Stiles finds Derek in the library, bloody, eyes glazed. His clothes are dirty, torn, sneaker print welts on his palms. Stiles really needs to throw up.
Instead, he barricades the door and calls his dad. After a few moments, he shoulders out of his jacket, covers Derek up. He knows he shouldn't–it's screwing with the crime scene, Derek's a freaking crime scene–but he can't stand to see Derek left like that, exposed like that. He sits by Derek, after, shoves his hand through his hair.
Pretty soon the door's rattling, and Stiles checks, is relieved to hear his dad's voice. Dad gives the room a quick visual sweep, focuses in on Derek, on Stiles' jacket draped over him. He sighs, rubs his eyes.
"I had to, Dad," Stiles says. His voice sounds alien, faraway.
Derek stirs a little, groans quietly.
"Son?" Dad says softly, stepping closer.
"Derek," Stiles says wretchedly. "Derek Hale."
"Derek," Dad says gently. "Derek, can you hear me?"
Derek's eyes open: they're steadfastly dry, his jaw jutting.
"Yeah," he says. His voice sounds quiet, too soft for this. "I don't know what happened."
"That's what we're gonna find out," Dad vows. "but I'm gonna need your help."
At the hospital there's a small room, stiff cushioned chairs, no family. Derek hasn't had any since the fire that killed his parents and little sister, since Laura's suicide. But he has Stiles. He has Stiles. No way Derek's gonna go through this alone.
"What do you remember?" Dad asks, when Derek's up to talking.
"Felt weird," Derek says. The corner of his lip trembles, and he clenches his jaw tight, breathes through his nose for a while, nostrils flaring. Stiles picks at a loose thread in his jeans, carefully not seeing the tear that slips past anyway, swift and silent.
"What did," Dad says. "Did you drink something? Take something?"
"Had a beer," Derek says. "I know," he adds, face heating. He's barely nineteen, five months older than Stiles, a sophomore by a handful of days and last year's loss of the last person he had to rely on.
Dad shakes his head. "This isn't your fault, Derek."
Another tear Stiles refuses to see falls from Derek's lashes and clings to his chin.
"Nothing's ever my fault," Derek says, and for a long time after he just covers his face and shudders.
"You shouldn't be here," Derek tells Stiles once Dad's gone. His eyes are raw, voice hoarse and tight.
"You shouldn't be alone," Stiles says.
Derek's mouth twists, eyes shuttering. "You don't get extra credit for babysitting."
"No," Stiles says, affronted. "I'm worried about you, man. I want you to be okay, that's all."
"That's all," Derek says faintly. "You ever think maybe I shouldn't be?"
"Who's telling you that?" Stiles asks, ready to get his bat and go right now. Just see if he's bluffing.
"Why'm I the only one left?" Derek mutters. "I'm the only one who did anything–" He stops, inhales sharp and shaky.
"Derek," Stiles says, horror flooding him. "Whatever you did, if it was an accident–"
"I'm an accident," Derek says. "Everything i've ever done, or said. I told my mom to leave me alone. I told Laura…"
"Laura wasn't your fault," Stiles says.
"What was, according to you?" Derek demands. "Or your Dad. You're both so sure–"
"So tell me," Stiles says. "Tell me what happened to you."
"Nothing," Derek rasps, in the worst lie Stiles has ever heard.
"Derek," Stiles says.
"I don't know," Derek says. "I'm–healed, okay, I'm not hurt anymore. There wont be any bruises."
"On your hands," Stiles says, but Derek waves them impatiently, and it's true: the tread patterns are gone.
"They can still do a kit," Stiles says uncertainly. In the dim light of that library they'd looked like dark bruises, too stark to just disappear. "You sure heal fast."
"My superpower," Derek says dryly. "I'm not doing a–a kit, I can't do that."
"Your clothes," Stiles suggests. "They were messed around too, there must be be DNA somewhere."
"Can't catch smoke," Derek says softly, almost to himself.
"You can catch people," Stiles says. "My dad can. He'll keep you safe."
Derek huffs, like he's skeptical. Stiles raises his eyebrows defensively.
"He can't," Derek says. "People like me–Things like me. We can't…"
"You're not a thing," Stiles says viciously. "You're a person. A really good person."
"Uh huh," Derek says faintly, and closes his eyes just before the tears slip down.
They take the Jeep back to Derek's dorm; Stiles eyes Derek worriedly before dropping him off. "You sure–"
"You can't put a sniper on my roof, Stiles," Derek says tiredly. "I'll be fine."
"But you'll call me," Stiles prods. "If–if you feel weird, or if something's not right, you know I can come get you in two minutes. Maybe less."
"Stiles," Derek says, impatient. "Let it go. I've lived here for almost two years. I know how to find the door by myself."
"Even my dad takes backup," Stiles says, thinking: sixteen months. "Doesn't mean he can't handle–Alright, alright," Stiles tells Derek's scowl. "Pressure off. I'm just saying… There's options, you know? People who give a crap. Me."
Derek looks at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."
Then he goes inside.