|| hi! so, this is my first fanfic that is actually tolerable enough to post. i hope you guys… like it? feel free to give me feedback and whatnot; it'd be completely welcome. otherwise, let me just say that, while i adore teen wolf, by no means is it mine. also, i have no idea where this is going, so M for language right now! … i think that's it. enjoy?! ||

He isn't looking at what he grabs, not really; a glance to ensure the style isn't vomit-inducing and that the size is roughly what it needs to be, then he drops the clothes into the shopping cart and shuffles forward a few more feet and repeats, until he's pretty sure there's enough in the cart for him to get through a week or two without absolutely having to do laundry.

Before he can get to the jean section though, Lydia reappears and wrinkles her nose as she looks at the clump of fabric, then reaches in and picks up two. "Stiles, these are the exact same shirt, just in different colors."

Stiles eyes the two button-downs, then shrugs, says, "Yea, well, blue plaid may bring out the color of my eyes, but it doesn't go with everything, despite what they say. So green seems like a solid second option, don't you think?"

She sighs and drops the shirts, grabbing the cart and pushing it into a different section. "Why not go for something more – mm, fitted? You can't always look like an overgrown second grader."

He follows her after a few seconds, running his fingers over the fabric he passes by, idly, uninterested. "I think it's fine," he says, gaze sliding off to the side, searching for the check out. He's suddenly exhausted; they've been in the mall for over three hours, and it was okay, at first. They mingled in the perfume aisle, Lydia spritzing herself and letting Stiles sniff, and vice versa (and, really, he should have minded, but Lydia kept giggling and it was an excuse to have her close to him, and an odder part of him really didn't care that it was perfume, not cologne, scenting his skin). It was accessories after that, silly-huge sunglasses and painfully expensive scarves and hipster hats, both of them smirking and pretending to be cool (except Lydia actually was cool, so she didn't really have to pretend), and then they went to the ladies' portion of the store, where Lydia modeled dresses and skirts and made Stiles fetch her different sizes and colors.

It was all a distraction, he knew, an attempt to get him to relax before they got to the important part – the part where they needed to shop for Stiles, because he has exactly one pair of jeans and an old Beatles t-shirt, and he's been running around in Scott's clothes, which are fine, except sometimes they're tight and clingy and Scott isn't as tall as Stiles, so not only does he look ridiculous in fitted shirts, a good chunk of his ankles and calves show whenever he sits down.

Lydia looks over at him and bites at the corner of her lip for a second, before nodding, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Alright. Looks like we put a dent in it, definitely. We can work on your style later." She smiles, and Stiles returns it more out of habit than because he feels any sort of happiness. That's become a sad habit of his lately, smiling when he doesn't mean it, but Stiles doesn't really want people to know how much he hurts inside, how bad it's killing him to hold himself together and hope the pain goes away.

He knows it won't fix anything; he knows holding it in is the exact opposite of what he should be doing. He saw how… how Dad did it, when Mom died; drowning his sorrows in liquor, and then in work, when he managed to get himself sober. It wasn't healthy, and he doesn't want to be like that, doesn't want to hold onto the pain and let it eat at him and rip him apart, but his problems aren't as important as the pack's. He's got to be strong, he's got to keep his chin up, because he can't be weak, not anymore.

He was weak before, and look what happened.

His jaw locks before he realizes it, and it takes Lydia's voice, soft and careful, to get him to try to shake away the tension in his body. It never really leaves, but he's gotten good at hiding it, at making himself seem comfortable when he's not. He's never comfortable anymore, not since…

"Stiles? Stiles, let's go, okay? Pick up some fries and then head to Scott's…"

"Uh – yea; yea. Curly fries, though, right? I hate straight fries, they're so limiting. Hey, did you know they have these things called tornado fries, and it's basically like – this huge curly fry, on a stick? God, we should find a place that sells those…"

Later that night, after most everyone is gone, Stiles is in his room – his new room, AKA: the guest room of the McCall house. Melissa told him he could paint the walls if he wanted, but the cool, light yellow shade is nice, it's different, doesn't remind him much of anything. And, anyway, as much as he appreciates the gesture, this isn't home, it will never be home. As of two weeks ago, he no longer has a home.

He also no longer has parents, but he's trying not to focus on that part.

His breath comes in short and unsteady, and, yea, he's trying really hard not to think about that part. He stands, bounces on his feet, then goes for the two shopping bags discarded on the floor; he grabs both and dumps their contents onto the bed (a double with a crisp white duvet he'll probably ruin one way or another and so many throw pillows he just doesn't understand where they all go). For a moment, he just stares as the mass of plaid and solid-colored shirts, a few with graphics that probably look stupid but whatever, they're just clothes, then moves to his bedside table and fishes out the pair of scissors he keeps.

Five minutes later, all the tags are off, as well as those stupid little clear, white things that connect the tags to the clothes and either get buried in the fabric or go missing in the carpet, and Stiles isn't sure what to do now; it's too late to run a load of laundry, and he's itchy and fidgety and his head is beginning to hurt, as well as his muscles, because he needs to just – do something.

He needs to do something to distract himself from his life.

So he tugs his shirt off and replaces it with a new one, looks in the mirror hanging on the wall – not shabby. He tries another, and he probably could've gotten a bigger size in this one, whoops, because it grabs onto his not-really-there abs and clings to the curve of his spine and the contours of his, again, not-really-there biceps. After wrinkling his nose and making a few unattractive faces at himself, he turns back to the mass on his bed, then yanks a shirt on top of this one, then another, and another, until he's literally ninety-percent shirt and ten-percent Stiles, and he can't really bend his arms the right way. Looking in the mirror, he smirks, laughs in his head, and considers calling for Scott.

The thought passes though, because calling to Scott means more Scott-company, which is, admittedly, driving him up the wall. Not that he's getting tired of Scott, just that… everyone is very careful around him now, mindful of what they say, and they listen to him in a way they never did before. They also haven't mentioned the supernatural very much, haven't asked him to research a single thing, and act like there's no difference, like he wouldn't notice.

Yea, well, he has. Like, he's not sure what to do with his time anymore, and he should probably say that he's not a fucking daisy, that shit happens and that – and that he's not scared, to face the creatures of the night and stuff, but he can't find the right words, at all. Maybe he should make some speech about revenge or something, maybe they'll believe him then. Except, the anger card doesn't work either, because this is the truth: although he is angry, sometimes anyway, he's mostly scared. He's so scared, he doesn't turn the lights off in his room when he goes to sleep – if he does go to sleep – and he constantly finds himself holding his breath when he turns corners and when the house is too quiet, and even hanging out with the pack, seeing their eyes flash occasionally, the way their claws appear at random intervals, listening to the low growls and watching their inhuman abilities… It all puts him on edge, and he knows it shouldn't. He knows that, of everyone, the pack is on his side, and yet there it is, that shiver that goes down his spine, makes his hands curl and his teeth grit, and Stiles can't pretend he doesn't notice the way they glance at him when they smell his fear and his anxiety, maybe even his pain, but they don't say anything, and he pretends that he can somehow, for once, not notice.

Teeth dig into the inside of his cheek, and he spins around once, reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck; the motion is awkward, limited by the millions of shirts he has on, so he settles for a huff and turns around, once, slowly, then repeats the motion as fast he can, again and again, arms thrown out, until eventually he slams into the wall, breathless and dizzy as fuck.

"Shit," he whispers, sweat beading on his forehead, breath coming in quiet gasps, tilting his head up and squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them really wide and watching the world spin.

The universe shifts to and fro, and even though he's leaning against the wall, his feet still stumble around to match the maneuvering of the world – the world that, at some point, becomes the entirety of Derek's face.

Stiles blinks several times, before swallowing. "Uhm, hey," he says eventually to fill the gap of silence, because he can't not fill the void. "This must look really weird to you, am I right? I was just trying on my all my new clothes – they look good, yea? I mean, I'm pretty sure I just stretched out most of them, and the base layer is definitely going to have pit stains, but…" He swallows again, hard, stares at Derek, watches the way one of his eyebrows hitches up his face. "Your eyebrows are really expressive. Why are you here? Can I help you with anything? Because I'm totally open for business; witches, warlocks, goblins or ghouls? Just, like, ask me, really… I'm… I'm…" Another gulp, and why is Derek not fucking saying anything (or, really, why is he surprised that Derek isn't saying anything)? "I'm really woozy, can you just, like, give me a second? Or a minute? Maybe an hour…" It's suddenly a lot harder to breathe – wow, okay, layering up and then doing pseudo-exercise wasn't his best idea ever, decidedly.

"I heard a thud," is all Derek offers, and Stiles nods mutely, eyes shut as he tries to ground himself, which includes not vomiting all over Derek's shoes, or Melissa's carpet. Or vomiting at all, ideally. After a beat, he feels a tug on his clothes and pulls his eyes into slits, intoning, "Uhhhh–"

Derek shoots him a constipated look. "You're overheating, Stiles," he says, equal parts exasperated and frustrated, and Stiles nods mutely, tries to lift his arms as best he can as Derek peels away one layer after another.

The last time they were this close, Stiles was screaming and clawing, his voice hoarse and pitchy with smoke and panic, and Derek had one arm looped around his waist and the other across his chest, holding Stiles back as his house went up in flame, as his father…

He swallows thickly, loudly, and he feels Derek hesitate. The werewolf sighs, softly, breath rushing against Stiles' neck, and stupidly, Stiles feels himself flush – which is probably just because, yea, he's really hot, but he's beginning to feel better already. Derek was right; he was overheating.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks at the alpha; at some point, he reached Derek's height, which didn't occur to him until now. It takes him by surprise, but not so much as the fact that Derek's looking right back at him, mouth pursed in that frowny-sort of way that Stiles is convinced is his default face. Either way, Stiles bites at his lip, then mumbles, "I think I got it from here, thanks."

Derek takes an automatic step back, looks toward the window, back to Stiles, then turns as Stiles pulls off the last remaining shirts. The last one is pasted to his skin and he hisses and quickly strips, reaching for his old t-shirt and yanking it on. "Sorry 'bout that, I just got really – uhm, like, fidgety and I had to do something, which seems really weird, and yea, okay, I guess it was, but I didn't try them on in the store and I figured, why not and, hey, why are you still here anyway? I thought you were leaving with Boyd?" Stiles takes another deep breath and shoves his hands into his pockets, nudging the clump of shirts on the floor off to the side nervously.

Why is he nervous? Ugh. It's Derek – he's always nervous around Derek, because the guy has a nasty tendency to slam Stiles into things and get in his face. Granted, he hasn't done anything like that since… but still. It's a logical anxiety that sidles into his veins, except it's mixed with an edge of anticipation that makes his brows pinch.

"I was, but like I said – I heard a thud, and thought maybe you needed… help."

"Oh. Well, you were… very helpful."

Derek blinks, then nods, and Stiles imitates both motions, before sighing, reaching up to scrub at his face.

He wants to ask. He wants to ask Derek what it's like, if it gets better, how he managed it, how he held on, but he doesn't want to break down, especially not in front of Derek. Because Derek is like Dad, held in all the emotion and shoved it down, deep, deep inside; Stiles hasn't seen him break down a single time, not really, and yea, again, totally unhealthy but… God, he doesn't know. He just doesn't know anymore, isn't sure how to feel or what to feel, and how to deal with any of it.

And honestly, if he lets any of it out, then it'll be like a floodgate, he knows it.

Fuck.

Stiles glances across at Derek and is surprised, yet again, when the werewolf is watching him carefully, expression this strange mixture that Stiles isn't quite familiar with. It makes his skin prick, and he clears his throat, says, "I, uhm, I need to get to bed, Derek. But thanks. For the – the uh… help. I think I was probably stuck, actually, so you totally just saved me from Scott taking like, fifty pictures and posting them all over Facebook. And the heat exhaustion thing, too…"

Derek doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, just looks down at his feet and shifts his weight, before glancing back up. "Sure."

They stand there for fifteen more seconds (Stiles counts), before Derek adds, "Try to actually get some sleep tonight, okay?"

Stiles smirks and nods, watches as Derek leaves.

It doesn't occur to him until he's brushing his teeth why Derek would say something like that; how he would even know that Stiles hasn't been sleeping well at all.