Stiles had been with his mum when she'd died. He'd been curled up in one of the battered, plastic chairs next to her hospital bed, gripping her hand tightly as he slept. He really shouldn't have been there, it was the middle of the night, past visiting hours, but Scott's mum had let him stay, not being able to resist the pleading brown eyes of a nine year old Stiles.

He'd woken to the sound of the flat line, a sound that since that day, had haunted his dreams, leaving him screaming and breathless and begging for his mum. It had taken him a few moments to shake the remnants of sleep off, but when he had, the panic set in. There were doctors and nurses spilling into the room, and someone had pried his hand off of his mother's, and was trying to pull him from the chair. He had kicked and screamed, called out for his mum, but he had known, somehow he had known, it was no use. When the doctor sadly announced her time of death to the room, Stiles fell silent, an emptiness clawing into his gut, his throat closing up and his mind reeling.

The hour after that was kind of a blur. He remembered sitting in one of the nurses chairs, spinning around and around till he felt dizzy and sick, but he still refused to stop. He didn't cry, he remembered that much, looking back it was probably the shock that stopped the tears from coming, and he just sat spinning until Melissa McCall came to collect him, explaining that his father was staying to make arrangements, and he was coming to stay at their's for the night.

He'd been glad he wasn't going to have to go back to his house; he hated the idea of it without his mother there to fill it. He'd wondered if it would ever feel like home again.

He'd told all of that to Scott that night, the two nine year olds curled tight under a thick duvet, whispering together in the dark, fighting back the fear as best as they could, and holding each other close when they failed to keep it at bay.

Stiles had eventually fallen asleep, tear tracks drying on his skin, and hands clutched tightly in the front of Scott's shirt. Scott however, had stayed up all night, watching over his friend, determined to keep him safe, wondering with every shudder Stiles made during the night, why the world would ever deem it right or proper to take a mother from their child.

They'd been friends before, but that night, they became brothers.

Every year from that year on, Scott would drop everything to stay with Stiles on that day. And every year, on that day, Stiles would let himself break down, let himself feel everything he bottled up the rest of the year, because he knew that there was someone taking care of him, someone to look after him while he let his grief take over.

They would sit together, sometimes in silence, but sometimes Scott would talk because Stiles refused to, and they would spend the day away from the rest of the world, away from anyone who might try to offer condolences, away from school, or friends, and even away from Stiles' father. But together, always together.

So when Scott made no appearance on that dreaded day, 8 years after the night itself, Stiles didn't know what to think. He sat cross legged in the middle of his bed, a cardboard box of mementos sitting on the sheet in front of him, lid still firmly in place because it was Scott's job to open it when Stiles inevitably couldn't, and with him not there Stiles couldn't bring himself to face his mother's ghost alone. Instead he fingered one of the ratty corners and glanced at his phone again, sighing when it confirmed no messages.

He wasn't stupid, he knew what had happened, a part of him had even expected it, but that didn't stop it hurting. Scott had always come over the night before The Day so that he was there for the entire 24 hours, ready to help and soothe and distract, but the night before had been date night with Allison, so Stiles hadn't bothered asking if he was planning to crash on his floor like normal. He'd assumed that the werewolf would either do a Derek, and creep in through his window some time during the night, or arrive in the morning, full of love, lust and stories to keep Stiles entertained and distracted at least until lunch. He'd been wrong though, there had been no Scott when he'd woken from his restless sleep, and at 3 o'clock in the afternoon there was still no sign of him.

The problem was that Stiles had no idea how to mourn on his own. He'd always allowed himself to give in to the pain when Scott was there, because Scott was there, waiting and watching and ready to pull him back together when he slipped too far. He was Stiles' safety net and without him there, Stiles was too scared to take the chance, to let go and hope he landed on his feet, because there was a good chance he wouldn't.

Scott's absence also confirmed something he had feared, something that had been niggling in the back of his mind for the last six months. Their friendship was slipping. Between werewolves and Allison, there wasn't much for Stiles to hold onto, and Scott didn't even seem to be willing to put the effort in and try. Stiles knew it wasn't on purpose, knew Scott didn't realise what he was doing, and wouldn't until it was too late, but Stiles did, he saw, and he had no idea what to do about it. It was just like his mum, he could see what was happening, knew what was coming, but could do nothing to stop it no matter how hard he tried. With his mum the illness had got her, with Scott his life had changed so much and so rapidly that Stiles knew there was no place left for him.

He bit the bullet and opened the box.

There wasn't all that much inside, as far as he knew his dad still had a lot of her stuff, but Stiles had taken what he could and hidden them away. There was a music box, red velvet with gold plating, that played an aria from his mum's favourite opera when it was open. There was a gold key in the back of the box and Stiles wound it a few times and closed his eyes as the melody began to play. Without warning the tears began to spill down his cheeks, and a smile crept onto his face as he remembered spinning round the room on his mother's feet as she taught him to waltz, the music bright from the box as she hummed along. When the music ran out he ran his hand across the velvet before closing the box and setting it on the bed.

There was a bottle cap, scratched and dirty, which pricked Stiles' finger as he pulled it out by the string tied through a hole in the metal. It hadn't belonged to his mother, but it had reminded him of her, so he'd put it into the box to be shut away with the rest of the sensitive items. They had found it on the beach during a trip in the summer, and Stiles had trodden on it and cut his foot. It had been a small cut, barely even a scratch, but it still stung, especially with salt water dripping into it, and 4 year old Stiles had screamed and cried in pain while his father had cleaned his cut and put a plaster over the wound. His mum however, had picked up the cap, examined it closely before whispering with it conspiratorially, making sure that Stiles was watching. She'd nodded as if considering a point, face stern and reprimanding, but then she had smiled, thanked the cap, and placed it in Stiles' hand, closing his fingers gently around it. She'd told him that the cap was sorry for hurting him, that it hadn't meant to, and in return for causing Stiles pain, it wanted to offer its protection. She had told Stiles, who had listened in wonder to her words, that the bottle cap was a lucky charm, and that in penance for its crime, it was willing to use its luck to help Stiles, to keep him and his loved ones safe, just as long as he kept the cap near him. He'd vowed to do just that, and the next week, when he'd gotten home, he'd convinced his dad to drill a hole in the cap so he could wear it around his neck. Stiles took it off for the first time the day after his mum had died, knowing, without a doubt that it didn't work.

He threw the cap onto the bed, slightly more violently that necessary, before pulling out some pictures. There were three of them, all slightly blurry because his dad had never been a good photographer, but all of them of Stiles and his mum. The first was on the day he was born. His mum looked exhausted and messy, but as she clutched the bundle of sheets that housed a squashed looking baby Stiles, she had a smile so wide she looked like she would never stop. The next was a few years later when Stiles was about 5, the family had visited a petting zoo and Stiles was chasing after a baby goat that had somehow gotten a hold of his shoe and was trying to eat it while avoiding the flailing boy. His mum was off to the left of the picture, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and hands clutching her belly as she laughed. In the corner of the picture was a small orange smudge, where the sheriff had accidently left his finger in front of the lens. The third and final picture was the same year she had died. Stiles had just turned 9 and the family were sitting around the kitchen table. He couldn't remember who had taken the picture, but his dad was with them at the table so it couldn't have been him. There was a cake in front of Stiles, nine candles aflame on top, and Stiles' cheeks puffed out ready to blow. Both his parents were smiling at him, his dad laughing slightly at his enthusiasm, and each held one of his hands. His mum was pale and fragile, thinner than normal, with bags under her eyes. Her smile was small, not the big, happy, grin Stiles remembered from his childhood, and he knows as he looks at the photo, that less than a month after it is taken, she will be dead.

The tears flow freely, drenching his face, and he sobs, clutching the pictures to his chest, wishing she was there. He doesn't hear the window open, but he sees the movement out of the corner of his eye, so he turns towards it.

'Scott?'

It's not Scott though, it's Derek. His eyes are wide and worried, a new expression for him, and he looks Stiles up and down, checking him for injuries, before settling his focus on the box. It's clear he's confused, clear from the way he pauses mid entry, one foot still out on the roof, and his face scrunches up, but Stiles can't stop crying long enough to explain. He'd opened the floodgates, and as he'd feared, he wasn't able to close them.

'Are you ok?'

It's a stupid question to ask a sobbing teenager, and Stiles managed a watery laugh and a nod, but not much more. Derek pulled his leg into the room and stood awkwardly in the corner, obviously not convinced by Stiles' answer, but unsure of what to do.

'Do you want me to get Scott?'

Stiles shook his head that time. He didn't want to force Scott to sit with him while he cried, when he obviously had better things to do. If there was one thing he didn't want to be, it was a burden, and he was quite conscious that he was becoming a burden to Scott, a liability. There was a pregnant pause, interrupted only by Stiles' heavy breathing as he tried to stop the tears from falling, the clear sign of weakness not appealing to him, especially in front of Derek.

'Do you… Do you want me to stay?'

It's said with such genuine concern and hesitance, that Stiles manages to stop crying long enough to stare at Derek in shock. He still looked uncomfortable, hands in jacket pockets, frown on his face, but his eyes were fixed on Stiles and they looked so confused and lost that Stiles finds himself nodding before he can think it through.

Slowly padding across the floor, Derek settled at the foot of the bed, hands on knees and feet knocking together. He looked so young and pained, and Stiles suddenly realised that Derek was possibly the one person he knew who would best understand what he was going through. He hadn't just lost a parent, he had lost his entire family. There had been no warning, no time to prepare for the worst, they'd just gone. In one day he had gone from happy and loved, to devastated and alone, with only his sister and disabled uncle to rely on. And he hadn't even been allowed to keep them, he had lost his sister and been forced to kill Peter, forced to kill the last living Hale by his own hand, made to hammer that last pesky nail into the coffin himself. Derek understood loss more than anyone ever should, he would understand Stiles in the way that Scott never could, even when he tried. So when he asks,

'What's wrong?'

Stiles doesn't hesitate to show him the pictures, doesn't hide them like he does with everyone else, hands them over willingly. He watches in silence as Derek flips through them, something resembling a smile flickering on his face, but disappearing too quickly for Stiles to be sure. He hands them back to Stiles, finger lingering slightly longer than necessary, before retreating back onto his knee.

'Today?'

'Yeah.'

'Are you sure you don't want to be alone.'

'No! No, please stay.'

The panic must have shown on his face, because Derek just places a hand on his knee and shifts around so that he's facing Stiles fully. He nods to confirm he's not going anywhere, but doesn't push Stiles to talk, letting the silence fill the room, comfortable in a way it wasn't before.

When Stiles grows tired of the silence he talks. He speaks about trips they took, stories she told him, presents she bought him, at one point he even sings part of the lullaby she used to croon to him when he couldn't sleep, and he's pleased when Derek doesn't laugh at his awful singing voice, only squeezes his hand slightly, alerting Stiles to the fact that at some point they had ended up holding hands and lying squished together on Stiles' small bed. He finds it odd that he doesn't really care about the proximity, in fact he enjoys it, and squeezes Derek's hand back in an effort to convey that.

Eventually he falls asleep, waking at 10 o'clock when his phone rings, Scott's name flashing in the dark, but he ignores the call, switches his phone off, and rolls back over. He's vaguely surprised that Derek is still there, one eyes cracked open and hair sleep ruffled, as he raises an eyebrow in question. Stiles shakes his head dismissively, and burrows back into the warmth Derek's offering, vowing to deal with everything the following day, when life isn't as depressing and empty and painful. As he drifts off again, he realises that it is the first time since his mum died, that he hasn't had to cry himself to sleep on the anniversary of her death.

And it's all thanks to Derek Hale, who snores in his sleep, and kicks his legs while dreaming, like he's a dog chasing a rabbit. Who pulls him closer, shares his warmth and comfort, and tells Stiles to 'quiet down' in a sleepy murmur when he knows he's thinking too hard. Derek Hale who is changing in Stiles' mind, become something different than he was, blurring boundaries in a way that is going to have to be examined closely once Stiles is alert enough to think straight, and alone enough to freak out. Because he has suspicions about what is happening, strong suspicions, and he's not quite sure if that is good or bad.

But for the first time, Stiles can look back on his memories fondly, can appreciate the time he had with his mum, without hating the fact she's gone. He still misses her, of course he does, but for once he can miss her without completely losing it, because the weight of Derek's arm grounds him, and the breeze of his breath on his neck distracts him, and he feels like he might be ok without her. Not perfect, but fixable, because if Derek can keep going without his family, Stiles can do the same for his mum.

'Stiles, go to sleep.'

He chuckles as Derek pinches his stomach and shifts closer so he's less likely to fall from the bed. Sending off a quick prayer to his mum, wondering if she can hear him, but knowing he'll never know, Stiles turns over so that he's facing Derek. He throws an arm over a broad shoulder, and tucks his head under Derek's chin. He finally falls asleep soon after, feeling safer than he ever has before.