Stiles has learned to answer his phone at night. He keeps it charged, screw the battery. Better than missing something, anything. Anything to stop what-could-be.
It's 3AM when Scott calls him. It's not unusual. He answers. Every part of his body is tingling. His toes are curled up hard, like he's preparing for a blow.
"I just got a call from Allison." And it figures, Stiles thinks, that this is what Scott leads with. "Stiles?" Scott sounds unsure.
"Yeah buddy."
"Okay, yeah. She didn't - we didn't talk, really, it was more of an overheard conversation. Apparently she's with, uh, extended family. And she cut on her phone to hear what they were saying." Stiles feels a hot burst inside of himself, a hatred that surprises him.
"She says - Stiles, she says they finally bribed the right people to get the county to possess the house, Derek's house. They're going to take it."
Stiles isn't sure when he started to dream of dying. He's never contemplated suicide, not ever, not even after his mom. Stiles is pretty sure it isn't that. And anyway, he isn't just dead in the dreams, he's killed, he's murdered.
Stiles never thought it would be so frightening. He's known terror, plenty of it, but it has always been about other people. It's been for other people. His dad. Scott. He doesn't like what it says about him, these dreams. He isn't an idiot. Avoiding supernatural fights isn't cowardice, it's practical. It's better for everyone.
He doesn't know what to expect when he tells Derek. He insisted on being the one to tell him. He'd believe him, no tricks. Derek knows him well enough for that. Derek's been camped out at the same train depot for months now. Stiles doesn't know if that means he's stopped being so attached to his home or if he just gets creeped out at the thought of Peter crawling out of it.
It's definitely the latter for Stiles.
His reaction isn't explosive, which is what Stiles was expecting. Derek doesn't even break anything.
He asks Stiles for advice. It's terrifying.
Stiles is not a lawyer, which is the first thing out of his mouth when Derek asks him what he thinks. He knows a little, enough to answer a few questions. But he is not prepared. Not qualified.
Stiles tells him what he thinks. What little he can do. The house was declared condemned and the county is taking possession of it. Derek can appeal, just maybe. Show them that it's not a death trap.
"They're bribed." Stiles says bluntly. "Allison, she, well, she said her family did it. Not Chris. Some cousin or whoever. He's a lawyer in addition to being a douche."
"It's not going to work, whatever you're planning." Stiles wants to make sure Derek gets it, even though he won't. "There's nothing you can do."
Derek doesn't listen.
He tries not to think about it. Derek thanked him for his advice, for telling him, and then politely told him to fuck off. Stiles left and he's ignored every instinct pushing him to tell his father, to beg him to do something. There's nothing he can do and it would raise suspicions he can't afford. That none of them can afford. Stiles stays quiet and ignores the rumors running through town. Derek Hale has been buying lumber and tools, did you hear? They say he killed his sister.
It's the last day left. The last day before the county comes to inspect the house and turn a blind eye to whatever repairs Derek has cobbled together and demolish it anyway.
The day is bright and early and a little cold.
Stiles drives to the house.
Here's the thing about tragedy: it doesn't stop.
Stiles finds Derek in the middle of what used to be the living room. Half of the floor is torn up, and one of the doors is hanging off its hinges. Tools lie everywhere, broken bits of plywood.
Derek is filthy and crying and broken on the floor.
Stiles doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what it's like to have nothing and then lose more. He doesn't.
But he knows what it's like to have something ripped out of you, something raw and open that will never, ever sew itself shut.
He crouches down with Derek. Dust is everywhere. Derek is sweaty and his claws are out and he is very close to breaking apart.
"When I was thirteen, my mom got these headaches." He's surprised how hard his voice is, the steadiness of it. He hasn't talked about his mother to anyone except his dad. "They weren't bad for a while. And she got them before, too." Derek isn't looking at him. Stiles' throat is dry and he has to swallow before he can speak again. "Before, she - well, it was pretty bad. Before the adderall, I mean." His mother got headaches. She loved him very much but he was very, very loud. He was on, her little lightning bug.
"When it got worse she just took asprin." His hands are by his feet and he can feel the dull drum of blood in his veins, the life that she put there. "It was - it was awhile before she did anything." He touches Derek's knee. "Too long, turns out. She died." He adds, because it's the only honest thing he can say.
Derek is covered in dust, in his own blood. He's looking at the floor.
"We didn't take down her pictures for years. I wouldn't - when my dad tried to move some of them I'd curl up and choke." Stiles doesn't know what he's doing. Doesn't even think sharing will help, that it will change anything. They're still dead.
"We went to the Grand Canyon before - when we knew it was bad. It was awful. I got sunburned and she was too weak and it was just. It was bad. But she was happy. She always wanted, wanted to see it." Stiles remembers her smile in his dreams.
Derek's breath is blowing up dust. Stiles tries not to inhale any.
"People who say, who say it gets better are idiots." Because they are. "You don't -" And there's frustration in his voice now, Stiles can feel his mind starting to fly apart, he didn't take his adderall this morning. "It's like, there's nothing to get over. There's nothing to get over. Because it's always going to be there with you, they don't go anywhere." Stiles sits down on the floor, a hand on Derek's knee.
He wouldn't even begin to know where to start, where to patch the pieces of Derek Hale's heart. There isn't, he knows, a piece of canvas big enough for 11 people. Stiles doesn't believe that love heals all wounds. Doesn't believe time does either. There isn't anything to grief but grief and grief's echo, which is you.
"Derek." Stiles says finally. Derek's neck twitches. His head rolls towards him. Their eyes meet. Derek's cheeks are wet but his eyes aren't red. They're not even puffy. Werewolf healing, Stiles thinks. "Derek, we don't have enough time. We don't." Derek begins to shake.
Stiles considers his options, always a little distant from himself, and puts an arm around him. It isn't a hug. It's not even an embrace because that needs two. Stiles' arm is across Derek's shoulders and it's there to remind him of what it's attached to. Derek isn't going to cry into his shoulder. He hasn't even sobbed.
"Derek," Stiles repeats, and he's right there. He's right there against Derek's side, leaning into him. Derek's breathing is slowing, calming down.
There's silence for several long minutes. The cold air blows in from broken walls. Little ghosts.
"I want to destroy it." Derek's looking at Stiles. "The house." He adds, seeing Stiles' expression. "I don't want - I don't want anyone to have it." And it sounds pathetic, it sounds juvenile even. But Stiles gets it.
"To have them." Stiles can whisper, he's that close. Derek's eyes widen.
"Yes. Yeah" The relief, the final knowledge that someone else understands, well, it turns Stiles' stomach a little.
"Okay." Stiles responds, because Derek's not the only one who's looking for something to ruin.
They stand up. There's a wall, the corner of the house. It had so many years, Stiles thinks. So many years to hold and protect the people inside. The foundations of a home.
Derek puts his hand through it.
It's later. Stiles doesn't know when. It's hours and hours. He's sweaty and sore but he's not tired. He has a hammer, picked right out of Derek's car. He's been destroying a house all day. He helped collapse what was left of the walls and Derek tore down the roof. He ripped up the porch with his bare hands.
It's in a pile, right in the middle. Everything it ever was. They're going to burn it.
Stiles siphons the gas out of Derek's camaro and they slowly coat every wooden surface, every broken piece of furniture, in gasoline. It's going to be very bright.
They haven't spoken since they started.
Derek has a lighter, of course he does. He has a few pieces of wood next to him, the tips coated. He holds one out to Stiles. The wood grimes up his hand. It's all going to burn, one last time.
Derek lights his piece, then Stiles. They throw the pieces of wood together, not a conscious decision.
The pile bursts into flame, almost all at once. Stiles is standing next to Derek again, leaning into his bubble, his space. Derek's watching the fire, crying.
And maybe it isn't right. Maybe Stiles needs to be more sensitive. More respectful of other people's space. But he isn't, he can't be. Not like this.
Stiles puts his hand in Derek's. He's waiting for the snarl, the too-far growl of outrage. Self-destructive, Stiles thinks.
But it's not.
It won't be enough. Stiles' mother died when he was thirteen and his best memories of her are bleach and white and her last, last smile. Derek's whole life is a hole.
It will never, ever be right.
But their hands clasp together. Their fingers intertwine, one against another.
And they're warm.