he snaps, and he knows it sounds defensive, but he can't seem to control his reactions when he deals with Stiles. "I'll be fine. You won't."

He scowls, gaze drawn back to the mottled bruising on Stiles' face from where it had drifted to the way his hands fidget between his legs, and his shoulders slump even more. He remembers this, remembers his human brother and cousins, the way their pains had lingered and how hard it had been for him and the others to understand. That they had to play gently with them, protect them, sometimes slow down so they could keep up. But mostly, care for them when the inevitable consequences of their humanity caught up with them, and he reaches out without thinking, fingers pressing gently to Stiles' cheek below the bruising so he can draw the pain out. It's one of the first things he remembers consciously learning, and at least he can do this, even if he screws everything else up. He doesn't have to be a monster, even if he is, doesn't have to kill, even if he has, repeatedly. He can heal too.

[wannabebatman]

Stiles glowers in response to Derek's growled retort, a muscle clenching in his jaw as he sets his face. A more stubborn expression would be hard to find, especially as he seems to be taking that last bit as a challenge. He can so manage. Okay, maybe Derek is a werewolf, and an alpha, and would probably be freakishly buff and rugged even if he were just human, whereas Stiles is at best wiry, and at worst scrawny and kind of awkward and just now starting to grow into his overly-large hands and eyes, but whatever. "Don't be an ass," Stiles shoots at him, managing to almost find the energy to be pissed. As it is, he only manages to find a vague irritation. "I know it's hard for you, but seriously, just because I'm human doesn't make me any less--"

His words stop when Derek reaches for his face, and Stiles can't help the involuntary breath he hisses in through his teeth, waiting for the touch to hurt, like everything including that breath has hurt so far. It never occurs to him that Derek would hit him or hurt him, something he hasn't thought in months, but he has no idea what Derek does intend.

It's a surprise, then, when it doesn't hurt. In fact, those fingers do the opposite of hurt. They're cool, soothing, a blessed relief from the dull, burning throbbing he's been feeling for days now, refusing to take the painkillers he's been offered. And while he still can't quite breathe through his nose, he can at least blink without flinching and swallow without feeling like his entire sinus cavity is going to launch through his eye sockets, and that is blessedly wonderful. Unthinking, his face turns further into Derek's hand, seeking more of that relief, before the weirdness of what's happening finally sinks in and he starts to straighten, the old curiosity and suspicion beginning to shine through. "You're doing a thing, aren't you?" A thing. A Werewolf Thing. He so isn't mad about this one. This one can stay.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek rumbles a warning growl under his breath as Stiles starts to argue, because god dammit why can't he just accept that he has physical limitations? The growl fades out into a more satisfied rumble when Stile simply stops, mid-sentence as black veins start snaking up Derek's arm from where he's touching Stiles. He can feel the pain being absorbed into his system, his healing dealing with it as quickly as it does his own hurts. More importantly, he can smell the shift in Stiles' scent, the sour tinge of pain fading into the background.

"Yes, Stiles, I'm doing a thing," he answers, deadpan, and rolls his eyes. "And no, being human doesn't make you any less," he adds, while he possibly has the upper hand. "But it does make you more breakable, and it's my job to keep you from ending up broken beyond repair." There's something solemn and intense in the way he says it, the way he reaches across with his free hand to squeeze Stiles' wrist.

[wannabebatman]

Having the upper hand with Stiles is always debatable. Kid's got a mind like lightning, a mouth that's even faster, and enough sarcastic quips and bad jokes to put Burt-Ward-Robin to shame. Derek's smart, pressing the advantage while he has it. Might as well get the words in while Stiles is too busy adjusting to life without pain to argue. And the words manage what he intended with them; Stiles quiets, the seriousness, the intensity of Derek's voice pushing past the walls he's carefully constructed and nesting somewhere deep in him. Warm, and right.

"What are you, my mechanic?" he grumbles, but there's actually a marked amount of...maybe affection, or something nearly like it, in his voice, and his other hand automatically lifts from between his legs to lay on Derek's wrist. Now that the pain is gone, it's so much harder to ignore the rest, the exhaustion and fear and doubt. After a moment, he sighs, and his always-moving fingers settle over the pulse in Derek's wrist. "I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is quiet and so markedly different from the Stiles Derek is used to. Older. Sadder. "You shouldn't have had to do what you did. I should have come up with a better plan. I'm sorry." If there's anything he regrets, it's Derek having to kill. His life has been hard enough. He's got enough nightmares. Who is Stiles to add to that?

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek is irrationally satisfied by the fact Stiles actually shuts the hell up long enough for him to get that out. Maybe he'll actually listen for once, rather than discarding anything that doesn't fit with whatever world view he's already decided to adopt--mostly the one where anyone trying to protect him is trying to belittle and demean his strength and accomplishments.

"No, I'm your Alpha, if you get broken enough someone needs to fix you I haven't done my job," he answers, with the kind of automatic ease that clearly marks it as what he considers the absolute truth, and he's tired and distracted enough by Stiles' hand settling on his wrist, warm fingers sure against the steady thud of his pulse, that he doesn't think to backtrack on the statement. And, well... it's true to him, even if it isn't to Stiles. And he's not going to think, right in this moment, about just how badly broken Erica and Boyd are, and how he failed them.

He should probably take his hand off Stiles' face, he's drained away everything he can, and the touch is probably inappropriately intimate, but with Stiles' hand at his wrist, the bitter twist of sadness to his scent, he can't make himself. "No." He doesn't growl or snap, it's just steady and solid and true. "You came up with a plan that worked. You saved them. And-" He frowns and looks down, voice going slower and thicker. "That had to happen. Someone had to... had to kill them, or they'd have just kept on the same. With us, or with the next pack down the road. I couldn't let them just... leave. Not knowing that. It was my call, my responsibility." No one else's. He'd kept Scott from having to be a killer, kept the Argents from spilling his peoples' blood, even if they were murderers and monsters. It had been his burden, no one else's.

[wannabebatman]

"It shouldn't've had to be you." Even as he says the words, he knows there wasn't anyone else. This wasn't a job for the Argents, even if the Alpha pack were a bunch of monsters. This wasn't hunting, this was...this was justice. Pack justice, blood for blood, and there was no one for it but Derek. No one else could have done it. Scott couldn't. And Stiles...Stiles did bring kidnapped well, and that was about it. It was Derek's hands, but the blood guilt fell to him, too. It wasn't just Derek's to bear.

He can't quite look at Derek, sliding back into the mire of self-doubt and recrimination he's been drowning in the last few days, but he doesn't pull away from the touch of skin on his own. It is too intimate, that hand on his cheek, Derek's pulse under his fingers, but it's a lifeline he's clinging to without conscious thought. The touch of his Alpha, because he doesn't even think to disagree with Derek's words. Derek has come for him so many times already, and he's contributed in return everything he can. All his most clever ideas, and the beginnings of that pushy insistence that Derek stop with the brooding loner bit and acknowledge that he's just a guy doing the best he can. It's a touch that, if he were better, he'd read way too much into and possibly get too worked up about, because hormones, and then things would be weird. Weirder. As it is, it's just what's keeping him sane.

"Erica and Boyd are okay? Spending time with you is helping?" He hadn't forgotten the way they bolted into Derek's arms. Hasn't forgotten the way he'd wanted to join them. To comfort, and be comforted in return. Maybe that's what he's looking for now; that, and some sort of proof that his plan wasn't all bad. That something good came of it all. "I have some stuff for you to take back to them."

[meanttobeabeta]

"I'm the Alpha," he points out quietly. "It was my responsibility, no one else's." He doesn't like it. Doesn't like the sticky itch of blood on his hands, no matter how often he washes them, or the stink of it clogging up his nostrils, but he does know it was necessary, and that it inarguably fell to him to take care of it. He might be the monster his mother had said he never needed to become, but those deaths have no part in it, and he knows she would have done the same if it had come to it.

And, god, Stiles hadn't denied it. Not that he's the Alpha, but that he's his. Even now, with everything else, he'd expected an instant, kneejerk protest or correction, but it hasn't come, and that combined with the way Stiles hasn't pulled away, the way he's added to the contact with the hand at his wrist, uncoils something in Derek's chest. He slides his hand around to the nape of his neck with automatic care and pulls, gently but steadily, until Stiles' forehead rests against his shoulder and he can press his nose into the hair above his ear and breathe him in. Like he's done repeatedly for Erica and Boyd these last couple of days.

"They're... they're recovering." It would be a stretch he can't make to say they're okay, but he thinks that, at least, is the truth. "All the physical damage is gone, but-" He shrugs. God knows how long it'll take before they can sleep through the night, or bear to be out of each other's sight... or set foot in the woods again. "You could bring it to them yourself?" he suggests before he can talk himself out of it. "They've been asking about you, but I... I told them we needed to let you rest. Let you have your space." He thinks now, after the way he found Stiles, that that had been a mistake, and he lowers his voice a little. "But Pack should be together. Everyone heals faster when they are."

[wannabebatman]

His mom used to do that for him, when he'd had nightmares or when he was sad or sick. They'd sit there like that for hours, on his bed or on the couch, Stiles breathing in the scent of her and finding comfort in her heartbeat. It's maybe why he allows Derek to complete that familiar gesture, even when it puts an uncomfortable amount of pressure on his sinuses, why a minute amount of tension seeps out of his shoulders as he takes a long, shuddering breath. In that moment, Derek isn't just a friend or a not-quite-mancrush, he's almost a surrogate parent, but...without the weird connotations. It's only when Derek speaks again that Stiles realizes just what he's doing, and those doubts start to come back.

He isn't Pack. He can't be Pack. He's human, and he's vulnerable, and he'll make them weaker, and he's never even once wanted to be a wolf. He might consider Derek his Alpha, but Stiles can't be pack. He doesn't belong with anyone. "I can't take anything anywhere, I'm grounded," he says as he sits up again, both hands running through his messy hair. "And I also kinda look like Halloween came a couple days late, so it's probably a good idea I'm literally not allowed to leave the house. Not even to take the trash out. Will you take the stuff for me?" Because while he doesn't mind Derek being there, might even want Derek around, he's not sure he could stand being around anyone else right now. Even Erica and Boyd would just be reminders of how he took too long to find them. It's okay that Derek's left him alone, and better that he's told everyone the same thing.

[meanttobeabeta]

The proximity and contact eases something, and Derek relaxes minutely as Stiles simply leans into him, tension seeping away with each long breath. He might be a shit Alpha, but maybe he's at least getting this much right, finally. It's as much the Alpha's job to offer comfort and reassurance as it is protection and guidance, and he's sucked at all of them so far, but after everything that's happened he can't just keep going on the way he has. He's trying to fix things.

He almost doesn't let Stiles pull away from the contact, but that's something he can't force and he lets his hand fall, though only to the boy's shoulder. He doesn't bite back the disappointed growl at not just the words, but at the way Stiles' scent changes and the tension seeps back in. He clenches his jaw and looks down.

"You're not sleeping, you're hurt. You shouldn't be alone and... you'd heal faster too," he points out, because it might not be anything like with wolves, but Pack makes everyone stronger, and Stiles at least hasn't repudiated that. Yet.

[wannabebatman]

He doesn't dispute any of it out loud, little as he actually believes it. How could he heal faster, too? He's not a wolf, not Pack. Can't be. And the rest...well, he can't argue the not sleeping part, either. Derek could smell the lie, and it's obvious to him, too, to the point where he avoids the bathroom mirror every time he goes. Derek can be growly all he wants, Stiles isn't changing his mind. He's going to stay hermity until he can get his shit together, and that's that.

"I really can't," he says, and there's the barest flash of guilt at how he's making Derek look. He's trying to be less stressful, he swears. "My dad...he doesn't know anything about this side of things. He can't. And me going running off or sneaking out, I mean...I've done that to him enough, the last year. I really can't. I should be ungrounded by Thanksgiving, though. Probably." Unless something else happens. Like it apparently tends to.

But there's that guilt, still, and so after a moment, he hesitantly adds, "But you could hang out for a while, if you want. If you don't have to get back right away or anything. I have some reading I'm supposed to do for school." And even with the tension and the doubt, he does feel better having Derek here. More than he'd have thought. Weird how used he's gotten to Derek's presence, especially considering where they stood a year ago.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek bites back on the urge to growl in frustration. He'd thought that, maybe, this time he was getting it right, but he should have known better. It helps at least a little, though, that Stiles is making excuses rather than outright refusing. That he hasn't laughed in Derek's face for daring to claim him. And it's not like it isn't a valid excuse, even if Derek knows for a fact that Stiles rarely, if ever, pays any attention when his father grounds him.

He's preparing for a round of orders and threats, about sleeping and eating and making Scott get his ass over there (and he'll be taking care of that conversation on his own, dammit) when Stiles stops him before he even gets started with that offer. He's silent for a moment, brows still furrowed, as he processes it.

"You should rest, not do schoolwork," he finally answers. He should get back to the others, but they know where he is and how to reach him, and they're together and safe for now... and Stiles is Pack too, and needs to be taken care of. "If I can't tell Erica you're getting better and have it not be a lie when I get back she's going to try and go for my throat."

[wannabebatman]

Derek is quiet just long enough for Stiles to start regretting the offer, to start rethinking hasty excuses to take it back, when Derek finally answers. And the answer, once he parses it, isn't at all what he was expecting. Derek is going to stay, and Erica...really? There was that brief moment of enlightenment he'd had a month or so before they'd disappeared, the almost conversations, but he was pretty sure that was all it was. Just a reminder of something else he'd overlooked or ignored, been too self-centered to see. He's trying to get better about that. To be better for everyone: for his mom, for his disappointed and struggling dad, for Scott who needs a practical conscience, and for Derek. Derek, who needs to remember sometimes what it means to be human, because it's so much harder than being wolf. But Derek wouldn't say it if it weren't true. He can be evasive and refuse outright to answer things, but he's never lied to Stiles. Sometimes Stiles thinks he might be incapable of it. And that's not a bad thing, with how very good Stiles is at it. "Yeah, well, my English teacher doesn't really accept 'knocked around by power-hungry werewolves' as an excuse to not finish reading Camus, sadly," he says, finally pullung away from Derek's hands and flopping backwards on the bed. Somehow he still ends up with one calf pressed against him, almost an unspoken reassurance that he is doing things right. It's not his fault Stiles is too stubborn for the both of them. "Besides, I can't sleep, might as well be productive, right?" He didn't really mean to say it, but...well, it's not like Derek can't tell. Not like he doesn't already know, and maybe it's better for Stiles to say something, so Derek doesn't just wonder and come to his own conclusions. He's really starting to think that's a big part of Derek's problem. Maybe even part of his own, too.

[meanttobeabeta]

"How about fell down the stairs and got a concussion?" he suggests, practically, and because there's no question that Stiles was concussed. He doesn't like it when Stiles pulls away, but he makes himself let him go and drops his hand reluctantly. The press of Stiles' calf is some comfort and reassurance, and he's not even thinking again when his hand shifts to settle, warm and large, over Stiles' ankle instead.

Contact is good. It's not the same as the whole pack being together, but even just being with the Alpha should be enough to help at least a little. He stays there for just a moment before settling slowly next to Stiles. Not too close, but stretched out on the bed, still holding loosely to his ankle. "You need to sleep, you can't heal properly if you're not getting any rest."

[wannabebatman]

Stiles does consider that answer for a long moment. "They do know Scott broke my nose. Or, you know, the story we told my dad and his mom." He doesn't know if they've told Derek that yet, and the last thing he wants is Derek getting even more pissed at Scott for something he didn't do. "And Scott's mom said something about mild concussions or whatever. I mean, I'm out of school for a day, but that's it. And knowing my English teacher, he'd fail me anyway. I don't know why they all have it out for me."

Maybe he knows a little. It's why Derek growls at him so much. People who see potential being wasted in this scrawny, stubborn kid. He just doesn't know what he can do about it. He can't be anyone else. But for some reason, not all of them have given up on him. Derek's still there, and that's surprising, but kind of reassuring. Like that grip on his ankle. He waits as Derek settles in next to him, a little tentative, waiting for his hormones to make everything weird, but he remains calm. He's just so tired. Tired, and unhappy, and bruised all over in ways that aren't purely physical.

"Sleeping isn't resting, not lately," he says, after a long pause, unconsciously settling so he's got a little more contact with Derek. "Even before the other night. I keep having dreams..." he trails off, remembering again and forcing himself to suppress a shudder. Anticipation, discomfort, a slow dread, and above it all just exhaustion. He's just so tired. Sleep without dreams would be nice.

[meanttobeabeta]

Derek rolls his eyes at the cover story, more because it's perfectly believable than anything. He doesn't want to think about how often Stiles lies to his father, or how long it'll be before the sheriff refuses to let the blatant falsehoods stand... and what will happen when that day comes. He definitely isn't going to follow through on the urge to tell Stiles he should just come clean and tell his father everything, because he knows that will just end in a screaming match and he's not up to that right now.

"If you're out of school for a concussion you should get extra time to do the work," he points out, and the growl in his voice is more for the teacher(s?) making Stiles' life hell than for Stiles himself. The irony of that isn't wasted on him, of course, given he's probably the single most important factor in making Stiles' life hellish.

He pulls in a slow breath through his nose as Stiles explains, or starts to, and doesn't tell him he knows exactly what he means. That he can't remember the last time he slept more than an hour at at time, and that hour restless and broken. Always conscious of the fact that he's weak and vulnerable, that the Hunters or the Alphas are after him and he has no strong Pack to count on. No one to watch his back... and that he hadn't even been able to give that much to the children he'd turned. Hadn't been able to even give them the illusion of safety, let alone the reality.

"Try now," he orders instead, low and gruff, but his grip on Stiles' ankle is still steady and firm. Warm. "You're exhausted, maybe you're exhausted enough to get at least a little rest now." Maybe... just maybe having him here, his Alpha, even if Stiles hasn't explicitly accepted him as much, will help the way it should. Or at least a little, anyway.

[wannabebatman]

Yeah, what his dad should and should not know is so not a fight they're having anytime soon. Stiles has that fight with himself often enough as is. In the one hand, knowing something would maybe keep his dad safer on those weird calls that Beacon Hills tended to get too many of. On the other, he'd ground Stiles permanently for all the risks he'd taken. And besides, Stiles knows better than anyone; knowing more just means more can happen to you. The weird and the horrifying finds you that much faster.

But the funny thing is, he doesn't blame Derek for any of it anymore. He blames Peter some, for starting all this and sucking Scott and Derek into it. He blames the Argents for being so bugfuck crazy, all of them, even the ones he doesn't dislike as much as the others. He understands maybe better than Derek does that none of that is his fault. They just...got sucked into this mess. Maybe it would be easier if he did blame Derek and cut all ties. He can't do that, though. Definitely not anymore.

Picking up the book, Stiles holds it over his face, eyes not quite focusing on the words. "You're exhausted, too," Stiles points out, clearly too tired for French existentialism. "But you're here taking care of me instead of resting. Who's taking care of you?" He wouldn't even have said anything if he weren't so tired, but he is--and for once, he's not really thinking.