Oh, sweetie, just one more . . . for me?
Derek jerked awake to a cracking sound and a blazing line across his chest, even now fading. Panting, shivering in cold sweat, he ran a hand over his skin just to be sure and quickly checked around the interior of his new apartment. Everything was dark and quiet, as it should be, but foreign. He got up slowly and headed for the kitchen, moving like his bones were made of glass. His skin felt too thin, transparent. And he tried not to make a sound as he went; sounds were for things that belonged in the world, for people who had a right to take up space. Sound drew attention.
He spread his unsteady hands on the countertop and tried not to remember the timbre of her voice, the cold prettiness of her smile. It made his stomach burn sour. The apartment still smelled like fresh paint and cleaner, and all his senses could gather from it was sterility and chill. He couldn't be here. Not with her smile and the ghost of a scar, alone. On autopilot, he threw on a t-shirt and put a pair of sweats on over his boxers. Then grabbed his coat and was gone. He barely remembered the drive, and only came into focus again when he was hauling himself up onto the roof outside Stiles's window.
His phone said 3:13 a.m.
Derek peered in at Stiles, twisted in his sheets and one arm dangling on the floor. He scowled at his own reflection in the glass. That he should be here. That he should need to be here. But the moths fluttering through his chest would not settle and their wingtips burned, and if there was another way . . .
He rapped lightly on the glass.
Stiles shifted in his sleep, but that was all, so Derek knocked louder. This time, his head popped up, and Derek tapped the glass again to get his attention. Stiles dropped his face to his pillow with a groan, but then untangled himself and shuffled to the window to open it. He hugged himself against the cold as Derek climbed through, slower and more careful than usual. Derek pressed the window shut with deliberate attention, avoiding Stiles's querying gaze, letting the sound of his heartbeat transfigure his glass bones.
"D'you know what—"
"Three a.m.," Derek said and finally looked over, a pleading, cracking expression on his face. He tried to search for the next words, but his mouth just ghosted over the possibilities until he gave up.
Stiles sighed, letting his arms drop, ran a hand through messy hair, and motioned toward the bed. "Sit."
Derek dropped his jacket by the chair at the foot of the bed and sat. He glanced up as Stiles came near and moved over to make room. The moths beat their wings, and he drew a deep breath, gathering the warm, safe scent into his empty spaces. He stared down at the floor. Stiles glanced from his white knuckles gripping the mattress to the pulsing tension in Derek's jaw, but said nothing.
"How did you know about Kate?" Derek asked eventually, keeping his tone hushed.
"Allison." Stiles shrugged.
Derek nodded absently. "How much do you know?"
Stiles gave him a close look. "I have an A in math. I know it was statutory—"
"Yeah." Derek cut him off with barely a whisper and then swallowed hard. One knee started bouncing in a nervous gesture he didn't know he had, and he hit it with a balled fist to make it stop. Flames licked through his lungs instead, and for a second he couldn't breathe. Everything tightened. Muscles, skin, trying not to fly apart.
Slowly, and then all at once, his dignity fell away in ribbons, and he was left alone, the moonlight cutting across his face.
"It started off . . . normal. Nice. Movies." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Dinners." The memories rose, swift and shocking, and his throat constricted around them. "She told—" His voice cracked, and he tried again. "She told me I was . . . gentle," he whispered. Shame flamed over his face, making him pause. "That I wasn't like the other men." He smiled a small, bitter smile at the fool he'd been. "That I was special." Derek hung his head and held the back of his neck. It sounded so stupid when he said it aloud, but that memory lived nestled in the close places of his heart, where no one saw, no one ventured. Even after everything.
"It meant a lot to you to hear that," Stiles said, his voice wondering and soft.
And Derek could only nod, a barely there gesture, before he let his hands slide into his lap. "But things got . . ." He frowned, and embarrassment made his throat burn. "At first it was normal fun. Tie my wrists. Tie me to the bed. But . . ." He sucked a stuttering breath. "Then it was all the time. Ty—tying me down." He ducked his head, cheeks flaming. "Chaining me up." His voice wavered and eyes burned, but he struggled to hold it in.
"You didn't like it," Stiles said.
Derek lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug but shook his head. "And then it wasn't enough. First, slaps . . . fists . . ." He lifted his head and gazed at the computer across from him, then out the window. "Whips . . . batons."
"Derek . . ." Hollow and horrified.
"Brands."
He pressed his lips shut and fought the urge to cry, or hide. It took a moment to find his voice again. "She said"—the moths dashed angrily, swirling—"she said it was okay because it didn't leave bruises, wouldn't leave a scar." He stared down at the floor, flushed with guilt. "I'd always be good as new."
"Jesus . . ." Stiles breathed.
"No one would know." Stupid. Stupid and gullible. "Some days," Derek started, his voice unsteady, but he broke off and concentrated on digging a nail into his palm. "Stiles, I don't know if I can—"
Stiles shifted closer and touched a hand lightly, briefly, on his back, over the tattoo. "You don't have to tell me."
But Derek shook his head because he did, he did have tell. Someone. Once. His body ached with locking it in, keeping secrets. "Some days," he said carefully, "she wouldn't look at me, touch me unless"—tears gathered in his eyes, then, and he clenched his hands into fists to fight them—"unless I wore the collar."
His eyes fell shut, and a few tears of humiliation leaked out anyway. "I hated it," he turned to Stiles, suddenly fierce. "Hated it."
Stiles gazed back at him, nodding, his heart beating fast. "That's—that's probably why she did it, you know? Cause she knew that. Cause it broke you a little each time."
Derek blinked at him, stunned, as though he'd aligned a piece that had never before fit. He'd always thought it was because she'd liked it, not because . . .
He shook his head and for a moment held his face in his hands, shielding himself.
Memories rose, boiling, and Derek sucked in a breath, unprepared for their sudden heat, the clustered rush on his senses. He looked toward the ceiling. "She would—uhm—change what she was doing." That didn't sound right, and he scowled, tried again. "A slap, kiss, punch, lick, cut, caress. I didn't know—" He swallowed and glanced at the floor. "I didn't know what was next . . . if it would . . . hurt."
"God . . ." Stiles looked at him, slack-jawed. "Why did you—" And then he jerked himself to a stop. "No. Sorry, no. Invalid question." Stiles shook himself and sat up straighter.
Derek peered over at him. "Why did I let her do it?"
"No," Stiles scowled, vehement. "Invalid."
"I asked myself that a lot," Derek said lowly and picked at the heel of one hand.
Stiles's voice came out hard. "No, you're not listening to me. That's not a real question."
Derek lifted his eyebrows and glanced over, silent. Stiles sighed in reply.
"It's like . . . Stockholm Syndrome, okay?" Stiles gestured in agitation. "She didn't . . . start abusing you with the hitting." He paused to soften his voice, calm himself down. "It started when she made you feel like her happiness mattered more than yours. Okay? Which was like, way before." He waited for a reaction.
Derek's frown deepened, and his gaze dropped unfocused in Stiles's direction. "She had . . . she called them flechettes. Thin blades, almost, almost surgical." Stiles sucked a breath and brought his hands over his mouth, staring with wide eyes as Derek spoke. "She would . . . slice open my skin, and by the time it bled, it would heal. But it"—Derek flinched—"hurt." Something changed, spun.
"Derek?"
Stiles reached for his hand, but he jerked it away. "Don't!" Couldn't breathe.
"Derek!"
Alarmed, Stiles slid onto the floor and got into his field of vision. "Derek, look at me. Okay? Look at me."
He panted fire. Felt cold. Terror. Slices.
"Derek, look at me!" Stiles said louder, and their eyes connected. "You're here, okay. You're right here. With me."
He frowned in confusion but didn't look away.
"You're here. And I wouldn't let her, all right? I wouldn't let her." Stiles spoke with conviction, and the world spun slightly less because Derek found he believed him. She was dead, and they both knew it, but he believed him anyway.
The cadence of Derek's breathing altered to something less than sheer panic, and Stiles sagged with relief, only breaking eye contact once he was sure. He got up and went to the closet, coming back with a blanket.
"You're shaking," he said gently, handing it over, though it had nothing to do with cold.
Derek draped the blanket over his shoulders anyway. It smelled like Stiles and fabric softener. Somehow he could feel every thread against his bare arms, and his skin felt thin enough to tear. He hugged the blanket around himself and avoided looking Stiles in the face as he shook with bone-deep tremors. His thighs itched with ancient cuts.
"What—what was that?" his voice rough.
"Something like a panic attack," Stiles said, lowering himself back onto the bed. "From the PTSD she apparently gave you. A B4. 'Intense psychological distress at exposure to internal cues.'" At the questioning look he received, he shrugged and played with his fingers. "You triggered yourself," he said quietly.
Somehow, Stiles knew just how far away to be, not crowding, not abandoning either. Minutes passed in silence as the shaking lessened, and Derek could feel himself coming back to the moment. His breathing evened.
"I didn't know how bad it was," Stiles offered, and Derek looked at him, eyes full of regret and self-recrimination.
"I should have stopped her."
"Don't do that."
"I was stronger. I could have. Any time."
Stiles pressed his lips into a fine line and puffed out a breath, nostrils flaring. He got up and stepped around Derek, heading toward his nightstand. He snatched up his cell phone, and a few seconds later, Derek's cell phone buzzed in the pocket of his jacket on the chair. Derek leaned across the space Stiles had vacated and to dig for his phone, even though he knew what he'd find. Not. Your. Fault. As he stretched, his eyes fell toward the floor, and he spotted a book half-hidden under the bed. He forgot all about the phone as he picked up the book instead.
Rape, Incest & Sexual Harassment: A Guide for Helping Survivors
Derek sat up slowly, staring at the cover. He could hear Stiles's heartbeat begin to race and looked up at him.
"For me," he said, not quite a question.
Stiles swallowed and eased the book from his hands as he sat down, closer than before. "Yeah. Been doing a lot of research."
Warmth twinged in Derek's chest at the idea. That someone had thought to put in the time. The effort. But of course Stiles had, would. Of course, him. Again, with the gifts he didn't deserve, small cares unearned. Affection ached in his hollows as he watched Stiles talk.
". . . gave me a social worker to interview, who, by the way, totally thinks 'my friend' is me." Stiles glanced over. "Probably got a file now." The sliver of smile of his face faded when he saw Derek's expression so close to tears, so full of need. Stiles frowned a little. "Derek?"
He tried to close the space between them, leaned in toward the soft bow of his mouth, but Stiles jerked away and hopped off the bed in a flurry of motion and startlement.
"Woah, woah! Uh. Okay, uh, thank you," Stiles said, gesturing with his hands pressed together like a prayer. "Seriously, that, um. Would make my year. I would so like to take you up on that offer."
Derek hunched in on himself, face heated with new shame.
"But, look at me, hey"—Stiles waited until Derek glanced up at him—"I'm trying to do the right thing here, okay? And it's not that I don't want, because holy crap, I want. But . . . I." He sagged, the rush of words running out. "I don't want to take advantage. Okay?" He brushed both hands through his hair. "I can't do that." He swallowed and crossed his arms.
Derek blinked at him, the mix of affection and rejection warring with what he knew to be good sense. His emotions had never been trustworthy. "Okay," he said dully, because it seemed to be what Stiles wanted to hear.
Stiles sighed and dropped his arms to his sides. Then he sat back down and gave Derek a sad, hopeful look. "I get it, okay? You want to feel better, and I—I help."
More than help. He didn't know how to explain, so he touched the backs of his fingers to Stiles's cheek and gazed at him. Stiles gasped a little, and his heart fluttered.
"Rain check?" Stiles said, moving Derek's wrist away."For maybe a day that's less emotionally traumatizing?"
The plea in his voice made Derek huff out a small laugh, which Stiles took as confirmation. They watched one another for a second, and then Stiles got up and headed for his closet. He reached high and pulled down a sleeping bag.
"Okay, so, I have school in three hours," Stiles said as he unrolled the bag.
It took Derek a second to realize that Stiles was going to sleep on the floor of his own room. "I can go," he told him. "I should go." And he stood up, only to have Stiles stand up as well, mirroring him.
"You don't have to."
And even Derek could read the in between lines. I don't want you to. He frowned down at the sleeping bag and then shooed Stiles away from it. "Sleep in your own bed."
Stiles made as if to argue but decided against. He pushed the extra blanket off onto the floor and tossed Derek his second pillow as he pulled up the covers.
In truth, Derek was glad to stay, calmed by the scent of Stiles everywhere, a cocoon of the familiar and close. The sound of his heart beating lulled him into a half sleep, and somehow, eventually, he drifted off, and Kate didn't make it into any dreams.