Derek stared up at her glistening white fangs, barely breathing.
The heat of pain in his chest dissipated, snowed under by chill, numb terror. Real. Real...
He wanted to run, needed to run, but his body remained frozen in place as his insides curled and blackened.
Kate smirked as she pulled her transformation back, purple-black skin fading like a healing bruise, and stood straighter. Behind her, one of Severo's men groaned and moved, not quite as incapacitated as she'd thought. Kate whipped toward the sound of a cocking gun in the cloaking smoke, and in that second, the spell shattered.
Derek lurched to one side and scrambled to his feet, wobbling as he darted for a doorway to the other side of the loft. His hand shook as he dug out his phone and held down the speed dial.
He couldn't—
Pant.
Breathe.
Pant.
His chest burned with the poison of wolfsbane, and his bloody fingers slipped on the screen.
"Hey, Derek." Stiles's voice.
He hunched to stay in the smoke layer. "Loftgettotheloft," he gasped out in a rush and then tossed the phone into a corner, so Stiles's reply would come from someplace he wasn't.
Two shots cracked the air of the living room.
Derek ducked on instinct and kept running as he pressed one hand over the hole in his chest, blood seeping around his fingers. Shaking, he barreled into the bathroom, turned on the shower and faucet, and rushed back out, bouncing a shoulder off the door jamb.
The sound of his own heart in his ears drowned out everything, and he was sure she could hear it, too. That and his terrified breathing. But he couldn't—couldn't stop it, control it. Runrunrun.
He had to get back to the living room. Had to buy time. He ducked next to the weight machine and strained to hear the sound of her footsteps over his wheezing lungs.
Clack.
Clack.
Slow and deliberate.
The fear in Derek's gut tightened. She was taking her time.
He pressed his eyes shut and swallowed down a swell of bile. Cold sweat broke out across his skin.
He knew this place. That was his advantage.
Derek turned and peered through the bars of the machine as Kate stepped into the room, smoke swirling around her legs and hips, her gun toward the floor as she scanned the loft's interior. He tensed and then sprang for the partial wall, leaping through the hole.
Two more gunshots rang out, scattering brick dust on his back as he landed and swerved to the kitchen. Another faucet. More white noise.
He crouched at the edge of the kitchen counter with a view of the cloudy living room and window, breathing in small, painful gasps. The hand pressed to his chest shook, and icy spiders danced along his spine.
In the other room, Kate laughed, a full and throaty sound he didn't want to remember. "If you wanted to play, Derek, you could have just said so."
Her voice cut through his flesh, sharpened itself on tender nerves.
He shook and pressed himself closer to the counter.
"You know I like to play," Kate called. Her heels clacked closer.
For a second, he froze again. Too much and too many memories. Panic boiled hot in his throat.
Derek forced himself to look out into the shrouded room, and his eyes landed on the dark shapes of the hunters, sprawled across his floor. Well-armed hunters.
He pressed the wound in his chest hard and focused on the pain. Then he ran for the closest body, ducking to keep under the smoke line. With one hand, he searched the man's belt, then had to use two to pull a smoke bomb free. He ripped the pin and pitched the bomb back through the partial wall. Another. He needed another. He scrambled toward Severo and found what he needed. Derek pulled the pin and dropped it at his own feet. He gave the cloud a second to rise, then hurried to the stereo on his bedside table and cranked it, blasting All That Remains.
He winced at the deafening chords and hoped it would be enough.
Derek huddled by the wall that would take him back toward the bathroom and exercise space and waited, straining to listen. His pulse beat against his skin, and the sweat of fear rolled down his back. Running water and pounding music flooded his senses, along with the stench of smoke and something . . . different, repulsive. Her. It had to be her.
Why did it have to be her . . .
The quality of the white noise changed, and Derek turned on instinct to peer into the white wall of smoke toward the bathroom.
"It's cute, the water thing," Kate said, her voice materializing out of the cloud, giving away her location.
Derek slid around the wall and edged into the room. If he could circle around, he could make it to one of the storage closets. The thrumming baseline of the music masked Kate's heartbeat and the sound of her boots. Unless she spoke, he couldn't know where she was, except maybe by the intensity of her new scent.
His muscles shook with the knowledge of her presence, and he swallowed hard. He should make a break for it. He pictured the room and its contents, mapped out a route, and then hurtled himself into the smoke.
She appeared out of nowhere, already in rotation for a kick that landed square on his jaw. Derek stumbled back, a red-black smattering of color blinding him. He bled from a cut on his cheek from her heel and blinked to clear his head.
Kate hit him again, a punch to the abdomen that knocked the wind out of him and made his knees go weak. As he fell, he grabbed at her with both hands. They fought for a second like children, twisting and slapping. He got a grip on her belt and threw his weight against it.
He flung her to the ground, but she landed with a cat's grace, smiling. Derek heaved a painful breath and then ducked behind his arms as Kate pounced. She hit hard and broke through the barrier, slamming him down. Kate shoved her forearm against his throat and pinned him to the floor.
He shoved his blood-soaked hand in her face and reached for her belt again, this time closing his hand over a small metal device. A flash bomb. He snagged it, then squirmed to get one leg in close enough to kick her off. The best he got was the leverage to roll.
Desperate, Derek exploded all his strength into a single shove, flipping them. He wrenched free and threw the bomb at the ground, covering his eyes with the crook of his arm.
Kate screamed in agony.
He ran.
He slammed into the door with both hands and struggled with the handle, slick fingers trembling and sliding on the knob. Derek wheezed a curse and finally it opened. He threw himself inside and turned the lock, then slid to the floor, pressing his back against the door as he gasped.
The bomb had bought him time for help to come, while Kate staggered around blindly.
Minutes stretched, measured by his rapid heart and the beat of the music thumping through the wall.
Panic rocketed through him when the last of the white noise beyond the door finally vanished. The loft went silent, and he was painfully aware of his own racing pulse, while Kate's thumped out calm and steady. His mouth went dry, and he stared around at the contents of the small space for anything to barricade himself against her. There were only cases of liquor from Danny's party, but that had to be better than nothing.
Derek lurched forward, wincing at the spreading pain in his chest, and started shoving boxes in front of the door. Futile and childish, but each one still felt like putting space between them. He paused at the distant sound of his cell phone ringing and then clumsily shoved another box in place.
"Dude, he's not picking up," Scott said, casting a concerned glance at Stiles from the passenger seat. "Are you sure—"
"Yes, Scott. I'm sure. Very very sure." He stepped on the gas harder. "He sounded, like, hurt. I dunno. Afraid. Like he couldn't catch his breath. When have you ever heard Derek like that?" Stiles scowled, pressing his lips together, and threw the Jeep into a sharp left, squealing into the parking lot of Derek's building.
"I don't—"
"Exactly."
They jerked to a halt. Stiles burst from the driver's side like his seat was on fire, and his momentum carried him halfway to the door before he stopped to look for Scott.
Scott stood next to the Jeep, his face wrinkled in disgust.
"What?" Stiles called. "Scott, your face, what is it?"
Scott took a deep breath, his brows furrowing further. "I—I don't know. Something smells weird. Different."
Stiles's heart sped up. "Different is bad. Different is definitely bad. Come on!"
He jogged for the door, flexing his empty hands and wishing that he'd bought another bat.
Derek pressed his back against the boxes and fought the urge to hug his knees to his chest.
"Derek. . . . Sweetie," Kate called with that mocking lilt.
His heart hammered.
"Don't I get a hello? How've you been?" She chuckled, and it crystalized on his bones. "Aren't you even a little curious?"
He clamped his hands over his ears and tried not to listen. Dead. She was supposed to be dead. But her words found him anyway, sliding in where they did not belong.
"I've been dying to know what you'd think. The irony is, well, precious."
Stop, he thought, and got no farther than that.
Stiles threw open the door to the loft and stared. A cloud of white smoke billowed out and washed into the hallway. Scott put a hand on his shoulder and shifted as he made his way inside first, clearly having changed his mind about how serious a situation this might turn out to be.
"Stay behind me," Scott whispered over his shoulder, flashing his red eyes.
Stiles stared at him, barely able to hear over the rush of blood in his ears.
Scott took the stairs slowly, pausing when the smoke cleared enough to show them a body on the floor.
"Stiles."
"I see."
Scott cocked his head, listening, and then pointed two fingers toward the ground nearby, one further into the room, and one off to the right. Signs of life, Stiles realized. Heartbeats. Scott raised a hand in front of Stiles's chest, partially shielding him, and then called into the smoke.
"Derek?"
They both blinked into the swirl of white, poised to react.
Footsteps moved in their direction with the heavy click of heels. Stiles threw Scott a sharp look of confusion, but Scott didn't turn to see it. What woman would attack—
His mind flashed to Jennifer, who Scott said had been missing when they went back to the distillery.
God. Shit.
She emerged from the cover of smoke among the fallen hunters. But blonde and—
"What the fuck," Scott said.
Stiles blinked, and the bottom of his stomach dropped. "Kate Argent? Are you kidding me? Does no one stay dead in this town!"
"Scott, Sidekick." Kate smiled at them, a cold flash of teeth.
"S-sidekick?" Stiles shoved Scott's hand out of the way, but Scott grabbed him by the arm before he could charge forward. "What did you just call me?"
"Stiles," Scott hissed at him and jerked him closer to get his attention. "Get Derek." Scott released his arm and nodded off to the right, the last heartbeat he'd indicated. "I can handle this."
Kate laughed, and they both turned to look at her.
"Are you sure?" she said, that cold smile twisting her lips again.
And then . . .
Oh, Christ, shit fuck.
She turned blue and flashed green eyes.
Stiles's jaw dropped. Flat-out awestruck, dropped. A werething? She was a werething? How in the hell did Kate Argent become a—
Peter.
God damned Peter Hale couldn't not turn people into monsters, apparently.
"Stiles, go!" Scott said, and shoved him.
They went down the last few steps together, and Stiles skirted around the kitchen and into the far rooms. Behind him, he heard Scott roar and Kate reply with an answering animal sound.
He hurried, tracing one hand along the wall. Problem was there were like a dozen random storage closets in this part of the loft, and he had no idea where to start. The first two opened on nothing but empty space. The third didn't budge, and he bounced off after having thrown his weight against it.
"Derek?" Stiles called, his voice high with worry. "Derek, are you in there?" He pounded his fist on the door. "Derek, come on, open up!"
Something behind the door shifted and clattered, and Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet waiting for the lock to open. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. He glanced over his shoulder at a pained grunt that could only have been Scott and then back at the door.
"Seriously, man, just—"
The lock slid open, and Stiles burst in, immediately stumbling to a halt.
"Oh . . . god."
Derek stood clutching a hand to his chest, his other arm propped against the wall. It was the only thing keeping him standing.
"You're—she shot you?"
Derek lifted his ashen face. "I noticed," he said, his voice trembling. Blood gathered on his lips as he gasped for air. His whole body quaked, threatening to fall.
A gunshot thundered from the living room.
Stiles turned to run back to check, but Derek made a strangled sound, a desperate whimper. He spun to find Derek reaching for him with wide-eyed fear. Something shot down Stiles's spine, hot and fierce. And he understood that there was more going on here than a bullet wound, even if he didn't know what. Stiles slipped himself under one of Derek's arms and pulled him into his side, taking as much weight as he could.
"It's okay. I got you, you're gonna be okay," he said, chattering to fill the void.
They made it to the doorway back into the living room when Scott emerged from the settling smoke.
"Hey!" He jogged over.
Derek's grip on Stiles tightened, and Stiles glanced at him. His blank expression hadn't changed, and he shuddered. Stiles frowned but squeezed his fingers on Derek's waist in response.
He looked back at Scott. "Kate?"
"Gone. She—I dunno. It was like she wanted to test her strength but didn't really want to fight. I think she missed shooting me on purpose." Scott shook his head, glancing around at the smoke settling around their ankles and the hunters still sprawled on the floor. "I don't get what she was after."
Derek shuddered harder and stared mutely at the ground. A sick warmth gathered in Stiles's gut as he looked at him.
"Pretty sure I know," he muttered.
Derek ever so slightly turned in his direction and wheezed.
Scott frowned at the both of them and then seemed to realize that he should be helping. "Oh, here, let me—"
Stiles winced as Derek's fingernails dug into his arm. He shot him a sharp look of annoyance but started forward before Scott could grab Derek's other arm.
"Naw, it's cool. I got it. You need to call my dad." Stiles lifted his chin in the direction of the hunters. "I mean, at least one of them's dead, right?"
Rebuffed, Scott blinked in confusion then turned to the bodies. "I—yeah . . . Okay." He cast them troubled glances as they made their way out of the loft and down the long elevator ride to the car.
By the time they made it to the Jeep, Scott had relayed most of what they knew, which was largely Resurrected Argent, a hunter named Severo (according to Derek), and at least one dead.
"Your dad says they'll be here in five minutes," Scott announced as he hung up.
"Great. Let's be gone in two."
Derek . . . wasn't quite as weak as he looked, Stiles realized. He managed to pull himself up into the Jeep without too much help, but let his hand rest briefly over Stiles's own where he held his arm to make sure he didn't fall. It was a small gesture, easily chalked up to weariness, but so unlike Derek it set off clanging bells of warning. Stiles looked at Scott, who lifted his eyebrows in response, then back at Derek in the back seat, who huddled in on himself. It made him look small and much younger. Very alone. Worry pulsed in Stiles's chest.
He dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to Scott. "You drive."
Scott took the keys, his eyes darting from Stiles to Derek and back. "Am I . . . missing something? Because you don't normally—"
"When I know, you'll know." Stiles clapped him on the shoulder and hurried around to the other side of the car to get in.
There was a reason Stiles didn't normally let Scott drive. He recalled it as Scott took a sharp turn, throwing Stiles into the door. Derek slid into him, grimacing, and shifted a little back over when he could. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it felt like Derek was leaning toward him. Not hovering, exactly. But listing closer, so their shoulders bumped even when Scott took a turn at normal speed, like he was trying to share heat.
They pulled into the back of the Animal Clinic, and Scott rushed ahead to warn Deaton what was coming while Stiles made sure Derek didn't collapse on the way inside. He looked paler than before, his eyes bruised and hollow.
Deaton met them in an exam room as Stiles unslung Derek's arm from around his neck and let him lean against a metal table. Stiles watched Deaton pull on a pair gloves, impatience spiking in his chest.
"So, should I be doing something, or . . . ?" He motioned toward Derek.
Deaton glanced at him. "Take his shirt off."
"Take his—" Stiles blinked, then peered at Derek. Sweat shone on his pale face, and every few seconds he sucked in a shallow breath. Stiles flexed his fingers nervously. Take off Derek's shirt. Sure. Fine. No problem.
He was already all up in Derek's space, so why not? He reached out and carefully slid his fingers under the hem of the shirt. Should he worry about touching? Scott wouldn't care about touching. Derek . . . didn't seem to mind it in a generalized way? But maybe a shirt-taking-off-way would be different. Maybe—
"Today, Stiles," Deaton cut in on his thoughts, and Stiles jerked back into focus.
His fingers brushed Derek's sides as pulled the shirt up, and he fumbled a little to get it over his head and down his arms. The thing was ruined, that was for sure. Punctured and soaked with blood. Stiles held it at arm's length and gave Deaton a questioning look. The doc pointed to a Biohazard bin against the wall, and Stiles moved to drop the shirt in.
When he returned, he sucked in a breath as the extent of the wound became clear. Derek had a black gash in his sternum smeared with dark red. Black lines spidered out across his chest, and black blood ran down his stomach, soaking into his jeans.
"Oh, God, that does not look good," Stiles said and shot Scott a worried look.
"Wolfsbane poisoning," Deaton supplied as he came closer. He circled around and peered at Derek's back. "No exit wound, either," he said, sounding grim.
Scott shifted from one foot to another. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Deaton said as he came back around and picked up a tray of implements from the side table, "that whatever she shot him with is still in there." He set the tray on a rolling cart. "Scott, we're gonna need an x-ray. Can—"
"I'll get the cassette," Scott replied quickly. He disappeared into another room and came back with a flat, white pad.
Deaton bobbed around until he could catch Derek's unfocused gaze. "I'm gonna need you to lie down, okay?"
Derek frowned slightly, but didn't react as though he had heard. He coughed, tingeing his lips black.
Stiles looked at Deaton, unsure, then stepped closer. Scott placed the panel on the table, and Stiles pressed on Derek's shoulder urging him to lie back.
"C'mon. Little hop. You can do it."
Derek lifted his head long enough to give him a glare, then hopped up a couple of inches onto the table. After a second he laid back, letting their hands guide him, making a face when his bare skin touched the cold metal. Stiles and Deaton exchanged tight grins.
Scott set a laptop on the counter and ran a cord to the panel. He moved swift and sure, wheeling the x-ray machine over from the corner and setting the beam over Derek's chest.
"Okay. Ready," Scott said. He tugged at Stiles's shirt. "We gotta go."
Stiles frowned at him. "What?"
Scott flung his hand toward his boss's retreating back. "Safety precaution. No one can be in here when we take x-ray."
"No one—Scott you're a werewolf."
Scott's face fell into a confused frown. "And you're not, so—" Whatever else he said, Stiles didn't precisely hear.
He looked at Derek, exposed and dying on a metal sheet, and realized that Derek was watching him back and trying to school his expression, but his eyes gave him away. When their gazes locked, Stiles felt it in his spine. A thin thread tugged in his chest, and he realized what was written in the wide dark of those eyes. Vulnerability.
"I'm not leaving," Stiles said quietly. He flicked his gazed to Scott and shrugged off his hand.
"Stiles."
"Seriously, Scott, it's one x-ray. It's not gonna kill me. Now just take the photo before he dies!" He swung a hand in Derek's direction.
Scott put on his appalled face, but Stiles just crossed his arms and turned toward the exam table like he'd be able to see the x-ray happen. Scott sighed audibly and left him there. A few seconds later, Stiles heard the ray gun click and watched as the laptop screen darkened and revealed white ribs.
He met Derek's eyes again and nodded once, not even sure what he meant. He got a small nod in reply, though, and that seemed like something.
Scott and Dr. Deaton hurried back into the room with practiced synchronicity. Scott retrieved the cassette from beneath Derek, rolling him as gently as he could and wincing when Derek groaned. Deaton went straight to the laptop, zooming the image in.
"Looks like there are three fragments." He motioned for Scott and Stiles to come closer and pointed. "They're fairly large, so they should be easy to find." He looked at Scott. "Get me 18ml Xylacaine."
Stiles stepped back from the laptop to give them room to work and ended up at the top of the table, looming over Derek's head. "Xylacaine. What's that? An anesthetic?"
Deaton touched lightly around the wound in Derek's chest. Derek's face twisted, and he sucked in a thick, rattling breath that bottomed out in a cough. His whole body spasmed with it, and he lurched onto his side as he vomited up black blood.
"Jesus, again?" Stiles said, jumping a little to make sure he was out of the way.
Derek gasped like a drowning man and flopped back onto the table. He arched with the effort to draw air, a look of panic in his eyes, and Stiles felt his heart start pounding.
On instinct, he put his hands on Derek's shoulders. "It's okay. All right? They're gonna get it out." He gave Deaton a querulous look, wondering if he was lying, but all he got back was lips pressed thin and a determined expression.
Derek's panicked gasps lessened, and as Scott brought the Xylacaine needle over, Stiles let go and turned away.
"Okay. Good." Deaton turned on his most soothing tone. "Scott, I'm going to need you to keep the wound clear."
"Right."
"Forceps."
In all, it was over pretty quickly. Stiles wondered if being a nurse was the McCall family calling. After the needle part was over, he'd turned back and watched student and teacher moving like clockwork. Impotence burned in his throat, and he started pacing for lack of anything else to do. Eventually, Deaton called his name without looking up from the surgery.
"There's a jar on the counter with wolfsbane. It's the—"
"Yeah, I know what it looks like," Stiles said as he darted over and rifled through the glass bottles.
"Good. Get half of it out and burn it."
He remembered this from last time. The last time Kate shot Derek. The last time wolfsbane almost killed him. God, their lives sucked.
Stiles poured the flower petals onto the other exam table and then stopped dead, the bottle still in his hand.
"Burn them." He whipped around to look at Deaton. "Burn them how? With what?"
Derek's voice creaked out of him. "Scott," he said, then moved his fingers near his left pocket.
Scott blinked for a second before reaching in and fishing out a lighter. He tossed it to Stiles, and Stiles reduced the wolfsbane to ash.
"Okay! Ready!"
"Almost . . ." Deaton leaned in closer, squeezing the forceps, and slowly pulling up.
Something small plinked into the pan on the cart.
"There. Stiles, the ash."
He scooped the ashes into his palm and cupped the other hand over top. Deaton stepped aside to make room and motioned with his blood-covered hands toward the wound. Stiles felt his stomach go sour just looking at it, and his knees went loose.
"Just put the ashes in?" he asked, his voice a little shaky.
"Quickly."
Derek's eyes were barely open, and if he was breathing, it was so shallow Stiles couldn't see the movement of his chest. His hands trembled as he opened them, a small dusting of ashes falling right into the ravaged flesh.
Derek all but screamed.
They jumped back from the table as he started to thrash. He arched and twisted, mouth open in silent agony. One fist beat down on the table so hard it left a dent. He sucked a deep breath and wailed as the black spiderous lines erased themselves from his skin.
And then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
Derek sagged onto the table panting and shivering, though very much alive.
The room held its breath, waiting for him to declare the crisis averted. But all he could see in the bitter glare of the clinic's light was the winter beauty of her face, lips curved in the slightest of deadly smiles. Each small exhale took his animus with it, leaving him pinned to the tabletop at the mercy of memory.
"Derek?" Scott.
"Give him a minute." Deaton.
He gathered the strength to sit up enough to find three faces staring at him. He looked from Scott to Deaton to Stiles. Stiles gave him an assessing onceover, his arms crossed and long fingers tapping out secret messages against his bicep. Derek sat up further and touched his chest where the hole had been, blandly digesting the knowledge that he hadn't died.
"Could you guys give us minute?" Stiles said abruptly, turning to the others.
Deaton cocked an eyebrow at him and nodded once. "Well, I do have some paying customers," he said, clapping Scott on the shoulder, "that I'm sure I could use some help with."
Scott looked like he was going to argue, but at a gaze that bordered on a glare from his boss, he followed Deaton toward the other room without comment.
"And no wolf ears!" Stiles called after him, pointing accusingly.
Scott rolled his eyes and threw up his hands as he left, busted before he'd even started.
The door closed behind them with a click.
Then silence.
When Stiles turned back, his expression had changed, softened. Derek swung his legs over the side of the table and sat, staring at the ground, keenly aware of the cold air against his thin skin and hard metal beneath his palms. He stayed as still as possible, avoiding the sharp edges of the world.
Stiles watched him for a second, then perked and went to the sink. He came back with a damp cloth and handed it over, motioning toward the drying black blood. Derek gazed down at himself and cleaned off the mess as best he could. He could feel himself being watched and glanced up.
After a second, Stiles seemed to realize he was staring. His eyes flashed in sudden embarrassment, and he spun around in a small circle casting about the room. He looked down at himself and then took off the flannel he was wearing.
"I've had to go up a size, but it still might be a little too small . . ." He said, shrugging in apology.
Derek gazed at him, at the offering. It probably was too small. He took it from him anyway, irrationally grateful and hyperaware of the softness of the fabric and familiar scents. He slipped it on and regained the ability to breathe.
He didn't try to button it.
Stiles moved quietly to his side and leaned against the exam table. He looked down at the floor, then his hands, weighing something.
"Do you wanna tell me about it?" he asked gently, lifting his eyes only briefly to meet Derek's.
Derek swallowed hard as heat crept up his throat, cutting off his air. Sparks and smoke stung at the backs of his eyes, and he held himself very still, so still maybe Stiles would lose sight of him. But it thundered in him, too, the need and want of words like gathered magma.
"What?" he asked, to release some of the pressure.
Stiles looked at him, unsure. "I found you in a closet. Shaking." He looked down at his clasped hands. At a whisper he added, "You haven't really stopped."
Distress burrowed deep on Derek's face as he shifted uncomfortably. He, too, brought his hands to his lap, and he scored his nail down his fate line, pressing until it sparked with pain. He didn't want to do this. Couldn't do this. Pressed his nail in harder, and his throat ached.
"Is it her?" Stiles asked softly. "Kate?"
He stopped. Stopped drawing pain across his skin. Stopped breathing. The heat and pressure inside built behind his eyes, through his chest.
Cracked open in his throat with a startled sob.
Did he make a sound? He hadn't meant to make a sound. But the world blurred with tears, and he hadn't meant to do that either.
"Sorry. I-I can't"—he swiped at his eyes—"stop it. I can't . . ." Breathe. He gasped. Derek curled in on himself, tensing every muscle to try to reel it all in. Stop, stop, stop.
Stiles touched his arm, and he flinched at first, lifted his head to stare at him, too caught between embarrassment and sorrow to know what to say or how to make it go away. Stiles gazed back at him, looking on the edge of tears himself, his heart racing, and tugged on his arm ever so slightly. Just to let him know. It would be okay, this time, to fall.
He teetered on the precipice, gripping the table edge with both hands.
And only spoke because the scorching on his soul was too much.
"I was sixteen. It—it was about a year . . . after Paige died." His lower lip trembled, and he bit it for a second to stop it and gather some control. "I still . . . I killed her," he said, eyes locked somewhere distant.
"You gave her mercy," Stiles added, his voice low.
Derek snorted out a short, derisive breath, shaking his head. "I still . . . felt—" He gripped one hand near his stomach, losing the words to a flood of emotion.
"Like a monster?" Stiles whispered.
Derek turned to look him in the eye and nodded, unable to say it himself. His face reddened, and he stared hard at the floor.
"Kate knew what to say," he admitted, and brought his hands back to his lap, scraping a line on his palm. "Said I was sweet." Shame smeared across his face. "Gentle." His voice broke on the word, and he swallowed. "That I made her laugh . . . Things I needed to hear."
His scowl deepened, and he dug harder at his palm, concentrating on it until Stiles reached over and touched the back of his hand. He blinked out a tear that disappeared into his beard.
"I thought I was lucky," he said, hoarse, "because she always wanted sex, but . . ." He frowned at the floor. "It was fun, at first. Things I knew people did. Handcuffs. Slaps. She said if I wanted to make her happy, I'd do it. I'd do anything . . ." He took a shuddering breath and glanced at Stiles to gauge his reaction.
Stiles gazed back, all questions and flushed skin, but patient.
Derek studied the tiled floor and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I did what she wanted. Slaps became fists. Whips . . . blades. She liked those."
"Derek . . ." Breathless with horror.
Bile rose in his throat as he thought about it, and humiliation burned across his face. He had to shut his eyes. "Sometimes, she wouldn't look at me, touch me, unless I"—his throat constricted on the words—"I wore the collar." The shame spilled over, and he hunched down, holding the back of his neck with both hands. He shook, losing against the hurt.
A hand settled onto his back, fingers rubbing gentle circles over his tattoo.
"I—" Stiles said, his voice strained, "I didn't know it was like that."
Derek uncurled a little, dropping his hands. He glanced over then let his gaze fall. "No one does," he said quietly.
Stiles's fingers stopped, making Derek look up at him. His face flickered with realization, tenderness, then thought. He met Derek's eyes.
"You can't fight her, can you," he said. It wasn't question.
Guilt etched itself on Derek's face and coiled deep in his gut. He hopped down, away from the burn of Stiles's hand on his back, and paced.
"No." Ghosts in a word. He stopped. "There's just . . . there's this . . ."
"Fear?" Stiles offered softly as he got up. "Like you're never gonna breathe again. Like you're gonna fly apart."
Derek glanced over his shoulder with a look of stunned wonder. He nodded and turned away.
"Fear," he agreed, and kept walking.
"Hey, it's okay," Stiles followed a few steps behind.
He paused but didn't look back. "No, I'm pretty sure it's not."
Stiles took a breath like he was going to reply, then sighed. "Yeah . . . I—I didn't mean . . ." He drew closer, but stopped when Derek didn't turn around. "Look . . . just wait here, okay? I need to talk to Scott."
Derek did turn to look at him, then, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Not tell him," Stiles added. "All right? Just talk to him."
Derek shrugged and glanced down at his borrowed flannel, running his fingers down the buttons. He didn't watch him go.
Stiles slipped into the interstitial space of the clinic and slowed, lingering in the sensation of his pulse pounding in his fingertips. He felt the shape of delicate truths form around his heart.
He housed a new secret now and wondered how much it had cost Derek to share it.
But it was okay. Stilinskis were good at keeping secrets. Stiles pressed the heel of his hand to the place in chest where the secret ached and breathed, feeling its edges.
He cast a look back toward the door, worry hardening into conviction, and went to look for Scott. He found him in the lobby, hunched over in a chair and staring at his clasped hands. Scott snapped his head up at Stiles entered.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Well is he okay?" Scott asked, rising to his feet.
Stiles quirked an eyebrow, and he mouthed a few aborted words before settling on, "That's . . . a complicated question."
Scott's eyes widened. "Well is he alive?"
"What? Yes. Alive, yes."
Scott sagged in relief. "So, then what's the problem?"
Stiles flicked his tongue over his lower lip and worried it between his teeth before letting out a sigh and crossing his arms. "The problem . . . is that he can't fight her," he said.
Scott narrowed his eyes at him. "What do you mean can't. I mean, she's stronger and faster, yeah, but—"
"No, it's"—Stiles shook his head—"it's not that." He lowered his voice. "It's . . . psychological. He just—he can't do it."
Scott gave him a look like they were doing physics, but after a second he started to nod. "Because he loved her," he said, voice hushed.
Stiles's head tilted on autopilot. What? But then . . . why not? Why not that? He forced himself to nod once. "Something," he said so it sounded like agreement. "Point is he's gonna need our help."
"Okay." Scott nodded. "Yeah. But . . . how?"
"Right now?" Stiles let his arms fall to his sides and glanced in the direction of the exam room. He drew a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. "Right now, I . . . think we take him to my house." He said each word carefully, and shot Scott a questioning look, wondering if they sounded right on his end. "My dad installed that whole security system thing, and we could get a detail put on the house."
Scott shrugged like that wasn't the worst plan. "If you want, I could stay? I mean, I should probably stay."
"The superhearing, the superstrength. I'm gonna go with yes." Stiles slapped Scott's chest with the back of his hand. "Plus, you need my help in Econ."
Satisfied with Plan A, he turned and started back toward the exam room.
Scott's voice growled behind him. "I don't need your help in Econ."
They found Derek screwing the cap back on Deaton's bottle of wolfsbane and placing it carefully back in the tray. Stiles's plaid shirt stretched tight across his chest, and he'd rolled the sleeves up to his elbows with neat folds. Stiles made an amused sound, and Derek turned to look at him with an eyebrow raised in question.
"So I guess 'you're okay,' huh?" Stiles grinned at him, glancing up and down his plaid, jeans, boots combo.
Derek stared at him blankly for a second before twisting his face with a sarcastic look. Stiles's grin widened.
Scott stepped up next to him and leaned in toward Stiles's ear. "You said he was fine like a second ago."
Stiles turned slowly. "Are you ser—" He cut himself off when he saw that Scott was. "Your cultural education is appalling."
Scott frowned. "What?"
"It's a Monty Python sketch," Derek said with a sigh as he straightened.
"I don't—"
"Ap-pall-ing," Stiles repeated, adding emphasis. "How are we friends?"
Scott just rolled his eyes.
"No, seriously, I don't know if this is worse than the Star Wars thing, but it's definitely on the list." Stiles pulled out his phone and started typing.
"What are you doing?" Scott leaned over to peer at the screen, but Stiles nudged him away.
"Adding it to the list," he replied, as though that should have been obvious.
As he typed, a prickle touched his spine, and he peeked up to find Derek watching him, intent but unreadable. Right. Yes, Derek. Stiles hit save and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
"Okay! So . . . let's go," Stiles said and started off. He turned after a few steps. "Scott, keys?"
Scott dug into his pocket and tossed them over.
Derek turned in place, watching them but not moving. "Where?"
"My house." Stiles could actually see Derek's frown gathering like a slow storm and sagged in annoyance. "Listen, you can't go back to the loft, okay?"
Another eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Wh—" Stiles flung his arms to the sides. "All right, A) because it's now an actual crime scene, and B) it's like the least secure place on the planet. So. You're coming with us."
Derek's gaze cut to Scott.
"I don't think you should go back there," Scott said, worry touching his dark eyes.
Derek's lips pressed into a thin line, but he conceded.
Stiles let out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding and hurried out to the Jeep before anyone changed their minds.