Stiles awoke with a start.

He gasped for breath, tongue sandpaper dry, his chest shuddering as though crushed by an enormous oppressive weight. The sheets were thrown around him, spilling on to the floor and for a moment, despite the dense silence of his room, he could hear the frantic roar of water, filling his ears and clouding his thoughts. It took a moment to remember where he was, in the damp warmth of his bedsheets. He had left his lamp on absently and chemistry books were scattered over his desk, their pages stained with blocks of fluorescent yellow. A clock ticked quietly on the wall.

In his dream, Stiles was drowning. His throat and nose burned from the chlorine. His eyes were open, and the rippling water around him was tainted with tendrils of blood. Something heavy was weighing him down, clinging to him, crawling up his pant leg. He could hear Scott's voice, calling his name above the surface.

A shadow moved gradually across the edge of the water, shimmering and dark, until it hovered directly above him; he reached out, clasping fist fulls of water. The surface broke suddenly and a clawed hand grasped his wrist, poisonous talons tearing in to his skin. It was then he woke up, the scream dying on his tongue and bathed in a cold sweat.

He rubbed his face tiredly, fingers still trembling, as he groped blindly at the nightstand for his phone. The time read 3.04am.

"God," he groaned and tossed the cell phone down again, rolling over and pressing his cheek in to the damp pillow. It was cold with sweat and he shivered involuntarily, dark eyes widening in the gloom.

It had been two weeks since the night at the pool and from time to time he felt the dull tweak of exhaustion in his muscles. Not just in the physical sense, but the tugging, exasperating emotional drain. It had taken every inch of his sanity and well-being to supress his emotions, something he's had to do almost constantly the past few months and had grown quite talented in. But every so often cracks would appear, and Stiles found himself the subject of horrific nightmares, picturing his death, Scott, Lydia, even Derek's death a thousand times over.

He loathed to think about it, but the prospect of letting Derek drown hadn't even occurred to him that night, despite of how much - yes, he admitted it - the guy scared him. But who wouldn't be scared of a guy like that, one with so many crosses to bear and so much rage within him? He had worse anger management issues than Bruce Banner.

And yet.. when Stiles had desperately clutched at him, treading water tirelessly to keep them afloat, the animosity had drained from those wild, ferocious eyes and Stiles caught a glimpse of something lonely, and not all too unfamiliar to him. A loneliness so raw and so deep that it set Stiles' teeth on edge, and made him hold Derek tighter. Exhaustion brought out a tender weakness to him that Stiles, bafflingly, had found almost.. sweet. Since then however, Derek had been his usual shadowy leather-clad self, and Stiles was still stewing in the fact he had yet another nightmare-inducing bonding session to add the list. Maybe he should've cut off his arm whilst he had the chance.

He jumped as he heard a tired grunt in the hallway. The bar of light beneath his door flickered with a shadow.

"D-Dad..?" he croaked, propping himself up on his elbows.

After a moment's hesitation - and a faint grumbling - the door swung open, and there stood Beacon Hills' sheriff in stained and faded sweat pants, holding a glass of water in one hand and the TV remote in the other. The faint scent of whiskey told Stiles his dad was pulling another late night. Even though it was difficult to see with the glare of the hall light, Stiles could tell his father was smiling from the tone of his voice, and the tenacious thudding of his heart settled somewhat.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" his gruff voice was so comforting Stiles felt the well of tears in his throat, but cleared it quickly. The last thing he needed was to start blubbering in front of his dad.

"No, it's okay. I.. I was just thinking."

Sheriff Stilinski checked his watch with an ominous expression.

"At 3am?"

"Well, you know, gotta keep the mind sharp. Teenage brains are attacked from all sides these days, what with social media and increasing pressure to excel academically. Not to mention-"

"Alright, alright. I get it, smart-ass," his father paused, transferring his glass of water to his other hand and simultaneously shifting from foot to foot. Stiles recognized this as a nervous habit - or a dance, as he liked to think - that his father only did when two things were on his mind. And he wasn't sure his dad paced the floor at 3am thinking about football.

"You didn't.. have another nightmare about your mom, did you?" Sheriff Stilinski's tone was soft but inquisitive as he stood in the threshold of Stiles' room. He tentatively placed a hand on the door frame.

Stiles sighed and looked away.

"No," he said after a while. "I haven't had one of those since I was a kid, dad."

Stiles remembered those particular nightmares well.

"You're still a kid to me," his father replied. "No matter how many times I have to drag you from a crime scene."

"Dad-"

"Or how many parking tickets you get driving around in that health and safety violation on wheels."

"Dad-"

"I'm just saying! It's a bad habit of yours."

"No, Dad, I don't mean- it- it's fine. You don't have to worry about it," Stiles attempted to smile. "I'm fine."

"If you say so," he pointed at him. "But as your father, it's not only my duty, but my right to worry about you. Now get some sleep."

Stiles grunted and turned over, pulling the sheets up over his thin body. He murmured goodnight as his father shut his bedroom door and listened as the padded footsteps moved along the hall. His heartbeat had calmed to a soothing repetitive thud and he gradually began to relax, his eyelids becoming heavy, the darkness spreading over him. For an instant before he dropped in to a cool and dreamless sleep, he pictured his mother, and for some reason, simultaneously remembered the look of sheer need in Derek's face, until the two thoughts were inextricably linked.

Somewhere, distantly, he heard the drip of water.