Note: I published this once before, but accidentally published the one with all my random notes in it. So this is the real version!

The afternoon sun was warm through the huge windows of the loft, and Derek was shamelessly stretched out across his bed on his stomach to soak in the light while he read. The loft was still a little drafty, and even though spring was around the corner, the weather tended to stay in the chilly range.

He was sort of drifting, not really reading anymore, just feeling lazy and tired. He was still recovering from the last bout of supernatural bullshit, and it didn't help that he'd been right at the heart of the beginning of it, starved and tortured in some kind of sick trend that was hopefully falling out of style.

With that thought, the blackness started rising.

Like he'd been doing for months, when Derek felt the threat of all that pain converging on his senses, deep in his mind, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, imagining the sex-body wash-hazelnut scent of his anchor.

Stiles.

Stiles drifted into his vision, his hand reaching out to stroke gently through Derek's hair, comforting him as he retreated quietly back into his safe place. Stiles' fingers traced down his back, over his spine, and when Derek felt calm again, the image faded and he was left with just the feeling of the sun warm through his grey henley. He sighed, rubbing his eyes and then rolling to his side, where he just lay and breathed for a few moments.

Stiles was in a sheltered place in Derek's heart; he was someone sacred and safe. Derek tried not to put names and labels on what he felt for Stiles, but he couldn't deny the feeling of stability and peace that overtook him when Stiles came into his thoughts, like some kind of reminder that Derek could be happy. It'd been horrifying and liberating the first time he'd retreated into his head to find control and found Stiles' smile instead of the rage that'd been his comfort for years, but really it was only natural after how Stiles had proved over and over that he could - and would - protect Derek.

And for Derek, someone willing to do those things was kind of a precious commodity. He'd already lost Laura, Boyd, Erica, Isaac, even Allison; death and an inability to deal with the Beacon Hills bullshit had stripped away layers of the pack that first he, and then Scott, had tried to build. So much destruction, so much loss, and, selfishly enough, so few people left to give a fuck about Derek.

Stiles gave a fuck. He cared, genuinely cared about Derek's well-being. Derek never forgot Stiles' anger when he'd first told him that he didn't trust him, while Stiles was barely keeping them above water in a pool with Derek completely paralyzed in his arms. That had been kind of a turning point in Derek's head, that maybe he should start to ease up on the tight hold he had over his own insecurities and fears. Stiles got under his skin, at first in the way that he seemed to pick at Derek's every nerve, and later because Derek noticed how headstrong and emotionally pure Stiles was.

It'd hit him hard, like a punch to the gut, when Stiles and Scott had come to Derek to warn him about Jennifer. Stiles' gentle, angry tears, and the lines in his face that said that he was willing to do absolutely whatever it took to get his dad back had struck Derek right to his core. It was why he'd let Stiles vent his anger and desperation, and blame Derek for things out of his control.

But Stiles came back for him, even then, and Derek knew with a certainty that Stiles always would.

When that realization had hit him, it'd flooded his whole consciousness, spanning through his heart and mind and body in a way that nothing had since his family, since Paige. He'd felt something settle inside of him, a light and a warmth where so much cold anger and darkness had been for years, and he was helpless to stop it.

So he gave in, sank into it, built a quiet space in his mind for Stiles, and tapped into him whenever he needed to be human.

Whenever he needed to be safe.

Stiles, of course, had zero clue about any of this, and Derek planned to keep it that way. There were too many factors: Stiles' age; Derek's fucked upness; Stiles' fucked upness; the Sheriff; pack dynamics; Stiles' undetermined feelings. Derek wasn't emotionally equipped to handle any of it, so he just let it lie, and ignored any lingering pain that came from the separation, from the distance he was imposing between them.

Derek snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the Jeep rumble up into the parking lot below.

He frowned, because while they were friends - battle buddies, something like that - Stiles didn't usually just drop in. Even though he could admit he wanted Stiles to feel comfortable enough to do that, that Derek wished Stiles would want to just stop by anytime-

Derek shook his head, halted that train of thought. He went through the list: Stiles was still barely 17, possibly involved with Derek's cousin, recovering from his own mental and physical trauma from the Nogitsune, and, most importantly, Derek was so damaged that no one should be subjected to a relationship with him. Especially Stiles, because if Derek ever hurt him, in any way, there would be no coming back from it. Stiles had been Derek's metaphorical and literal salvation over and over, and if something happened, if Derek did something to him, he didn't think he'd be able to live with it.

Derek was a survivor, to a degree, but he'd been broken down so many times over the years that his tenuous hold on himself was getting completely exhausted. There was only so much one person could really take in so many years, and sometimes Derek wondered what was even worth it when it came to being alive.

He made his way into the area he'd set up as a kitchen, getting a glass of water while he listened to the elevator crank up. After a few seconds, he could pick up Stiles' heartbeat, and his hackles instantly went up when he noticed how it was skipping and racing - distressed.

He immediately had a thousand and one thoughts race through his head, his body ready for a fight, his heart and mind gearing up for bad news: someone was dead or hurt; some new big bad was threatening the pack; Derek had fucked something up, something from his past coming to bite him in the ass; Stiles wasn't safe, something was after him.

Derek took a few deep breaths, and with the thought of Stiles' smile, had some kind of calm facade up when Stiles-in-the-flesh slid open the door to the loft.

Stiles looked alert and stressed, but not hurt. His hair was sticking up every which way, like he'd forgotten he'd gelled it and had been scrubbing his hands over his head like he did when he was upset. His eyes were red, shining but dry, his face was flushed and his breathing uneven like maybe he'd run from the jeep to the loft. His scent was sharp with the smell of adderall and anxiety, and Derek resisted the urge to run to him and more thoroughly check for any physical damage.

Stiles seemed to deflate a little when he took in Derek, so Derek took his mental Alert System code down from "Someone's Dead" to "Stiles is Upset." He could handle this.

Stiles leaned against the doorframe for a second, just catching his breath and staring at Derek, so Derek got another glass and filled it with water before walking over to Stiles and pressing it into his hand. When Stiles straightened up, Derek put a gentle hand on his back, pushing him into the loft while he closed the door.

When he turned back around, Stiles was sipping his water on the couch. It was weird that he hadn't said anything, so when Derek sat down next to him, he waited only waited a moment before asking, "What's wrong?"

Stiles shook his head and put down his water, and Derek's frown deepened.

"I saw something. I… You need to see it, I can't explain it. I don't want to explain it, it's… Fuck," Stiles ran one hand through his hair again, then glanced up at Derek. His eyes were wet, now, and Derek immediately wanted to soothe the stress and frustration away.

So Stiles had had a vision. It was one of the stranger things left over from the Nogitsune possession; Stiles was what Deaton called a Spark, and having that much power coursing through him for those weeks had sort of kick-started some other abilities, the main one being a kind of precognitive trick. Stiles' eyes would glaze over, and he'd snatches of the future, like scenes in a movie.

They'd doubted it at first, but after three's-a-pattern, it started to fall into place. Not everything Stiles saw actually happened, but the visions came true often enough that they acted as if whatever he saw was going to happen. Sometimes they could actually stop the event from taking place, and it had saved lives - including Derek's - on more than one occasion. Stiles was still trying to learn how to control it so it could be more useful, but it was a work in progress.

Derek resisted the urge to wipe away the tear that was falling gently down Stiles' cheek. Whatever he'd seen had Stiles really freaked out, and Derek felt an intense dread curdle in his gut.

"Hey, it's okay," Derek murmured, bringing a hand to rest on the back of Stiles' neck. "Show me?"

Stiles' eyes glanced back and forth between Derek's, before he nodded and sat up straight, his neck one long line. Derek allowed his claws to shift outward, and carefully lined them up along the back of Stiles' neck.

"Three," Derek started the countdown, letting Stiles breathe. "Two... One." He pushed his claws in hard, breaking beneath Stiles' skin to access the part of his mind Stiles wanted to share.

He wasn't ready for what he saw.

Stiles' eyes were manic, red-rimmed and exhausted like they'd been when he was possessed, but he was also crying, almost to the point of heaving-sobbing, and tearing his hair out with one hand while the other white-knuckled an ornate knife.

That was the first thing Derek noticed in the vision, but it was only a second before his eyes shifted to his own body laid out on a stone slab, his wrists, stomach, and ankles bound by a rope that had rubbed his skin raw with its wolfsbane poison. There was a bullet hole in his shoulder with telling inky-black sickness radiating outward in his veins, and his face was pale, eyes delirious as he begged.

"Stiles, this isn't you, don't do this-"

"It is me!" Vision-Stiles choked out, hoarse like he wanted to scream, but couldn't. "That's the problem, Derek, that I have to do this, because it's the only way and I have to, please, I'm so sorry, I'm so… Fuck!"

Stiles threw himself to his knees, one hand coming up to grip Derek's limp fingers. He sobbed for a moment before he took a deep breath, pulling himself upright like he was sick and hurting.

Derek saw himself struggling to breathe as the wolfsbane worked its way closer to his heart.

"Stiles… Please…"

And with that, Stiles wiped his face with his free hand, before lowering it down to Derek's forehead and gently brushing his hair back from where it was sticking to his brow.

"I am so sorry, I have to. Please, just, please know that…" Stiles said, and though Derek could see his lips moving, he couldn't hear what he said after that.

Derek watched his vision-self close his eyes and whisper something, and then Stiles raised up the blade and settled it against one side of Derek's neck. Derek watched in sickened shock as Stiles dragged the knife deep across Derek's throat, cutting through sinew and arteries and his trachea, bleeding him out and drowning him in his own blood.

Derek snapped into his own head in the present time, and gently withdrew his claws from Stiles' neck. It took a second for him to even remember his own name, and the first thing that registered was that Stiles was shaking in tears next to him. And then he realized that they were both crying.

Derek felt like they were across the world from each other. That was how afraid he was to reach across those few inches between them to take Stiles into his arms and just breathe him in, feel him be real and alive and present and safe with Derek. So instead, he just let his hand rest on the back of Stiles' neck and put pressure on the cuts there, wanting so much more, but not knowing what else might be welcome.

"Derek…" Stiles started, choked on the word. Derek watched him swallow down his nerves and fear. "That can't happen. I can't live through something like that, not ever."

"It won't," Derek said, wiping his eyes with sleeve of his henley. "Not everything you see happens, remember? Or we can change it."

Stiles covered his eyes with his hands, and pushed the tears away with his fingers. He took a deep breath, and Derek knew he was steeling himself to say something that neither of them was going to like.

"I don't know how to be sure we can. And I have to be abso-fucking-lutely sure that it's not going to happen, or I'm never gonna be able to sleep at night." He met Derek's gaze and held firm. "You need to get away from here. Away from me, it's not… I'm not safe." He took a breath, but didn't break eye contact. "I want you to leave."

You need to get away from me.

It shouldn't have hurt.

He was supposed to be stronger than this.

Derek felt that acute sensation of being impaled through the chest, the raging phantom pain of a pipe just barely missing his heart, threaded through him like silk through a needle. Something in him clenched so hard that he thought he might cave in from it, form a small black hole right in the middle of Beacon City. The pain was so intense that he physically looked down at himself to make sure he wasn't actually bleeding out, and then he understood.

His heart was breaking.

He only realized that he was losing control when Stiles reached up and gripped his arm, pulling it away from his neck where his claws had left shallow scratches. Derek yanked his hand back, horrified, and then dug his claws into his palms to fight for his human side as he felt his anchor slipping out of his hands.

No, no, no, no, no, no, stop, no…

He felt cool hands fall over his fists, noticed that Stiles had moved to his knees in front of Derek, and was trying to coax his hands open, whispering soft pleas, "Stop, stop, don't hurt yourself, it's okay, fucking hell, dude, you're okay, breathe with me, hang on with me, okay, relax your hands, relax…"

And just like that, everything slotted back into place.

Derek took a few deep breaths, looking straight into Stiles' eyes, and right then he didn't give a damn if Stiles could see all his raw vulnerability, he didn't care if Stiles saw all the overwhelming love, the way he needed Stiles like he'd needed anger for so long, so fucking long.

All he could see were Stiles' wide brown eyes, turned gold in the afternoon sun, half his face warm in the light and the other half shadowed, his expression worried and frantic and struggling, like he was trying to understand something.

"I can't," Derek said, and his voice was shaking. His only points of reality were in his eyes, where he could feel connected in Stiles' gaze, and his hands, where Stiles still covered them with his own. "Don't tell me to go."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, sat back on his calves, still kneeling. He hadn't let go of Derek's hands yet.

"There's nothing for you here," Stiles whispered, and then, stronger, "Everything that's happened since you got here, everything, has been fucking horrible for you. And this- this thing, vision, whatever, that I had, I can't- I can't let that happen, okay?"

"Then it won't," Derek said, and he was pleading now, he could feel himself showing his hand, laying all the cards on the table for Stiles, because it was worth his soul if Stiles would just tell him to stay. "I trust you." I love you.

"Well, you shouldn't!" Stiles snapped, and Derek turned his hands to grip Stiles' so that he couldn't pull away, even though Stiles didn't try. "Nobody should, not after everything. And I'm- I'm capable of that, I'm capable of hurting people like that, you know I am. So, just, listen to me, please, you just-"

Derek couldn't listen to this.

"That wasn't you," Derek barked, effectively halting Stiles' pity-parade. "You know it wasn't, so don't pull that shit on me."

Stiles' expression turned angry, his eyes flooding again, but the tears didn't fall.

"Whatever, I'm not arguing about this, that's not the fucking point," Stiles said, then exhaled and deflated. He flexed his fingers, gripping Derek's hands hard, not meeting Derek's eyes. "You- Derek, you have to leave. As far away from me as you can get. Go- go find somewhere that doesn't hurt you, for fuck's sake."

Derek swallowed thickly, could only think of one way to make Stiles see how Derek couldn't leave, how he couldn't live with not being there to protect Stiles, to protect the haphazard pack that gave him a sense of belonging, even with all the fucked stuff that kept happening to them.

Derek carefully slid one of his hands up Stiles' arm, then cupped the side of Stiles' face to tilt his head up to look Derek in the eye.

"Everything I want - everything that makes me happy - is here."

Stiles blinked, confused, and Derek took his chance, make it or break it, this was it.

And with the touch - so gentle - it was like heat, warmth, happiness, was radiating out from the point where Derek's lips met Stiles'. Derek kissed him softly, giving him all the time in the world to pull away, and he savored the soft, dry feeling of Stiles' lips against his, because he would probably never get it again. But it was worth it, to have this, to make Stiles see.

He didn't expect the return of pressure, the way Stiles pushed forward and took Derek's bottom lip between his teeth, nipping gently. Derek opened for him, and Stiles slid in like he belonged there, their tongues brushing and sliding. And warmth turned to burning, something deep in Derek coming alive from where it'd been dormant for months, and he reached up to pull Stiles in close to him so that he could feel all of him, could expand those points of heat exponentially as their bodies met.

As soon as his hand touched Stiles' back, Stiles yanked away from the kiss, stumbling back to land squarely on his ass as he panted.

"No," Stiles said, shaking his head. "No, no, you don't get to-"

"Stiles-"

"I don't love you!" Stiles roared, desperate and confused and there was so much pain in his face, and Derek hurt for him even as he sat there with his world collapsing around him. "Leave, Derek, I don't love you, there's nothing for you here, just- go."

I don't love you. There's nothing for you. Go.

Derek's vision tunneled, and he had to look away from Stiles as his heartbeat trembled violently like an earthquake in his ears. No… No, he had to get out of there. Stiles told him to… He told him to go, to leave, he had to- But, what, fuck, Stiles was yelling, his heart was racing, was there a lie? No, no, stupid, stupid to show everything, stupid to say anything, fuck, this ringing in my ears, it needs to stop, I feel like I'm going crazy-

Derek took a deep breath. He knew this feeling. He could control this feeling. Justlet the rage bubble up. Take comfort in the pain, because that was real, that was what would keep him grounded. The pain was real, and ever-present.

Stiles wasn't real. He'd never been real. And now he was gone.

He wasn't safe anymore.

Derek sat, grinding his teeth for a moment, waiting for the spots in his vision to fade and the pounding in his ears to recede before he stood up and went to the door. He slowly dragged it open. Slow. Controlled.

"Leave."

Stiles sat there, a stupid look on his beautiful face, like he didn't know what was going on, like he hadn't just broken the last thread that was keeping Derek's being from flying apart.

No, not the last thread.

There's always the anger.

"Derek-"

"I'll be gone by tomorrow," Derek said, and he had to look away from Stiles. Breathe deeply. "Leave."

Derek heard Stiles get up off the floor, listened to him as he half-stumbled his way to the door, felt him when he paused in front of Derek like he didn't know what to do.

"I'm sorry."

Derek couldn't look at him.

"Go."

Stiles did, and Derek slid the door closed behind him.

Slow.

Controlled.