Disclaimer - I don't own Teen Wolf or the song this fic was inspired by (named at the end of the fic)

There I Was

When the warm gold light of the early morning sun poured over his eyes, Stiles groaned, pulling his comforter up over his head in an effort to keep sleeping. Five minutes later with an annoyed huff, he tossed the too-warm blankets aside and gave into the impulse to get up for the day. Slow and languid with sleep, he sat up – but that was all it took to remind him of the day before.

A bruise – deep black, purple, and blue in the center and ringed at the edges with sickly greens and yellows – crawled over his entire left side painfully. It disappeared into his boxers, edged onto his neck, and branched out over his shoulder, chest, and lower back, and throbbed darkly with every pulse of his heartbeat. His left wrist twanged when he thoughtlessly braced himself on it with the intention of prodding the bruise with his right hand; the joint was ringed in yellow and green, and mildly swollen. He gasped and jerked back.

Tired eyes glared accusingly at his reflection in the mirror on his wall. Added to the bruise and the twisted wrist, a wide patch of white gauze – under which, he knew without looking, the vicious bite mark of a wendigo that almost succeeded resided – was tapped to his right shoulder; red, blistered road-rash afflicted skin stood out on his left bicep to the elbow, and a small patch on his face; and the accidental grooves and mild bruise of a werewolf grip, too tight in the heat of the moment, sat innocently on the right side of his waist. Stiles was tired of waking up with wounds just after the last set had healed. He'd been pain-free for a grand total of four days before news of a rogue wendigo in the woods – in the Californian woods?! – had reached the Pack. And because he was one of three people in a Pack ten-people-strong who couldn't heal at supernatural speeds, he was of course left with these lovely trophies for his efforts.

When he was sixteen, his best friend Scott had been turned into a werewolf. Shortly thereafter, they'd met the one born werewolf in the area who might be able to help them avoid the Alpha who'd changed him. With Derek's help, they killed Peter. Then, when Derek became the new Alpha, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac had been introduced to the Pack. Jackson had tried, but it took reversing his bad change into a kanima to make him a true werewolf. Somewhere along the line, Jackson's human girlfriend, Lydia had joined in – a pyromaniac immune to supernatural events – and so had Scott's human girlfriend, Allison – a former Hunter of all things supernatural, whom nobody had ever expected to become part of a Pack. A year later, Jackson and Lydia asked Derek's permission to add Danny to their secret, both wanting to form a threesome with the boy. It wasn't long before Danny became the first originally-human Packmate to request the Bite. They'd been the same ten-strong for going on almost four years now – everyone, drawn to the Pack by Pack Bonds, had chosen community college in their hometown – and now Stiles was twenty.

And he was tired of waking up beaten to within an inch of his life.

Everyone had discussed moving into the renovated Hale house as a Pack as soon as it was done. The contractors had cleared it for living a week ago, and slowly but surely the Pack was moving in. Stiles' stuff was all boxed up in preparation, crowding his room in a strange way. He was all ready to leave, and he knew he wanted to… it was just, all of a sudden, he didn't know if he wanted to leave to the Hale house, or away from it.

He sat down at his desk, and – fingers nearly moving on their own, mind detached, and heart cold – Stiles opened up his computer and began to type. He typed all morning long, as the sun crept up the wall. He paused just long enough to make a sandwich and gulp a glass of milk and his meds, and then returned to typing.

By late afternoon, he'd typed a list of his grievances. Well, and his apologies. He knew what Pack meant, because he'd willing been a member for year now, and that knowing made this difficult. But typing it all up also made it easier. Seeing everything – he was human, he was breakable, his magic was meager and couldn't do much, he was a liability, he didn't want to fight anymore, all he had known for most of his high school career and beyond was fighting, and on, and on, and on – definitely made it easier. His mind was made up.

"Dad!" he greeted, when the front door slammed. He jogged carefully down the stairs and watched his father putting up his gun, before swopping in for a hug. "Hey, how was work?"

Sheriff John Stilinski looked akimbo at his energetic son, and hedged carefully, "… It was fine, son. Why? You have one of those… werewolf business looks. What is the news this time?"

Bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, Stiles realized in a moment what telling his dad would mean. He grinned wildly, and laughed, ignoring how it was just a tad too sharp. "Nothing, man. Just had a bit too much coffee; research monkey, you know? I've spent the day trying to renew our resources – but that just means I've been sitting on my butt all day. I forgot that, and drank too much. Don't worry about it. I'll start dinner in a bit."

The older man huffed, but began shrugging his jacket off all the same. When the man had stumbled upon the werewolf secret in Stiles' senior year – a messy exorcism that Stiles had to perform right in front of John without preamble, as all the wolves had been otherwise tied up, and the vicious spirit had been about to fixate on the Sheriff in an effort to hurt Stiles – they'd come to a truce. Stiles would never lie to John again, if it had to do with werewolf business, and the Sheriff would respect his decision to risk his life as he saw fit. It had been a big step on the road to fixing the relationship that had shattered with the start of the secret keeping the night Scott got bit.

Stiles scampered back to his room, his mind racing.

He had been so sure of his decision – until it had been ready to come out of his mouth. If he'd told his dad, the older man would have supported him the whole way (and probably gotten a new kind of furious at the Pack for whatever perceived sleight had 'hurt' Stiles enough to run off), but John knew, too, what Pack meant to Stiles. Before he let Stiles leave for good, he would have asked Stiles if he was sure. And it was knowing that – knowing John would ask – that had Stiles asking himself that before he forced anyone else to ask.

So Stiles considered it. What life would be like without Pack, for the first time in years. Without Scott there to share video games, jokes, and laughter cultivated over nearly two decades of friendship. Without Allison, and her determination to be useful in spite of being a human (a Hunter) in a pack of wolves. Without Jackson and his hard-edged humor, pressing personality. Without Lydia, her smarts and dedication. Without Danny, his cool self-confidence. Isaac, his sweet, eager-to-please personality. Boyd, his calm, collected, comfortable silence. Erica, her sharp laughter and easy sarcasm. Without Derek and his 'I am Alpha, hear me howl'; his stoic mask, but soft heart; his forceful personality; his secret inner cuddle-monster; his insecurity issues; his utter determination to protect.

It took Stiles two whole hours to realize that he had passed over everyone in the Pack with fond pointers, except Derek – who he was still lingering on. Stiles blinked, blinked again, and then breathed, "Oh, hell no."

He'd had a crush on Lydia for forever. Most of it was a misconception on his part – starting in the fifth grade – that there was something fundamentally wrong with him if he didn't have a crush on someone. By the time he was twelve, he had enough sense to realize he didn't love her, but it was too ingrained in his routine to just let go – it was a steady point in his life.

This, this was nothing like that.

It wasn't that Stiles wanted Derek to touch him (well, not just that; he was a healthy young man). No, he wanted to just sit beside Derek, to hear him, and see him, and live with him. He wanted Derek to be happy, whatever it took. He wanted to hold Derek when nightmares came; he wanted to smile at Derek when it was a good day; he wanted to come home and cook for Derek, read beside Derek, run with Derek. He wanted Derek in his life, not just his bed. And if that failed, he wanted to live knowing Derek had exactly what he wanted out of life.

Well, shit. He was in love with Derek Hale. When had that happened?

The bruises still hurt. The gashes still throbbed. He was still human, still easy to injure. But if being physically whole every morning – if getting away from the insanity that was the supernaturally-infested Beacon Hills – meant that he'd have to stay away from the Pack, from Derek… He couldn't do it.

So Stiles sat down at his desk again, this time pulling out paper and pencil. He wasn't one to sit around and stew in stuff. So he wrote a new letter, short and to the point, addressed to Derek.

This morning I almost made the decision to leave Beacon Hills behind, when I woke up – again – with major injuries, and no memory of getting to bed last night. My things were already packed; why not, I thought. I was moving out of Dad's house one way or another, and nothing said I had to go to the Pack.

I spent all day writing out why I shouldn't stay. Why I should leave, try to be a normal human. It was a list (not even bulleted, just written out like a letter) seven pages long. Seven, Derek. I'm so far from 'normal' it isn't funny; no one should be able to write seven pages full of reasons why their life sucks, man.

I was ready to leave. To just put all my stuff in the Jeep and drive 'til I ran out of gas.

And then I thought about all the good stuff.

What it means to be Pack. How many of the people that I know now I would never have met otherwise, just because they're not human. All the things that keep life from being boring – a curse greater for a sufferer of ADHD than of someone like yourself, as I'm sure you've come to the conclusion, having seen me at my most bored. The chance to protect my father for once, instead of the other way around. The self-confidence, physical skill, social circle, and simple joy I've gained in between supernatural disasters.

You.

Yeah, you're a good thing in my life, Sourwolf, believe it or not.

I almost said goodbye. Just one more morning with injuries from another fight, and I'd have been gone. Even with how much I love the Pack and our life. But… The thought of life without you is what really decided me.

The thought of life without you around. How could I live a life like that?

So, just so your Alpha senses don't go crazy, I'll spell it out for you: I'm not leaving. I'm Pack, from here on out, no matter what.

I'm glad for this moment of weakness. The hours of thought and typing-sore fingers was worth it. The packed boxes that made for an easy initial decision was worth it. The bruises and cuts that started the thought was worth it. It was all worth it, because I got my head screwed on right.

Because I know I'm Pack – by my choice.

Because I have a life that I love – even with the fights.

Because you

Because I realized we might

The only thing standing in the way of me leaving was love. For the Pack, and you.

I love you. I know that now.

You, Derek Hale, are loved completely and irrevocably by me, Genim "Stiles" Stilinski.

Stiles wrinkled his nose at the worry-crumpled paper. But, over the years, he'd learned blunt was best when dealing with his Alpha.

His Alpha. Huh. He liked that.

He folded the new note up, deleted the list, shoved all his boxes into the Jeep, drove down to the Pack house, shoved the sweaty note into Derek's confused hands, and stood on tip toe to press a quick kiss to his lips before darting inside.

Now he just had to wait and see (but judging by the delighted looks of the rest of the Pack, he'd finally gotten the message). They'd be okay.

(Inspired by Nothing But Love by The Wilkinsons, if it wasn't obvious.)