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kyrene_writesTitle: Thirteen O'Clock, Chapter Two
Author:kyrenekyorl
Pairings/Characters: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,402 (this part)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: The thing about an actual real-life cockatrice that none of them had known, which would have been good to know before the fact, was that it wasn't just its gaze that could kill a man.
Warning: seems like a deathfic, even though it's not a deathfic because I don't write deathfics
"Thirteen O'Clock"
Chapter Two
by kyrene
"Stiles has... been really quiet." Isaac spoke haltingly, as though he wasn't sure he really ought to bring the subject up. "Ever since the night with the cockatrice."
Derek scowled, knowing that this wasn't the most mature response he could have evinced, but unable to help himself. To be honest, he'd been avoiding Stiles since that night in the clinic, almost a week ago. But he kind of thought that Stiles wanted it that way. He hadn't texted Derek, hadn't visited him, and Stiles had never been shy about contacting Derek before, so Derek could only assume this was by choice.
Surely Stiles wouldn't want to have anything to do with the man who had held him as he'd turned to stone from the inside out, right?
"What part of 'he almost died' are you not getting?" he asked Isaac, raising his brows. Which was a little better than glaring, even though Erica would have called his expression 'bitchy' and he knew it.
Isaac looked confused.
"We've all almost died, more than once," he said softly, tilting his head and staring at Derek in entreaty. As though he was asking his Alpha to explain. Well, it was true that Derek was the only one outside of Stiles and Deaton who knew exactly what had happened.
"You're not getting it," Derek bit out, clenching his hands into tight fists, feeling blunt nails digging into his palms "He was dead. His heart stopped and he was gone. For at least five minutes. Deaton somehow managed to bring him back, but Stiles died."
He hadn't really wanted to share that. It wasn't his story to tell. He strongly suspected Stiles wouldn't want anyone else to know how near a thing it had been. What had happened in Deaton's clinic, on the floor, had been something for only Derek and Stiles....
But he couldn't let Isaac -- or the other Betas, or Scott -- go on thinking Stiles was overreacting to something minor. It was true that they'd all come close to death before. Derek had been impaled by Peter in Alpha form, and he'd probably been technically dead for a short period before his body had began healing itself. But he was a werewolf, he had healed. Stiles was human, he had a fragile human body, and he'd been dead and petrified for several minutes. Long enough for Derek to realize how he was going to feel about living in a world without one Stiles Stilinski in it....
Strangely hollow and lonely, if he was painfully honest about it, though he preferred not to be honest, to live in denial.
There was a certain sick satisfaction in seeing Isaac staring at him with real shock on his face. Not because Derek enjoyed freaking his Beta out, of course. But because now someone else understood the panic and horror Derek had felt when he'd heard Stiles exhale his last breath.
"Wow," Isaac gaped, blinking rapidly as he processed what Derek had just said. "Okay, you didn't tell us that part of it."
Derek shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. He didn't really have anything to say to that. It was true that he hadn't told them, not the next day, not any of the six and a half days since... and maybe he shouldn't have told Isaac now, but he'd been carrying the burden on his own long enough.
"Does Scott know?" Isaac asked next, because of course that was where his mind went. Well, Scott was Stiles' best friend, after all.
Derek shrugged again, more violently this time. "Ask him," he grunted.
"Have you... talked to Stiles?" Isaac spoke hesitantly, but seemed compelled to utter the words. "Since it happened?"
Derek shook his head briskly and turned away. They were done now.
"You should, Derek," Isaac called after his as he strode out of the room. "He's too quiet. It's not right. You should... you should talk to him."
Isaac wasn't wrong, Derek thought with what he tried to tell himself was irritation. He was painfully aware that it was closer to worry than irritation.
Isaac wasn't wrong and Derek should almost definitely go and talk to Stiles about what had happened. He just wished it wasn't such a hard decision to make.
It had helped Derek, even if only a little, to talk to Isaac about what had happened. Maybe it would be the same for Stiles..... It was possible he had told Scott, of course, but Derek kind of thought that if Stiles had told Scott the true extent of it, Scott would have shared the information with Isaac already.
Besides, even if Stiles had told Scott, Scott hadn't been there. He wouldn't know how horrible it had been, listening to Stiles' heart falter and fail. And Derek would have bet anything that Stiles wouldn't have told Scott how much it had hurt him when his body had been coming back to life.
Actually, Derek hoped that Stiles didn't remember that part of it; he had been pretty out of it, after all. But Derek had been there and he remembered and he couldn't forget. The soft little animal sounds of pain that Stiles had given vent to, how he had twitched and shuddered in Derek's arms, the way Derek had tried to comfort him in his pain and distress.....
Derek scowled. He'd been staying away from Stiles as much for Stiles' sake as his own, but now he was starting to think that it would be better for both of them if they talked. Isaac really was right, damn it. Derek didn't have to like it, but he did feel that he had to do it.
And now that his mind was made up, the sooner Derek saw Stiles, the better.
+++
Because he wasn't stupid, Derek waited until the Sheriff was out. He also made sure that Stiles was home and that there was no sign of Scott or anyone else in the house. Whether Stiles had told Scott what had happened or not, this was a conversation for only Derek and Stiles. Whatever they might end up talking about.
Derek parked a block over but then knocked on the front door. Now definitely wasn't the time for breaking and entering.
He could hear Stiles in the house, moving slowly toward the front door, and he remembered what Deaton had said about him being sore and weak. He wondered how long that had lasted. It had been nearly a week since it had happened, so surely Stiles was back to normal by now...?
"Derek?"
"Stiles," he said uncomfortably, shifting where he was standing, his eyes greedily soaking in the sight of Stiles framed in the open doorway. He looked... like Stiles. Nothing seemed irrevocably different. There were shadows under his eyes that were a bit darker than usual, and his cheekbones were worrisomely stark, but he'd looked this exhausted before. More than once, in fact.
Stiles blinked a couple of times, then his lips stretched in a smile that was not much of a smile at all. "Do you wanna come in?" he asked, taking a step back.
"That's why I'm here," Derek grunted, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. Yeah, it was rude of him, but he didn't need to be gracious with Stiles.
He followed Stiles into the kitchen, watching him walk. He seemed to be completely recovered, as far as Derek could tell. He smelled like he always had. His heartbeat was strong and steady. It was as though nothing had happened... except, as Isaac had said, he was quiet.
"You want a soda?" Stiles asked, opening the fridge and peering over his shoulder at Derek with his brows raised. He wasn't as animated as he often was, but he wasn't flat. He just looked... tired. "Coffee? Water?"
Derek considered it a moment, whether a drink would help the stiff discomfort between them, but after a moment he shook his head. He wasn't thirsty.
Stiles stared at him a couple of heartbeats longer, then quirked a small grin that looked a little more real and shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, grabbing a can and closing the fridge. "Do you wanna go up to my room?"
Derek nodded. So far he wasn't doing an incredibly good job of talking to Stiles, he was well aware. But this wasn't something he could just dive into. "Hey, remember when you died in my arms?" No. He was here to talk to Stiles, but he was also here in case Stiles needed to talk to him, and Stiles was talking now. Which was more than he'd been doing lately at school, according to Isaac.
Stiles was silent, though, as he led Derek upstairs. He was moving freely, but Derek could easily recall the way his limbs had been heavy and unmoving. It made him shiver, even though Stiles was better now.
"So," Stiles said, once he'd waved Derek toward his desk chair and seated himself on the end of his bed, handling his soda with both hands but not moving to open the can. "Here we are." He took a deep breath. "Thank you. For, you know. Getting me to Deaton's and saving my life."
He stared at Derek as he spoke, his eyes bright and clear. Nothing like the filmy marbles they'd been when the cockatrice's poison had been petrifying him internally. His expression was guarded, but his lips were soft, and he looked alive.
"You called me for help," Derek said roughly, not sure what he was going to say until he said it. "I helped."
Stiles nodded.
"I was too late," Derek continued, swallowing painfully and clenching his hands on his thighs. "You died. Before Deaton could do anything, you died. You were dead. He brought you back." It was as though the words had been forced out of him, as though he wanted Stiles to know the entirety of the horror that had befallen him. As though Stiles might be unaware.
"Yeah." Stiles smiled at him, his fixed gaze going a bit distant. "I actually got him a flower arrangement for that. Stupid, but... what do you get the man who saved your life?" His eyes sharpened and pinned Derek in place. "What should I get you in thanks, Derek?"
"You're alive," Derek said, feeling as though his lips were numb. "That's all that matters."
Stiles blinked at him in surprise, long lashes flickering over clear brown eyes, those red lips hanging open. "Oh. Okay."
Neither of them followed this bold declaration up with anything, and they sat there in moderately awkward silence for nearly two minutes. Derek wondered whether Stiles would have been able to maintain that before he'd died. It wasn't exactly a comfortable thought.
He wanted to ask Stiles if he was okay. He wanted to ask how much he remembered. He wanted to go and sit next to Stiles and pull him close and just breathe in the normal, everyday scent of him. He couldn't do any of these things; most especially not that last.
"Thank you," Stiles said again, staring at Derek as though he was waiting for something. His long, lean fingers were turning the soda can around and around, trailing slick through the condensation beading on the surface, and his face was warm with blood. "Not just for driving me to Deaton. You..." he licked his lips, "You stayed. While I was turning to stone. And you... Deaton said you took me home... after?"
Derek nodded but didn't reply verbally because he didn't know that to say. He had come here to find out how much Stiles remembered, but now that they were talking about it he felt incredibly uncomfortable.
"Did you...." Stiles' brow wrinkled in a deep frown, one that curved his lips down at the corners and stretched the skin over his cheekbones and jaw. "You promised that you'd look out for my Dad... once I was gone... didn't you?"
Derek nodded jerkily, wishing he had accepted the offer of a soda, because then he could be doing something with his hands other than digging his nails into his thighs.
"I did," he confirmed. He didn't like remembering those last horrible moments, as Stiles had stopped breathing in his arms. And then the minutes that followed, when Stiles had continued to not breathe.
"Why?" Stiles looked at him with bright, inquisitive eyes.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Stiles' chair creaking under his weight. "You were dying, Stiles."
Stiles stared at him steadily. "So you didn't really mean it?" he asked curiously. There was no judgment in his tone, but Derek bristled anyway.
"No. I meant it," he scowled.
"You...." Stiles' mouth was open again, and he looked honestly confounded. "But why?"
"Because you asked me to."
It was as simple as that, honestly, but this didn't seem to be the reply Stiles had been expecting. The soda can slipped out of Stiles' fingers and hit the carpeted floor with a thunk that reminded Derek a little too much of Stiles' petrified hand striking the floor of Deaton's examination room, but he held onto his response, simply watching quietly as Stiles cursed and bent to pick the can up, seeming flustered.
"Since when have you ever done anything I've asked?" Stiles wanted to know, sounding confused rather than combative.
"Since you died," Derek cracked out, his brows descending. It seemed wrong to be glaring at Stiles for having died, but Derek couldn't help the expression.
Stiles hunched into himself a little, then set the soda can aside on his bedcovers and leaned forward, elbows planted on his thighs. He was wearing a red plaid and the shade reflected onto his face, giving it even more color. Which was only a good thing when the last time Derek had seen him he'd been pale and still as death.
"I'm alive now," Stiles offered, spreading his hands. "Thanks to you."
Derek nodded. He didn't really have anything else to say. Stiles was alive and it was as much thanks to Derek as Deaton, and vice versa. He wasn't really comfortable with Stiles thanking him, but it would have been worse to reject his gratitude.
"I'm glad I called you," Stiles said, so softly that Derek almost didn't hear him. "I'm glad you came."
"Yeah." Derek ducked his head. Then something occurred to him, something that had him frowning faintly and raising his head. "What were you doing out there anyway?"
Stiles shifted where he sat and looked a little embarrassed. "I just... uh... wanted to know what was going on. I didn't.... No one told me it was a cockatrice. Deaton told me later, when I took him the flower arrangement, how dangerous that thing was, but at the time I had no idea."
Derek sat and digested that for a moment. "Did you know we were out there hunting it?"
Stiles shook his head. "No. I was just curious about what was killing the animals."
"So you thought driving out to the woods where animals were dying was a good idea?" Derek asked incredulously, brows rising. He knew that Stiles lacked good sense at times -- that was why Scott was a werewolf now, after all -- but when dead rabbits and deer were turning up, shouldn't that be a clear warning to stay out of the Preserve?
Stiles shrugged uncomfortably. "Well.... It was only animals that were dying. Not people...."
"Not yet," Derek ground out, feeling the panic swell inside him all over again; not wild, just like an aching echo, a reminder of what had happened to Stiles and how it had made Derek feel. "You came out of the encounter pretty dead, Stiles," he barked, and he knew he sounded pissed off, but Stiles had died.
Stiles' mouth turned down at the corners, but he seemed more sheepish than defensive over the whole thing. "But you were there to take me to Deaton's. And he knew how to fix me," he offered, spreading his hands wide.
Derek felt a sudden stab of cold when he realized that Stiles had called him for help when he hadn't even known Derek had been nearby. What if he'd been at home or in town or something? Stiles would have died before Derek could have gotten there! And Derek strongly suspected that the longer Stiles had remained petrified, the less likely it would have been that Deaton would have been able to bring him back.
"Why didn't you call someone else?" he asked urgently, because now that he knew Stiles hadn't known he was nearby, this was a very pertinent question.
Stiles bit his lip. "My hands were barely working," he replied awkwardly. "And you were the one I happened to hit on speed dial."
Stiles was lying. He was lying and Derek wanted to know why, but he knew he'd never get a straight answer if he just asked outright.
"I'm sorry," Derek gruffed out, nails digging into his jeans again.
"For... helping me?" Stiles hazarded, his incredulous eyebrow quirk and the tone of his voice making it clear he didn't actually think that had been what Derek had meant.
Derek shook his head, trying to order his thoughts, anticipating Stiles' next question.
"Then what the heck are you sorry for?"
Derek flexed his fingers, listening to his blunt nails catching in the denim. At least they weren't claws, though this entire conversation was making him feel very defensive.
"It shouldn't have been me there," he forced out. "It should have been Scott. Or maybe...."
Stiles straightened, glaring at him. "If you say my Dad I'm going to come over there and punch you in the face," he snapped. "He already had to watch my Mom die. He didn't need to see--"
He broke off and shook his head, his throat working tensely. Derek felt bad and he wanted to take the words back or maybe say something else, but before he could think of what, Stiles continued.
"If Scott had been there, it would have been all about him. He was losing his best friend. He couldn't save me. You held me and you made it about me, Derek. That was what I needed."
Derek was silent for a long moment, working his way through this startling declaration. "It felt like it was about me," he offered weakly.
Stiles smiled, an actual real smile, curving his lips softly. Derek didn't think he'd ever seen a real smile on Stiles' face before; at least not aimed at him.
"I doubt that," Stiles said, standing and approaching Derek, slowly, as though he was afraid he might startle him or something. "But even if that's true, you didn't act that way. You... you comforted me, Derek. I was scared and it was cold. It hurt. I could feel my body turning to stone, and I couldn't see anymore. And you could have just dumped me on Deaton and left, but you--"
"No!" Derek snapped, rising and standing facing Stiles where he'd frozen in the middle of his bedroom. He sucked in a deep breath and continued, struggling for a calm that he didn't feel. "I couldn't just leave you there, Stiles. You were dying. You needed.... You needed someone there."
Stiles relaxed a little, taking a step forward and reaching a hand tentatively toward Derek. "That's the thing," he said, and Derek allowed Stiles to clasp his upper arm lightly through the leather of his jacket. "You stayed because it was the right thing to do. No one else would have done that, not for that reason. And you made me feel safe, even though I was dying. You told me to hold on, and when I couldn't, you set my mind at ease about my Dad. You were everything I needed you to be, Derek. You're the one person I trust to watch over me while I die."
Derek's hair bristled, and he wasn't sure whether it was because Stiles had so casually mentioned dying, or if it was his use of the word "trust".
"You don't trust me," he growled, yanking his arm away. But he didn't leave the room. He was too weak to do that, even though it was what he probably should do. It was too good to see Stiles, talking and breathing and alive. Even if what he was saying was making Derek feel very uncomfortable.
"I do, actually," Stiles corrected, twining his hands together before his chest and looking at Derek earnestly. "You can deny it if you want, but you can't tell me how I feel. Something about dying in someone's arms lends clarity to a few things."
Derek whined -- he actually whined, and he was humiliated by that sound, but it was too late to retrieve it -- when Stiles mentioned his death again.
Without thinking about why it was a very bad idea, he reached forward and grabbed at Stiles, dragging him into his arms and burying his face in the curve of his neck. Stiles smelled exactly like he was supposed to. Clean skin, faint salty perspiration, lingering deodorant, traces of his father, Scott, and Isaac, a hint of pineapple for some reason... but mostly he just smelled alive.
Derek might have been more horrified by what he'd just done if Stiles' arms hadn't come around him in return, squeezing him just as tightly. His cheekbone was hard and pointed against Derek's ear, and his breathing had picked up a little, but he seemed almost to become more settled, held close against Derek's chest, holding him in return.
They stood there for almost a full minute, and Derek kind of figured that neither of them knew how to break the moment. Neither of them really wanted to, maybe.
It was Stiles who finally spoke, which didn't surprise Derek, even though Isaac had said he had been more quiet lately, and Derek had proven the truth of this during his visit today.
"Hugging. We're hugging," he said, speaking into Derek's shoulder. Derek had his nose pressed into the flesh of Stiles' neck, feeling his pulse beating through the thin skin, allowing the scent of Stiles to wash over his senses and calm him.
"This isn't hugging," Derek growled, raising his head and loosening his arms as he took a step back. Stiles released him reluctantly, his fingers grasping uselessly at the leather of Derek's jacket before his hands fell away entirely, arms hanging at his sides.
"What was it then, dude?" Stiles asked, brows arching in query over his bright eyes. His cheeks were a little flushed, but he didn't look embarrassed. Maybe a little shy, and it made Derek want to tug him in close again and sniff him all over. Maybe rub the pad of his thumb over those parted red lips....
"I was holding you," Derek said gruffly, trying to justify it as much to himself as to Stiles. "The way I did that night. And you were holding me back, the same way. Returning the favor."
"Oh." Stiles blinked, thick lashes fluttering and pink lips curling up at the corners. "All right, then. Can we... can we try that again? I liked it. But maybe without the jacket this time?"
Derek quirked a brow eloquently, and the flush pinking Stiles' cheeks darkened into a full-on blush.
"Or not," he hastily backpedalled. Literally, as he took two steps back away from Derek. "I just.... We sort of shared a moment. You know. Me dying and you being there. It was something that no one else knows about, really. Deaton was there, but he wasn't there."
Stiles was trying hard to keep his tone light, as though what he was saying wasn't hugely important, but Derek heard what he was saying and he understood. He understood completely, and it hurt him to know that Stiles had been as affected by what had happened as he had been.
Instead of speaking, he shrugged out of his jacket. "Take that shirt off," he instructed, nodding at the red plaid Stiles was wearing. He could see from the unbuttoned collar that Stiles had a teeshirt on underneath, so it wasn't too unreasonable an order.
Stiles gaped at him a moment, but when Derek hung his jacket over the chair he'd been sitting on and toed off his shoes, his eyes got wide and he fumbled with his buttons. "Okay. Just... What...?"
Derek didn't reply to what was, after all, an almost completely incoherent query. Instead, he went and grabbed the soda Stiles had discarded on the bed and set it on his dresser.
"Did you want that?" Stiles asked, peeling off his shirt and tossing it easily over top of Derek's jacket, as though this action was something that didn't matter, that wouldn't mingle their scents together. "You can have it. Or I can get you a cold one."
"If I wanted it, would I have set it down?" Derek asked pointedly.
Stiles stared at him blankly.
Derek restrained an exasperated sigh. "Come here," he instructed, reaching a hand out, fingers curling easily in toward his palm.
Honestly, he almost rethought his resolve when Stiles' eyes rounded and he looked all of twelve years old for a moment.... But then Derek took further note of the stark lines of Stiles' face, the way he'd begun growing into the young man he was on the verge of being, the shadows still evident beneath his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders under the thin material of his teeshirt, and instead of changing his mind he reached out and took hold of Stiles, dragging him into his arms again. Not for a hug, but to hold him close as he got them both settled down on the bed.
It was narrow, barely a twin, but Derek clasped Stiles close to him, sharing space.
"Derek, what--?" Stiles squeaked, and it would have been amusing any other time, but now that he had Stiles in his arms, literally and legitimately, Derek couldn't think of anything other than the way it had felt to hold Stiles while the life ebbed out of his body.
"This is... unexpected," Stiles said into Derek's collarbone, fingers twitching in the material of Derek's shirt, right over his beating heart.
"Stiles, you died," Derek said softly, daring to reach up and thread his fingers through Stiles' hair, palming the back of his skull. He didn't move his hand, just held on, but it felt right. He ached to say the things that were in his heart. You died and I felt it happen. You died in my arms. I thought I was going to have to live the rest of my life without ever hearing your voice again. I've lost so much; I didn't want to lose that as well. I didn't want to lose you.
He couldn't speak the words, though. They would render him too vulnerable, show too much of his carefully guarded self. Maybe Stiles was telling the truth when he said that he trusted Derek, but that didn't mean that Derek trusted Stiles in return, or that he should.
"You died, you felt yourself die, and it hurt when you came back to life," he did say, because that was about Stiles, not about Derek. "Are you okay?"
Stiles was silent, and from the tension in his body Derek knew that he'd hit a nerve. He hadn't meant to. But it was better to focus on what Stiles had gone through than what Derek had experienced.
"It was like... everything inside me was getting cold and heavy," Stiles murmured into Derek's shirt front after a few moments had slipped over them in tense silence. "I think I remember saying it hurt... but it didn't really. Well, I mean, it did hurt, a lot, back when you first found me and put me in my Jeep. But it didn't really hurt anymore by the time we got to Deaton's. It was cold and it was dark after my eyes stopped working. And my heart just got slower and slower and my lungs weren't working right, and I was... I was scared. It still felt like it hurt, even once it stopped actually hurting."
Derek nodded, even though Stiles probably couldn't tell since his face was still buried in Derek's shirt.
Stiles let out a weak little chuckle. "You must think I'm such a baby, whining about this when I'm fine now," he whispered, curling closer to Derek like he was trying to hide in his chest.
"I think you're brave," Derek told him seriously, "To be willing to talk about it." He never would have said the things Stiles was saying, not even to members of his family before they had died. It wasn't a failing in Stiles. It was a strength. Stupid as hell, but... well, Stiles trusted Derek, and something in Derek kind of wanted to be worthy of that trust.
Stiles let out a little huff that Derek couldn't figure out, not without seeing his face. "It was scary, but you made it better. I felt like I was all alone, but then you... you touched me, and you held me. And even though everything was getting harder and harder, I felt safe. I knew you couldn't save me, but I wasn't alone and you talked to me and you promised to take care of my Dad...."
Derek held Stiles close as he stopped talking. He seemed to have run out of words, and Derek didn't have anything to say. Not really. He could hold Stiles now, though, the way he had held him that awful night a week ago.
For some reason it just felt right.
Of course, someone had to go and spoil it. Derek just couldn't quite believe that it was him, not Stiles.
"Do you remember... anything... after Deaton brought you back?"
Once he'd haltingly asked this question, uncertain why he had uttered it but eager to hear the answer, silence fell over them again, but less easy, less companionable than it had been before he had asked.
"Not really," Stiles replied, shifting restlessly against him, pressing his head back against Derek's cupping hand in order to look up at him. Derek shifted his hand down to rest on Stiles' shoulder and stared in the direction of the window, not meeting Stiles' eyes. "I think I remember pain, a lot of pain. But mostly I remember waking up alone in my bed."
Derek curled his fingers over Stiles' shoulder, unsure. Maybe he shouldn't be here, holding Stiles on the boy's bed. But it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time....
"It wasn't fun," Stiles continued, and he was still looking at Derek, but Derek wouldn't, couldn't look back. "I ached all over, like I'd been kicked around by a couple of horses. It hurt to move and I was so tired, even though I'd just woken up. I told my Dad I thought I had the flu, but it was about a hundred times worse than that." Stiles let out a little chuckle. "Or, well, at least twice as bad."
"Deaton said you'd be sore and weak," Derek offered, glancing quickly down at Stiles but just as quickly moving his gaze away again.
"It kind of sucked," Stiles told him, fingers tightening in his shirt. "Waking up alone and in pain. I mean, it was better than being dead. And I'm still glad that you stayed with me in the clinic... before. But I was kind of hoping...."
"I did stay," Derek blurted, though he hadn't meant to tell Stiles. "After I took you home. I stayed with you until I heard your father coming in. But then when he came to check on you... I had to leave."
Stiles was quiet.
"I did stay. Even though you were asleep." Derek didn't know why he felt the need to repeat himself -- he usually didn't -- but he wanted to make sure that Stiles understood and accepted the truth, that Derek had stayed. For Stiles. Well, and for himself, but Stiles didn't need to know that part of it.
"Okay," Stiles said softly. "It's okay. I just...."
"I didn't think you'd want to see me," Derek offered with wrenching honesty. "The next day, I mean. After what happened, I didn't think you'd want...."
"It's fine," Stiles hurried to assure him, though there was a slight jump to his pulse that gave it away as a partial untruth. "I mean, you probably didn't want to be reminded about what happened. It couldn't have been pleasant."
It would have been lying to say it had been the worst experience of Derek's life. There had been so many. Finding out his family had all been burned alive. Finding out he was responsible for that happening. Losing Laura. Having to kill his last remaining family member after discovering he'd been the one to kill Laura. There were so many worse experiences to choose from.
But holding Stiles while he had died had probably been the worst thing that had happened to Derek that hadn't involved his family somehow. And it was definitely in the top tier of the worst things that he'd lived through.
"I didn't think you would want to be reminded... of dying," he said flatly. Because this wasn't about Derek, this was about Stiles. Stiles was the one who had died. Derek had just been the one who had held him and tried to comfort him in his final moments.
Stiles was staring up at him with an unreadable look on his face, and it struck Derek like a hammer to the chest that they were laying on Stiles' bed together, and maybe this wasn't the best place for either of them to be. But it had felt right, and it still... it still felt right, Derek thought. Somehow.
"It wasn't the dying that was the problem," Stiles murmured, his eyes fixed on Derek's face, dark and bright and so much better than when they had been pale, milky marbles. "It was being alone. And thanks to you, I didn't have to be alone. I don't..." he licked his lips, pink tongue flickering over red swells, "I mean, I don't want to sound like I think I'm entitled to your attention. I'm just glad you were there and took care of me while...."
"I thought," Derek said when Stiles let that sentence trail away unfinished, thankfully. "I mean, you've never been shy about.... I thought that when you didn't text me or anything, that you were just as happy not to hear from me."
He felt a little bad putting it back on Stiles like that, but there were two of them involved, and Derek had already gone above and beyond on that night a week ago, when the cockatrice had brushed up against Stiles' leg. They both knew it.
Stiles nodded, and he didn't seem offended by anything Derek had said. "I kind of thought the same, only in reverse. I mean, it must have kinda sucked, watching me bite it."
Derek shivered at the reminder, as well as the casual, easy way Stiles spoke about his death. Of course, it was far more personal than Stiles probably realized.... But, on the other hand, Derek himself hadn't realized how much he had actually cared until it had been too late and Stiles had been dead.
Without Derek willing it, his arms tightened. Stiles let out a small squeak as Derek reeled him in against his chest. It was probably wrong, but it felt right. His instincts was to hold Stiles tightly and never let go. Maybe in a moment Stiles would begin to struggle and Derek would have to let him go, but right now he wanted, he needed to keep him close.
Stiles didn't fight it, though. He melted into Derek's torso, arm hesitantly sliding around Derek and his hand coming to rest lightly over the tattoo etched in his skin, through the thin material of his shirt. Stiles was warm and alive and he was solid in Derek's arms. Solid but giving, the way flesh was supposed to feel, not hard the way he had been when he had been petrifying from the inside outward.
"I'm sorry," Stiles said quietly, the words breaking heated and moist over the skin of Derek's neck, right at the collar of his shirt. "For dying in your arms, I mean. But I'm really glad you were there. And you... I don't know if it matters, but you... did everything right."
Derek was silent, spreading his own hand wide over the taut muscles of Stiles' back, feeling the beating of his heart, sinking into the sound and sensation. They both calmed, and Stiles slowly relaxed against him when Derek didn't evince any negative reaction to either his words or his touch.
"It matters," Derek breathed. He hadn't meant to say it, but he didn't really regret the words once they were out. He probably should have but he didn't.
Stiles was silent in response, and Derek was glad. He couldn't think of anything else they needed to say, and there was comfort enough for both of them, lying here on Stiles' bed, holding each other.
Like the night that Stiles had died and come back to life, Derek stayed until he heard the Sheriff arriving, this time at a considerably earlier hour, before the Stilinski dinner hour. This time when Derek left, though, Stiles was awake and aware.
Derek knew that Stiles was watching out his window as he walked away from the house and headed for his car, but he didn't turn around. He wanted to, but he didn't.
And this time he headed straight home, but there was still that itch under his skin that had gotten him running the night Stiles had died. It hadn't gone away, even though he'd seen with his own eyes that Stiles was alive and doing all right. Derek wasn't sure whether he'd expected it to do so or not, in all honesty, and he didn't know how to deal with it. So he did nothing.
It wasn't the best response, he was sure, but it was the only one that felt safe to him.
Without Stiles present, Derek just... he didn't really know what to do.
next
Author:
kyrenekyorlPairings/Characters: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,402 (this part)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: The thing about an actual real-life cockatrice that none of them had known, which would have been good to know before the fact, was that it wasn't just its gaze that could kill a man.
Warning: seems like a deathfic, even though it's not a deathfic because I don't write deathfics
Chapter Two
by kyrene
"Stiles has... been really quiet." Isaac spoke haltingly, as though he wasn't sure he really ought to bring the subject up. "Ever since the night with the cockatrice."
Derek scowled, knowing that this wasn't the most mature response he could have evinced, but unable to help himself. To be honest, he'd been avoiding Stiles since that night in the clinic, almost a week ago. But he kind of thought that Stiles wanted it that way. He hadn't texted Derek, hadn't visited him, and Stiles had never been shy about contacting Derek before, so Derek could only assume this was by choice.
Surely Stiles wouldn't want to have anything to do with the man who had held him as he'd turned to stone from the inside out, right?
"What part of 'he almost died' are you not getting?" he asked Isaac, raising his brows. Which was a little better than glaring, even though Erica would have called his expression 'bitchy' and he knew it.
Isaac looked confused.
"We've all almost died, more than once," he said softly, tilting his head and staring at Derek in entreaty. As though he was asking his Alpha to explain. Well, it was true that Derek was the only one outside of Stiles and Deaton who knew exactly what had happened.
"You're not getting it," Derek bit out, clenching his hands into tight fists, feeling blunt nails digging into his palms "He was dead. His heart stopped and he was gone. For at least five minutes. Deaton somehow managed to bring him back, but Stiles died."
He hadn't really wanted to share that. It wasn't his story to tell. He strongly suspected Stiles wouldn't want anyone else to know how near a thing it had been. What had happened in Deaton's clinic, on the floor, had been something for only Derek and Stiles....
But he couldn't let Isaac -- or the other Betas, or Scott -- go on thinking Stiles was overreacting to something minor. It was true that they'd all come close to death before. Derek had been impaled by Peter in Alpha form, and he'd probably been technically dead for a short period before his body had began healing itself. But he was a werewolf, he had healed. Stiles was human, he had a fragile human body, and he'd been dead and petrified for several minutes. Long enough for Derek to realize how he was going to feel about living in a world without one Stiles Stilinski in it....
Strangely hollow and lonely, if he was painfully honest about it, though he preferred not to be honest, to live in denial.
There was a certain sick satisfaction in seeing Isaac staring at him with real shock on his face. Not because Derek enjoyed freaking his Beta out, of course. But because now someone else understood the panic and horror Derek had felt when he'd heard Stiles exhale his last breath.
"Wow," Isaac gaped, blinking rapidly as he processed what Derek had just said. "Okay, you didn't tell us that part of it."
Derek shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. He didn't really have anything to say to that. It was true that he hadn't told them, not the next day, not any of the six and a half days since... and maybe he shouldn't have told Isaac now, but he'd been carrying the burden on his own long enough.
"Does Scott know?" Isaac asked next, because of course that was where his mind went. Well, Scott was Stiles' best friend, after all.
Derek shrugged again, more violently this time. "Ask him," he grunted.
"Have you... talked to Stiles?" Isaac spoke hesitantly, but seemed compelled to utter the words. "Since it happened?"
Derek shook his head briskly and turned away. They were done now.
"You should, Derek," Isaac called after his as he strode out of the room. "He's too quiet. It's not right. You should... you should talk to him."
Isaac wasn't wrong, Derek thought with what he tried to tell himself was irritation. He was painfully aware that it was closer to worry than irritation.
Isaac wasn't wrong and Derek should almost definitely go and talk to Stiles about what had happened. He just wished it wasn't such a hard decision to make.
It had helped Derek, even if only a little, to talk to Isaac about what had happened. Maybe it would be the same for Stiles..... It was possible he had told Scott, of course, but Derek kind of thought that if Stiles had told Scott the true extent of it, Scott would have shared the information with Isaac already.
Besides, even if Stiles had told Scott, Scott hadn't been there. He wouldn't know how horrible it had been, listening to Stiles' heart falter and fail. And Derek would have bet anything that Stiles wouldn't have told Scott how much it had hurt him when his body had been coming back to life.
Actually, Derek hoped that Stiles didn't remember that part of it; he had been pretty out of it, after all. But Derek had been there and he remembered and he couldn't forget. The soft little animal sounds of pain that Stiles had given vent to, how he had twitched and shuddered in Derek's arms, the way Derek had tried to comfort him in his pain and distress.....
Derek scowled. He'd been staying away from Stiles as much for Stiles' sake as his own, but now he was starting to think that it would be better for both of them if they talked. Isaac really was right, damn it. Derek didn't have to like it, but he did feel that he had to do it.
And now that his mind was made up, the sooner Derek saw Stiles, the better.
+++
Because he wasn't stupid, Derek waited until the Sheriff was out. He also made sure that Stiles was home and that there was no sign of Scott or anyone else in the house. Whether Stiles had told Scott what had happened or not, this was a conversation for only Derek and Stiles. Whatever they might end up talking about.
Derek parked a block over but then knocked on the front door. Now definitely wasn't the time for breaking and entering.
He could hear Stiles in the house, moving slowly toward the front door, and he remembered what Deaton had said about him being sore and weak. He wondered how long that had lasted. It had been nearly a week since it had happened, so surely Stiles was back to normal by now...?
"Derek?"
"Stiles," he said uncomfortably, shifting where he was standing, his eyes greedily soaking in the sight of Stiles framed in the open doorway. He looked... like Stiles. Nothing seemed irrevocably different. There were shadows under his eyes that were a bit darker than usual, and his cheekbones were worrisomely stark, but he'd looked this exhausted before. More than once, in fact.
Stiles blinked a couple of times, then his lips stretched in a smile that was not much of a smile at all. "Do you wanna come in?" he asked, taking a step back.
"That's why I'm here," Derek grunted, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. Yeah, it was rude of him, but he didn't need to be gracious with Stiles.
He followed Stiles into the kitchen, watching him walk. He seemed to be completely recovered, as far as Derek could tell. He smelled like he always had. His heartbeat was strong and steady. It was as though nothing had happened... except, as Isaac had said, he was quiet.
"You want a soda?" Stiles asked, opening the fridge and peering over his shoulder at Derek with his brows raised. He wasn't as animated as he often was, but he wasn't flat. He just looked... tired. "Coffee? Water?"
Derek considered it a moment, whether a drink would help the stiff discomfort between them, but after a moment he shook his head. He wasn't thirsty.
Stiles stared at him a couple of heartbeats longer, then quirked a small grin that looked a little more real and shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, grabbing a can and closing the fridge. "Do you wanna go up to my room?"
Derek nodded. So far he wasn't doing an incredibly good job of talking to Stiles, he was well aware. But this wasn't something he could just dive into. "Hey, remember when you died in my arms?" No. He was here to talk to Stiles, but he was also here in case Stiles needed to talk to him, and Stiles was talking now. Which was more than he'd been doing lately at school, according to Isaac.
Stiles was silent, though, as he led Derek upstairs. He was moving freely, but Derek could easily recall the way his limbs had been heavy and unmoving. It made him shiver, even though Stiles was better now.
"So," Stiles said, once he'd waved Derek toward his desk chair and seated himself on the end of his bed, handling his soda with both hands but not moving to open the can. "Here we are." He took a deep breath. "Thank you. For, you know. Getting me to Deaton's and saving my life."
He stared at Derek as he spoke, his eyes bright and clear. Nothing like the filmy marbles they'd been when the cockatrice's poison had been petrifying him internally. His expression was guarded, but his lips were soft, and he looked alive.
"You called me for help," Derek said roughly, not sure what he was going to say until he said it. "I helped."
Stiles nodded.
"I was too late," Derek continued, swallowing painfully and clenching his hands on his thighs. "You died. Before Deaton could do anything, you died. You were dead. He brought you back." It was as though the words had been forced out of him, as though he wanted Stiles to know the entirety of the horror that had befallen him. As though Stiles might be unaware.
"Yeah." Stiles smiled at him, his fixed gaze going a bit distant. "I actually got him a flower arrangement for that. Stupid, but... what do you get the man who saved your life?" His eyes sharpened and pinned Derek in place. "What should I get you in thanks, Derek?"
"You're alive," Derek said, feeling as though his lips were numb. "That's all that matters."
Stiles blinked at him in surprise, long lashes flickering over clear brown eyes, those red lips hanging open. "Oh. Okay."
Neither of them followed this bold declaration up with anything, and they sat there in moderately awkward silence for nearly two minutes. Derek wondered whether Stiles would have been able to maintain that before he'd died. It wasn't exactly a comfortable thought.
He wanted to ask Stiles if he was okay. He wanted to ask how much he remembered. He wanted to go and sit next to Stiles and pull him close and just breathe in the normal, everyday scent of him. He couldn't do any of these things; most especially not that last.
"Thank you," Stiles said again, staring at Derek as though he was waiting for something. His long, lean fingers were turning the soda can around and around, trailing slick through the condensation beading on the surface, and his face was warm with blood. "Not just for driving me to Deaton. You..." he licked his lips, "You stayed. While I was turning to stone. And you... Deaton said you took me home... after?"
Derek nodded but didn't reply verbally because he didn't know that to say. He had come here to find out how much Stiles remembered, but now that they were talking about it he felt incredibly uncomfortable.
"Did you...." Stiles' brow wrinkled in a deep frown, one that curved his lips down at the corners and stretched the skin over his cheekbones and jaw. "You promised that you'd look out for my Dad... once I was gone... didn't you?"
Derek nodded jerkily, wishing he had accepted the offer of a soda, because then he could be doing something with his hands other than digging his nails into his thighs.
"I did," he confirmed. He didn't like remembering those last horrible moments, as Stiles had stopped breathing in his arms. And then the minutes that followed, when Stiles had continued to not breathe.
"Why?" Stiles looked at him with bright, inquisitive eyes.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Stiles' chair creaking under his weight. "You were dying, Stiles."
Stiles stared at him steadily. "So you didn't really mean it?" he asked curiously. There was no judgment in his tone, but Derek bristled anyway.
"No. I meant it," he scowled.
"You...." Stiles' mouth was open again, and he looked honestly confounded. "But why?"
"Because you asked me to."
It was as simple as that, honestly, but this didn't seem to be the reply Stiles had been expecting. The soda can slipped out of Stiles' fingers and hit the carpeted floor with a thunk that reminded Derek a little too much of Stiles' petrified hand striking the floor of Deaton's examination room, but he held onto his response, simply watching quietly as Stiles cursed and bent to pick the can up, seeming flustered.
"Since when have you ever done anything I've asked?" Stiles wanted to know, sounding confused rather than combative.
"Since you died," Derek cracked out, his brows descending. It seemed wrong to be glaring at Stiles for having died, but Derek couldn't help the expression.
Stiles hunched into himself a little, then set the soda can aside on his bedcovers and leaned forward, elbows planted on his thighs. He was wearing a red plaid and the shade reflected onto his face, giving it even more color. Which was only a good thing when the last time Derek had seen him he'd been pale and still as death.
"I'm alive now," Stiles offered, spreading his hands. "Thanks to you."
Derek nodded. He didn't really have anything else to say. Stiles was alive and it was as much thanks to Derek as Deaton, and vice versa. He wasn't really comfortable with Stiles thanking him, but it would have been worse to reject his gratitude.
"I'm glad I called you," Stiles said, so softly that Derek almost didn't hear him. "I'm glad you came."
"Yeah." Derek ducked his head. Then something occurred to him, something that had him frowning faintly and raising his head. "What were you doing out there anyway?"
Stiles shifted where he sat and looked a little embarrassed. "I just... uh... wanted to know what was going on. I didn't.... No one told me it was a cockatrice. Deaton told me later, when I took him the flower arrangement, how dangerous that thing was, but at the time I had no idea."
Derek sat and digested that for a moment. "Did you know we were out there hunting it?"
Stiles shook his head. "No. I was just curious about what was killing the animals."
"So you thought driving out to the woods where animals were dying was a good idea?" Derek asked incredulously, brows rising. He knew that Stiles lacked good sense at times -- that was why Scott was a werewolf now, after all -- but when dead rabbits and deer were turning up, shouldn't that be a clear warning to stay out of the Preserve?
Stiles shrugged uncomfortably. "Well.... It was only animals that were dying. Not people...."
"Not yet," Derek ground out, feeling the panic swell inside him all over again; not wild, just like an aching echo, a reminder of what had happened to Stiles and how it had made Derek feel. "You came out of the encounter pretty dead, Stiles," he barked, and he knew he sounded pissed off, but Stiles had died.
Stiles' mouth turned down at the corners, but he seemed more sheepish than defensive over the whole thing. "But you were there to take me to Deaton's. And he knew how to fix me," he offered, spreading his hands wide.
Derek felt a sudden stab of cold when he realized that Stiles had called him for help when he hadn't even known Derek had been nearby. What if he'd been at home or in town or something? Stiles would have died before Derek could have gotten there! And Derek strongly suspected that the longer Stiles had remained petrified, the less likely it would have been that Deaton would have been able to bring him back.
"Why didn't you call someone else?" he asked urgently, because now that he knew Stiles hadn't known he was nearby, this was a very pertinent question.
Stiles bit his lip. "My hands were barely working," he replied awkwardly. "And you were the one I happened to hit on speed dial."
Stiles was lying. He was lying and Derek wanted to know why, but he knew he'd never get a straight answer if he just asked outright.
"I'm sorry," Derek gruffed out, nails digging into his jeans again.
"For... helping me?" Stiles hazarded, his incredulous eyebrow quirk and the tone of his voice making it clear he didn't actually think that had been what Derek had meant.
Derek shook his head, trying to order his thoughts, anticipating Stiles' next question.
"Then what the heck are you sorry for?"
Derek flexed his fingers, listening to his blunt nails catching in the denim. At least they weren't claws, though this entire conversation was making him feel very defensive.
"It shouldn't have been me there," he forced out. "It should have been Scott. Or maybe...."
Stiles straightened, glaring at him. "If you say my Dad I'm going to come over there and punch you in the face," he snapped. "He already had to watch my Mom die. He didn't need to see--"
He broke off and shook his head, his throat working tensely. Derek felt bad and he wanted to take the words back or maybe say something else, but before he could think of what, Stiles continued.
"If Scott had been there, it would have been all about him. He was losing his best friend. He couldn't save me. You held me and you made it about me, Derek. That was what I needed."
Derek was silent for a long moment, working his way through this startling declaration. "It felt like it was about me," he offered weakly.
Stiles smiled, an actual real smile, curving his lips softly. Derek didn't think he'd ever seen a real smile on Stiles' face before; at least not aimed at him.
"I doubt that," Stiles said, standing and approaching Derek, slowly, as though he was afraid he might startle him or something. "But even if that's true, you didn't act that way. You... you comforted me, Derek. I was scared and it was cold. It hurt. I could feel my body turning to stone, and I couldn't see anymore. And you could have just dumped me on Deaton and left, but you--"
"No!" Derek snapped, rising and standing facing Stiles where he'd frozen in the middle of his bedroom. He sucked in a deep breath and continued, struggling for a calm that he didn't feel. "I couldn't just leave you there, Stiles. You were dying. You needed.... You needed someone there."
Stiles relaxed a little, taking a step forward and reaching a hand tentatively toward Derek. "That's the thing," he said, and Derek allowed Stiles to clasp his upper arm lightly through the leather of his jacket. "You stayed because it was the right thing to do. No one else would have done that, not for that reason. And you made me feel safe, even though I was dying. You told me to hold on, and when I couldn't, you set my mind at ease about my Dad. You were everything I needed you to be, Derek. You're the one person I trust to watch over me while I die."
Derek's hair bristled, and he wasn't sure whether it was because Stiles had so casually mentioned dying, or if it was his use of the word "trust".
"You don't trust me," he growled, yanking his arm away. But he didn't leave the room. He was too weak to do that, even though it was what he probably should do. It was too good to see Stiles, talking and breathing and alive. Even if what he was saying was making Derek feel very uncomfortable.
"I do, actually," Stiles corrected, twining his hands together before his chest and looking at Derek earnestly. "You can deny it if you want, but you can't tell me how I feel. Something about dying in someone's arms lends clarity to a few things."
Derek whined -- he actually whined, and he was humiliated by that sound, but it was too late to retrieve it -- when Stiles mentioned his death again.
Without thinking about why it was a very bad idea, he reached forward and grabbed at Stiles, dragging him into his arms and burying his face in the curve of his neck. Stiles smelled exactly like he was supposed to. Clean skin, faint salty perspiration, lingering deodorant, traces of his father, Scott, and Isaac, a hint of pineapple for some reason... but mostly he just smelled alive.
Derek might have been more horrified by what he'd just done if Stiles' arms hadn't come around him in return, squeezing him just as tightly. His cheekbone was hard and pointed against Derek's ear, and his breathing had picked up a little, but he seemed almost to become more settled, held close against Derek's chest, holding him in return.
They stood there for almost a full minute, and Derek kind of figured that neither of them knew how to break the moment. Neither of them really wanted to, maybe.
It was Stiles who finally spoke, which didn't surprise Derek, even though Isaac had said he had been more quiet lately, and Derek had proven the truth of this during his visit today.
"Hugging. We're hugging," he said, speaking into Derek's shoulder. Derek had his nose pressed into the flesh of Stiles' neck, feeling his pulse beating through the thin skin, allowing the scent of Stiles to wash over his senses and calm him.
"This isn't hugging," Derek growled, raising his head and loosening his arms as he took a step back. Stiles released him reluctantly, his fingers grasping uselessly at the leather of Derek's jacket before his hands fell away entirely, arms hanging at his sides.
"What was it then, dude?" Stiles asked, brows arching in query over his bright eyes. His cheeks were a little flushed, but he didn't look embarrassed. Maybe a little shy, and it made Derek want to tug him in close again and sniff him all over. Maybe rub the pad of his thumb over those parted red lips....
"I was holding you," Derek said gruffly, trying to justify it as much to himself as to Stiles. "The way I did that night. And you were holding me back, the same way. Returning the favor."
"Oh." Stiles blinked, thick lashes fluttering and pink lips curling up at the corners. "All right, then. Can we... can we try that again? I liked it. But maybe without the jacket this time?"
Derek quirked a brow eloquently, and the flush pinking Stiles' cheeks darkened into a full-on blush.
"Or not," he hastily backpedalled. Literally, as he took two steps back away from Derek. "I just.... We sort of shared a moment. You know. Me dying and you being there. It was something that no one else knows about, really. Deaton was there, but he wasn't there."
Stiles was trying hard to keep his tone light, as though what he was saying wasn't hugely important, but Derek heard what he was saying and he understood. He understood completely, and it hurt him to know that Stiles had been as affected by what had happened as he had been.
Instead of speaking, he shrugged out of his jacket. "Take that shirt off," he instructed, nodding at the red plaid Stiles was wearing. He could see from the unbuttoned collar that Stiles had a teeshirt on underneath, so it wasn't too unreasonable an order.
Stiles gaped at him a moment, but when Derek hung his jacket over the chair he'd been sitting on and toed off his shoes, his eyes got wide and he fumbled with his buttons. "Okay. Just... What...?"
Derek didn't reply to what was, after all, an almost completely incoherent query. Instead, he went and grabbed the soda Stiles had discarded on the bed and set it on his dresser.
"Did you want that?" Stiles asked, peeling off his shirt and tossing it easily over top of Derek's jacket, as though this action was something that didn't matter, that wouldn't mingle their scents together. "You can have it. Or I can get you a cold one."
"If I wanted it, would I have set it down?" Derek asked pointedly.
Stiles stared at him blankly.
Derek restrained an exasperated sigh. "Come here," he instructed, reaching a hand out, fingers curling easily in toward his palm.
Honestly, he almost rethought his resolve when Stiles' eyes rounded and he looked all of twelve years old for a moment.... But then Derek took further note of the stark lines of Stiles' face, the way he'd begun growing into the young man he was on the verge of being, the shadows still evident beneath his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders under the thin material of his teeshirt, and instead of changing his mind he reached out and took hold of Stiles, dragging him into his arms again. Not for a hug, but to hold him close as he got them both settled down on the bed.
It was narrow, barely a twin, but Derek clasped Stiles close to him, sharing space.
"Derek, what--?" Stiles squeaked, and it would have been amusing any other time, but now that he had Stiles in his arms, literally and legitimately, Derek couldn't think of anything other than the way it had felt to hold Stiles while the life ebbed out of his body.
"This is... unexpected," Stiles said into Derek's collarbone, fingers twitching in the material of Derek's shirt, right over his beating heart.
"Stiles, you died," Derek said softly, daring to reach up and thread his fingers through Stiles' hair, palming the back of his skull. He didn't move his hand, just held on, but it felt right. He ached to say the things that were in his heart. You died and I felt it happen. You died in my arms. I thought I was going to have to live the rest of my life without ever hearing your voice again. I've lost so much; I didn't want to lose that as well. I didn't want to lose you.
He couldn't speak the words, though. They would render him too vulnerable, show too much of his carefully guarded self. Maybe Stiles was telling the truth when he said that he trusted Derek, but that didn't mean that Derek trusted Stiles in return, or that he should.
"You died, you felt yourself die, and it hurt when you came back to life," he did say, because that was about Stiles, not about Derek. "Are you okay?"
Stiles was silent, and from the tension in his body Derek knew that he'd hit a nerve. He hadn't meant to. But it was better to focus on what Stiles had gone through than what Derek had experienced.
"It was like... everything inside me was getting cold and heavy," Stiles murmured into Derek's shirt front after a few moments had slipped over them in tense silence. "I think I remember saying it hurt... but it didn't really. Well, I mean, it did hurt, a lot, back when you first found me and put me in my Jeep. But it didn't really hurt anymore by the time we got to Deaton's. It was cold and it was dark after my eyes stopped working. And my heart just got slower and slower and my lungs weren't working right, and I was... I was scared. It still felt like it hurt, even once it stopped actually hurting."
Derek nodded, even though Stiles probably couldn't tell since his face was still buried in Derek's shirt.
Stiles let out a weak little chuckle. "You must think I'm such a baby, whining about this when I'm fine now," he whispered, curling closer to Derek like he was trying to hide in his chest.
"I think you're brave," Derek told him seriously, "To be willing to talk about it." He never would have said the things Stiles was saying, not even to members of his family before they had died. It wasn't a failing in Stiles. It was a strength. Stupid as hell, but... well, Stiles trusted Derek, and something in Derek kind of wanted to be worthy of that trust.
Stiles let out a little huff that Derek couldn't figure out, not without seeing his face. "It was scary, but you made it better. I felt like I was all alone, but then you... you touched me, and you held me. And even though everything was getting harder and harder, I felt safe. I knew you couldn't save me, but I wasn't alone and you talked to me and you promised to take care of my Dad...."
Derek held Stiles close as he stopped talking. He seemed to have run out of words, and Derek didn't have anything to say. Not really. He could hold Stiles now, though, the way he had held him that awful night a week ago.
For some reason it just felt right.
Of course, someone had to go and spoil it. Derek just couldn't quite believe that it was him, not Stiles.
"Do you remember... anything... after Deaton brought you back?"
Once he'd haltingly asked this question, uncertain why he had uttered it but eager to hear the answer, silence fell over them again, but less easy, less companionable than it had been before he had asked.
"Not really," Stiles replied, shifting restlessly against him, pressing his head back against Derek's cupping hand in order to look up at him. Derek shifted his hand down to rest on Stiles' shoulder and stared in the direction of the window, not meeting Stiles' eyes. "I think I remember pain, a lot of pain. But mostly I remember waking up alone in my bed."
Derek curled his fingers over Stiles' shoulder, unsure. Maybe he shouldn't be here, holding Stiles on the boy's bed. But it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time....
"It wasn't fun," Stiles continued, and he was still looking at Derek, but Derek wouldn't, couldn't look back. "I ached all over, like I'd been kicked around by a couple of horses. It hurt to move and I was so tired, even though I'd just woken up. I told my Dad I thought I had the flu, but it was about a hundred times worse than that." Stiles let out a little chuckle. "Or, well, at least twice as bad."
"Deaton said you'd be sore and weak," Derek offered, glancing quickly down at Stiles but just as quickly moving his gaze away again.
"It kind of sucked," Stiles told him, fingers tightening in his shirt. "Waking up alone and in pain. I mean, it was better than being dead. And I'm still glad that you stayed with me in the clinic... before. But I was kind of hoping...."
"I did stay," Derek blurted, though he hadn't meant to tell Stiles. "After I took you home. I stayed with you until I heard your father coming in. But then when he came to check on you... I had to leave."
Stiles was quiet.
"I did stay. Even though you were asleep." Derek didn't know why he felt the need to repeat himself -- he usually didn't -- but he wanted to make sure that Stiles understood and accepted the truth, that Derek had stayed. For Stiles. Well, and for himself, but Stiles didn't need to know that part of it.
"Okay," Stiles said softly. "It's okay. I just...."
"I didn't think you'd want to see me," Derek offered with wrenching honesty. "The next day, I mean. After what happened, I didn't think you'd want...."
"It's fine," Stiles hurried to assure him, though there was a slight jump to his pulse that gave it away as a partial untruth. "I mean, you probably didn't want to be reminded about what happened. It couldn't have been pleasant."
It would have been lying to say it had been the worst experience of Derek's life. There had been so many. Finding out his family had all been burned alive. Finding out he was responsible for that happening. Losing Laura. Having to kill his last remaining family member after discovering he'd been the one to kill Laura. There were so many worse experiences to choose from.
But holding Stiles while he had died had probably been the worst thing that had happened to Derek that hadn't involved his family somehow. And it was definitely in the top tier of the worst things that he'd lived through.
"I didn't think you would want to be reminded... of dying," he said flatly. Because this wasn't about Derek, this was about Stiles. Stiles was the one who had died. Derek had just been the one who had held him and tried to comfort him in his final moments.
Stiles was staring up at him with an unreadable look on his face, and it struck Derek like a hammer to the chest that they were laying on Stiles' bed together, and maybe this wasn't the best place for either of them to be. But it had felt right, and it still... it still felt right, Derek thought. Somehow.
"It wasn't the dying that was the problem," Stiles murmured, his eyes fixed on Derek's face, dark and bright and so much better than when they had been pale, milky marbles. "It was being alone. And thanks to you, I didn't have to be alone. I don't..." he licked his lips, pink tongue flickering over red swells, "I mean, I don't want to sound like I think I'm entitled to your attention. I'm just glad you were there and took care of me while...."
"I thought," Derek said when Stiles let that sentence trail away unfinished, thankfully. "I mean, you've never been shy about.... I thought that when you didn't text me or anything, that you were just as happy not to hear from me."
He felt a little bad putting it back on Stiles like that, but there were two of them involved, and Derek had already gone above and beyond on that night a week ago, when the cockatrice had brushed up against Stiles' leg. They both knew it.
Stiles nodded, and he didn't seem offended by anything Derek had said. "I kind of thought the same, only in reverse. I mean, it must have kinda sucked, watching me bite it."
Derek shivered at the reminder, as well as the casual, easy way Stiles spoke about his death. Of course, it was far more personal than Stiles probably realized.... But, on the other hand, Derek himself hadn't realized how much he had actually cared until it had been too late and Stiles had been dead.
Without Derek willing it, his arms tightened. Stiles let out a small squeak as Derek reeled him in against his chest. It was probably wrong, but it felt right. His instincts was to hold Stiles tightly and never let go. Maybe in a moment Stiles would begin to struggle and Derek would have to let him go, but right now he wanted, he needed to keep him close.
Stiles didn't fight it, though. He melted into Derek's torso, arm hesitantly sliding around Derek and his hand coming to rest lightly over the tattoo etched in his skin, through the thin material of his shirt. Stiles was warm and alive and he was solid in Derek's arms. Solid but giving, the way flesh was supposed to feel, not hard the way he had been when he had been petrifying from the inside outward.
"I'm sorry," Stiles said quietly, the words breaking heated and moist over the skin of Derek's neck, right at the collar of his shirt. "For dying in your arms, I mean. But I'm really glad you were there. And you... I don't know if it matters, but you... did everything right."
Derek was silent, spreading his own hand wide over the taut muscles of Stiles' back, feeling the beating of his heart, sinking into the sound and sensation. They both calmed, and Stiles slowly relaxed against him when Derek didn't evince any negative reaction to either his words or his touch.
"It matters," Derek breathed. He hadn't meant to say it, but he didn't really regret the words once they were out. He probably should have but he didn't.
Stiles was silent in response, and Derek was glad. He couldn't think of anything else they needed to say, and there was comfort enough for both of them, lying here on Stiles' bed, holding each other.
Like the night that Stiles had died and come back to life, Derek stayed until he heard the Sheriff arriving, this time at a considerably earlier hour, before the Stilinski dinner hour. This time when Derek left, though, Stiles was awake and aware.
Derek knew that Stiles was watching out his window as he walked away from the house and headed for his car, but he didn't turn around. He wanted to, but he didn't.
And this time he headed straight home, but there was still that itch under his skin that had gotten him running the night Stiles had died. It hadn't gone away, even though he'd seen with his own eyes that Stiles was alive and doing all right. Derek wasn't sure whether he'd expected it to do so or not, in all honesty, and he didn't know how to deal with it. So he did nothing.
It wasn't the best response, he was sure, but it was the only one that felt safe to him.
Without Stiles present, Derek just... he didn't really know what to do.
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