Hands.
Thieving hands . . . taking.
Violating—
Derek started awake with a guttural sound, sweat clinging chilling to his forehead. He sat up, gasping, ice and heat making his limbs quiver, and his pulse pounded with a violence he felt in his tongue. Memories lingered as sensations, fine tendrils of fear and shame made him shake, made him feel sick. The van. The desert. Kate. Stiles shifted under the sheets next to him, awake by the sound of his heart, attentive. He didn't have to look to know.
Tension drew bow tight in Derek's stomach as he waited—played his part. He could feel Stiles's hesitation and worry and knew, knew like sunrise that he would reach out eventually—would be unable to keep himself from doing so.
Derek's skin screamed, crawled with anticipation and dread. But he hoped, maybe this time, it would be different.
He sucked in a breath and stared across the cavernous loft, forming wishes.
It fell through his body like a slash, a rending wound, and he lurched out of bed into the shock of the loft's winter cold, leaving Stiles's warm, outstretched fingers hanging in the air. His breath came in shallow gasps as he darted toward the window and the dull moonlight, trembling.
It shouldn't feel this way, a lover's touch.
He cursed himself and screwed his eyes shut as he leaned toward the glass and rested his forehead against a cold pane.
He crossed his arms over his chest, holding himself together, and tried to forget the feeling of her hands hot on his skin, the panic, the revulsion.
Behind him, he heard an ever so soft sigh and then the shush of the blankets as Stiles slid out of the bed. Derek's shoulders tensed in anticipation again, but the footsteps behind him moved away. And that was a different kind of cutting.
He should say something. He—he wanted to explain, again, but . . .
The knot in his stomach grew tighter, and Derek opened his eyes, fighting the burn that crept toward them. The frost of his breath gathered on the glass, and he frowned down at a shape visible but meaningless from this angle. He straightened just enough to make out the top swells of a heart in the fog. What?
In the kitchen, he heard a cabinet door creak open.
Confused, bruised by too many emotions, Derek drew a ragged breath and exhaled over the window pane.
I You
He blinked for a second before a new sensation of warmth squeezed in his chest, and then he glanced, wondering, at the next pane.
Another breath.
You Are Safe.
Another.
It's okay.
Then, We're okay.
And fresh tears made it difficult to see. His legs wavered but held.
Breathe.
You R brave.
He stopped, stifling a laugh, a sob, because he didn't feel brave.
From the depths of the loft came the sound of running water, and then a moment later the very beginnings of water burbling to a boil.
Derek stared at the messages Stiles had left him, shaking with awestruck wonder. He looked up at the vast wall of glass and knew by the ache in his heart he'd find something on each one.
He'd used up six already and vowed to save the rest. They were another day's panes.
It's okay. He could hear it in Stiles's voice. We're okay. Even if I can't touch you sometimes.
Guilt dragged at his bones.
Dr. Weir had said he shouldn't apologize for his feelings, but . . . this was Stiles. Who made his heart burst, who—Derek lifted his gaze to the window—who knew the things he needed to hear. She'd said even with therapy, he'd need time.
A faint, fairy chime of fine bone china sounded from the kitchen, stopping his heart; Derek knew that sound.
The teacup.
One of her teacups. The realization hit him with a slow, awful sinking. A sweetness too tender to bear, and he shut his eyes against it.
A few days after returning from Mexico, Stiles had shown up at the loft looking pale, stricken, but smelling of fury. Derek had let him in, silent with instant worry, and watched as Stiles paced back and forth, picking at his hands, twining his long fingers together in agitation. He'd barely given Derek a glance as he stalked in and kept his eyes glued to the floor as he moved.
Powerful instinct ripped through Derek's body to grab him by the shoulders, touch his face, and soothe whatever this was. This worry, this threat—because it was always a threat. His heart pounded in his fingertips as he forced himself to wait, to let Stiles speak in his own time. But his awareness fluttered out painfully alert for any sound, any hint.
Stiles kept pacing and eventually muttered something that even Derek with his keener senses could not hear. Worry shot up his spine, and he stepped closer, too magnetized by Stiles's distress to resist. Maybe if he just touched his arm . . .
Nearing, Derek crossed some invisible barrier, snapped some magic string, and Stiles stopped abruptly and turned to stare at him with wide, fearful eyes.
What. Jesus, what?
His chest constricted as Stiles bit on his lower lip and those deep, dark eyes went glassy. Derek froze and swallowed hard as he realized Stiles was trying to handle him, to head off an episode before it had a chance to start. A frown settled onto his face, and his nerves felt suddenly on fire.
Stiles took a shuddering breath and visibly stilled himself.
"I heard my dad talking at the station," he said, voice quiet and strained. "I—I thought you should know."
Derek stared at him, barely breathing, waiting.
Stiles's beautiful face twisted into regret as he pushed the words out. "Derek . . . the county tore it down. A-a developer, they... they're gonna build some new houses, they—"
"What?" The word left him like a ghost. He watched Stiles avert his gaze down toward his hands, twisting his fingers, then back up, face redder than before.
"Your house," he said.
His house. His mother's house.
He blinked and did not move.
Stiles took a tentative step closer and reached out to touch his arm. It felt distant, disconnected. The words dropped far into the empty bucket of him with a light plink.
"Derek?" Stiles ducked and moved until their eyes made contact again. He looked . . . very worried. "Did you hear what I—"
"They tore down my house," he repeated, calm and monotone.
He should feel . . . something. Something hot. Something rending. He felt like tundra instead and watched Stiles for the cues he was missing.
After a few hesitant breaths, Stiles brushed down Derek's arm and took his hand. "I didn't want you to go out there alone and . . . be surprised," he admitted, looking down at their fingers.
Derek looked down, too, positive that this touch should mean more. He could see the form of the emotions that came with his partner taking his hand but they were snowed under, inaccessible.
Stiles glanced up at him, skin flushed again. "That was all you had of them, right? All that was left?"
Derek frowned slowly at him and swallowed. "No," he managed to say.
"Wait, what?" Stiles looked confused.
He hadn't been there in a long time. Hadn't wanted to go. "There's a vault," he whispered, "underground."
Stiles's eyes widened, and his grip on Derek's hand tightened enough that Derek could feel it. The pinch of pain breaking through the ice.
"A secret vault? Are you kidding me right now?"
"I—" The numbness, as quickly as it had settled, rolled back, revealing a sharp pain in his chest and a swell of emotion working up his throat. He'd never told anyone about the vault. It was for family. Only family. Guilt washed cold down his spine, and he looked away. But Stiles tugged on his hand, and he had to look at him—the one who came back, who held him close, who carried his secrets, who looked at him now with sundering concern.
Derek huffed at himself and with the smallest bit of effort drew Stiles in closer until their foreheads touched.
He had told only family.
"Not kidding," he said over the lump in his throat.
The urge to go there, to take Stiles and show him flooded in from some place unknown, and Derek lifted his head to look him in the eyes.
"I could show you," he offered.
And the answering smile filled the empty space where the loss of his home should have been.
They had gone immediately, while the temptation of discovery swept fresh through them, keeping the hollowness of loss at bay. Stiles had gaped as they'd entered and then quickly darted off to examine the contents of the shelves. He touched lightly on vases and articulated skeletons. A suit of armor. A rack of swords. One whole corner was devoted to silk rugs, and Stiles coughed at the dust plume as he lifted one to get a better look.
It was like watching a child at a carnival, and Derek couldn't help but feel a swell of pride—at his family for the legacy they'd amassed, at himself for bringing Stiles to share in it.
Eventually, Stiles had stopped at a shelf less dusty than the others, and Derek moved to join him, placing a hand on his back just to feel his solid heat. Stiles half-turned toward him and held up a chipped teacup with dark blue scallops around the top and a pattern of gold tears and filigree adorning the rest. He held it by the high swirl of its delicate handle.
Derek smiled with a wistful sadness. "Laura dropped that piece and broke it while setting out Thanksgiving dinner one year," he said.
Stiles turned the cup over and squinted at the mark stamped into the bottom.
"1817."
Derek nodded and moved closer, sliding his arm around Stiles's side until they were pressed chest to back. He rested his chin on Stiles's shoulder. "The gold's 24 carat," he offered, not really sure why.
"You drank from this? It must be worth a fortune."
Derek shrugged. "Mom used it for guests. Usually other alphas. She had this . . . terrible smelling tea. Until Laura broke that cup. Then she put it down here and used another."
"Why?"
He shrugged again, settling into the warmth and scent of Stiles's neck and wrapping him into a hug. "The set wasn't complete anymore. I guess she didn't have the heart to throw it away."
Stiles had set the cup back on the shelf carefully and stood looking at it for a long time, dragging his fingertips across Derek's arms absently. Derek just felt the rise and fall of his body as he breathed, reassuring and steady as the ocean tide. He tried not to think of the house and pressed a little closer when he failed. Eventually, Stiles had asked if there was a box anywhere and with uncharacteristic care packaged the whole set for transport.
In the kitchen, Derek heard Stiles pour water. And then a few moments later, the tiny sound of a cup and saucer on the table a few feet behind him.
A minute after that, the susurrus of sheets and a heavy, muted sigh.
Chamomile floated on the air.
Derek stared out at the dark skyline, itching with unease, and as he pictured the small cracked cup waiting for him, recalling the day it happened, the look on his mother's face, and the rush of dark joy that it was Laura's fault, the emptiness opened in him like an old ache.
He wondered what she'd think of him now.
Her once proud, strong son, debased, brutalized, and still waking from nightmares, red-slapped.
Never having finished school.
Never getting a real job.
Disappointed, he thought, the word searing into his chest. Guilt crowded onto his shoulders, and he leaned heavily against the glass, too weary and threadbare to fight it off.
They had been something once, his family. Powerful, important. And now . . . just three.
They'd never talked about legacy. About who should carry on—and why would they with so many, with so much time yet?
Stiles shifted with a rustle, and Derek's body clenched a little in shame. Not that mom wouldn't— Just there wouldn't be any more Hales that way. Another failure in a long list of failures. At least Isaac still lived. Werewolf legacies had more than one way to carry on. At least he'd done that.
Derek pushed away from the window with a shaky sigh and cast his gaze over the messages Stiles had left him, warmth tugging at his cold edges, making his skin feel more like his own. He turned and found the teacup where he knew it would be, perched on the corner of the table, incongruously baroque. A thin stream of steam still curled up from it, and he took it up in gentle hands. Stiles sucked in a breath, and Derek finally looked over at him. Their gazes connected, and it felt like touch. He couldn't not look and drifted back toward the bed with the small cup held between his palms.
The nightmare had left him shaking, and even now, in the aftermath, he couldn't trust in his own steadiness. A small bit of the tea spilled over as he set the cup down on the nightstand, and he must have made some sound, an aggravated curse, because Stiles said his name.
But it wasn't a question. Not "Are you okay?" but "Don't worry."
It's okay.
We're okay.
Derek glanced at him, propped up on his elbows and hair wild, and some of the tension inside eased. He sat on the bed carefully and watched with a pinch of sadness as Stiles gathered his limbs away to make space, to not make the same mistake of touching a second time. Derek didn't want space. Didn't want to need space. He wanted his boyfriend to touch him whenever and wherever he wished.
He wanted Kate's damage eradicated.
He pressed his lips together in determination and turned, holding out his hand. Stiles stared at it, then glanced up at him, unsure but with hope pounding quicker through his veins. He hesitated a moment before sliding a palm into Derek's grasp.
Derek flinched but held his ground against the instinctive fears. His stomach twisted, curled, and the battle within splashed across his face.
"Derek, stop." Stiles tried to pull back.
Instead, Derek tightened his grip and concentrated on his breathing, slow, steady, and filled with the scent of Stiles and soap. Good things, like home. Like all the times they touched and it felt like phoenix fire.
Slowly, he drew Stiles's hand closer, the uneasiness in his skin ebbing as the nightmare drifted further away, and settled it over his heart, holding it there.
Stiles drew an unsteady breath and watched him carefully.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, just breathing, touching.
Derek let his hand fall away and swallowed as if to speak, but every time he reached for words, they were an apology. He wasn't supposed to apologize. Stiles shifted closer and brushed his fingers back and forth across Derek's chest, more quiet and patient than he was in daylight.
He should tell him about the dream. Or that he doesn't like when his body recoils away but he can't help it, and he knows it hurts Stiles, too. Every time.
What came out instead was, "I think she'd have liked you."
Stiles's fingers paused, and he gave Derek a raw, breathless look before finding a small smile. "I think I'd have liked her, too," he answered quietly.
Derek glanced down at the hand still resting on his chest and traced over the soft skin with a finger. "I've fucked up a lot," he said, keeping his gaze down.
"Derek—"
"But this I got right." He slid his hand up Stiles's arm and held him lightly. "I just . . ."
He couldn't tell where the feeling came from, the sudden deep pang that bored straight through. His throat closed, and he blinked against the rising well of tears. Too damn open. The whole thing left him too damn open. He drew a breath and forced the words out in a rough voice. "I just wonder if she—"
"She's proud," Stiles said, keeping his gaze down.
Derek looked up sharply, wondering how he could have known, and found his emotions reflected.
Of course.
Of course he'd know.
"I'm proud," Stiles went on, moving his hand to tug on Derek's arm for emphasis, "so she has to be."
Derek nodded as the words pierced his softest places, drawing tears of their own. He leaned until their foreheads touched, his throat aching too much to talk.
"Okay?" Stiles asked him and dared to touch his face.
He turned into it, the horror of his nightmare only a memory, and managed to breathe, "Okay."
They lingered in the moment, hearts and hands, Stiles slowly drawing his thumb back and forth across Derek's cheek.
The tempest of Derek's emotions swirled slower the more he focused on the places they touched, the syncopation of their pulses.
That wasn't what he'd meant to tell him. He swallowed and played with the comforter beneath his free hand.
"It was about Kate," he said softly, speaking into the small space between them. Stiles's heart started to beat faster, but he said nothing. "She had her hands on my thighs. On . . . me. And I couldn't—" The thumb moving along his cheek stopped as he sucked in a shaky breath. "I couldn't move. Like I was paralyzed." He hooked his palm around the back of Stiles's neck, holding them together, and his words came out a whisper. "I felt . . . I felt helpless."
In the seconds after his confession, tension coiled in Derek's stomach. He waited . . . waited.
Stiles breathed like he'd just remembered how and moved his hand to draw a gentle caress along Derek's temple. Derek lifted his head to look at him in the silvering light, glowing skin and dark eyes. It was a step, saying it out loud. Stiles's eyes sparkled in recognition of it. And with—with pride.
With a slight tug and a coy smile, they ended up mostly on Stiles's side of the bed, Derek's head pillowed on Stiles's chest and shoulder.
"Thank you for telling me," Stiles murmured, tracing runes of quiet safety onto Derek's scalp with delicious pressure.
Derek sighed, melting against him. "Thank you for the tea."
An amused huff. "But you didn't even drink it."
He shrugged lazily, body growing heavy under skilled hands and the pull of exhaustion. When he spoke, the words came out gossamer, and barely heard.
"Didn't need to."