Summary: Stiles looks after Derek after he transforms back to his adult self, and the two friends talk about what they mean to each other. CANON. This story was written after I watched "117," the second episode of the fourth season (but before I saw the third episode).

You're My Full Moon

PenPatronus

Stiles left his baseball bat with Lydia and sprinted out of the Hale vault. The moment he got topside some combination of a shriek and a howl echoed from the direction of the school. Stiles was no expert on supernatural creatures, but he knew werewolves didn't sound like that. Hair rising, goose bumps blooming, Stiles ducked behind the stone Beacon Hills High School sign just as three figures sprinted by. He saw skull masks and smelled the distinct odors of sweat and desert sand. Stiles waited until the Berserkers were out of sight before running to find his friends.

"Scott!" Stiles shouted. "Malia!" He ran up a flight of stairs, down a hallway and up another flight. He spotted Malia first, half-lying, half-sitting near the corner of a cement walkway. "Oh, God." Stiles knelt beside his friend-lover-maybe-girlfriend and examined her wounded leg. "Got you again, didn't they?"

"Stiles," Scott warned. He was sprawled on Malia's left with Kira on his other side. The werewolf, the Kitsune and the werecoyote all stared at something behind Stiles.

Slowly, Stiles stood and turned. He expected to see a ghost, considering his friends looked like they'd just seen one. Instead he met the glowing golden eyes of Derek Hale – the adult Derek Hale. "Oh my God," Stiles gasped. "Derek? You ok there, sour-pup?"

Derek blinked. Brown replaced gold.

Stiles took a cautious step forward. "Get it? You were a teen wolf again – a pup?" Stiles' hands – which had been doing their own twitchy talking as he spoke – suddenly went still. "Derek?" Stiles rotated his wrists so that his palms were facing the werewolf, gesturing the double message of "stay calm" and "I come in peace."

Derek's chest heaved with breaths. He licked his lips, inhaled deeply and whispered, "S-Show me your hands."

Stiles' eyes flickered down at his own splayed fingers. He flexed them, then raised his eyebrows in a question.

Derek suddenly swayed and grabbed onto the metal railing to steady himself. When Stiles rushed forward to help him he barked, "Your f-fingers! Show me – count them – show me how many!"

Stiles glanced back at Scott. His confused expression mirrored Stiles'. "Derek, why—" The proverbial light bulb turned on. "Derek, this isn't a dream!" Stiles held his arms straight, Frankenstein-style, and folded down each finger as he counted out loud. "…8, 9, 10! See! You're awake!" Stiles spoke slowly, like he was talking him off the edge. "You're safe. You're home!"

Derek was only on his feet because of the railing. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He squinted, then whispered, "Stiles…?"

"Yes, yes." Stiles clapped twice. "You know me. I'm the obnoxious, annoying spaz you threaten on a weekly basis, remember? And you're the grumpy wolf who's a pain in my—Derek!"

Derek's eyes rolled back into his skull and he groaned. Stiles lunged forward and caught him right before his head hit the pavement.

Derek woke up in his own bed. He was lying on his back with two pillows under his head and a blanket up to his elbows. Something hovered in front of his nose and he went cross-eyed trying to see what it was. Glass, he realized. No, a glass. A glass of water.

"Drink," a tired voice ordered. Derek obeyed. He didn't realize how thirsty he was until he swallowed all of the water in four gulps. The glass disappeared, replaced by a pale face and two hands. "You're awake," Stiles assured him. "It's Wednesday, three o'clock in the morning, and I'm pissed that I'm stuck here when I could be in bed with—" Stiles' cheeks blushed. He cleared his throat. "I mean, uh, how do you feel?"

"Sick," Derek grunted.

Stiles' eyebrows shot up with concern and his heartbeat sped up. "What's wrong?"

The werewolf glared at him. "That cologne you bathed in is making me nauseous." Derek stretched his arm out and then wrapped it around his stomach. "I'm hungry," he grunted, "for another eggroll."

Stiles sat up straight. "You remember?"

"Eating eggrolls with you and Scott's dad? No," Derek quipped. He struggled to sit up and against the wall. "Stiles, what the hell is with you and the name 'Miguel'?"

Stiles shrugged. "You just look like a Miguel to me."

"Well, I'm going to start calling you 'Idiot' because that's what you look like to me."

Stiles winced. "Well, you're definitely feeling better. What else do you remember?"

"I'm not sure." Derek wiped his hand down his face and sighed. "Kate shot me and then I woke up surrounded by wolf's bane in this dark stone room."

"Tomb," Stiles corrected. He waved his hand. "Doesn't matter."

"Scott found me. He took me to Deaton."

"We found you." Again, Stiles waved. "Doesn't matter."

"I was a kid again…" Derek rubbed his eyes. "I was in the police station… Kate and I went to the vault – I heard Scott roar. I started fighting and…" Derek shook his head as if trying to get water out of his ears. "Here. Woke up here. Stiles, how long was I gone?"

"Weeks." Stiles sighed and crossed his arms against his chest. "And it wasn't just Scott who saved you, you know. We all went to Mexico. Lydia, Kira, Malia, me…"

"Isaac?"

"He's gone. He left town after Allison's funeral. Ethan, too."

Derek went still as he digested the information. Then he asked, "Who's Malia?"

"She's your — she's a friend." Stiles flapped his hand for a third time. His voice started to ascend in pitch and volume with every word. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that you're home. We rescued you. Scott was tortured for you – so was my Jeep, by the way. And I've been sitting here guarding your unconscious ass for forever and you're welcome!"

Derek's frown resembled a student struggling with a math problem. He adjusted his body into a more comfortable position. "Doesn't make sense."

Stiles leaned back in his wood chair and started picking at a spot of dirt on his jeans. "What doesn't make sense?" he asked without looking at Derek.

"You don't make sense."

"Huh?"

Derek massaged his temples and took a deep breath. "Stiles, I don't get you. You don't make sense. You are an idiot."

"Aw shucks, sour-wolf, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." Stiles rolled his eyes. "Survey says you're feeling better, right? So you don't need a babysitter anymore, right? That means I can go home and sleep for two hours before I have to go to school." Stiles stood to leave. "I ordered you some pizza. It's in the fridge."

A hand clamped around his wrist. Stiles looked down at the hand, then followed the arm up to Derek's fierce eyes.

"Stiles, you dumbass," Derek hissed, "I'm trying to thank you."

Stiles' eyes widened. "This – this is your version of a thank you? Calling me a dumbass idiot who doesn't make sense? Boy are you lousy at this. Even lousier than Malia." Stiles tried to shake Derek's hand off but the werewolf didn't budge.

"You're not my family." Derek spoke so quietly that Stiles stepped towards him to hear. "We're barely friends and you came after me and you – you're a human! A tiny, skinny, fragile, powerless, weak—"

"This is the worst thank-you ever!" Stiles said.

"Scott's like a younger brother to me," Derek continued, sounding like he was talking to himself instead of Stiles. "Kira and Lydia, they're loyal to Scott. They helped, but not to rescue me… to help Scott. And they wouldn't help if they didn't have supernatural powers. You have zero powers, Stiles. I'm sure Scott begged you to stay home but you came anyway so I want to thank you but I also want to know, Stiles, why? You hate my guts so why risk your life for me – again? Why?"

"Derek, we may not be best friends, but we are in the same pack. I'd do the same thing for just about anybody." Stiles frowned. He didn't even notice that Derek released him. "And I don't hate-hate you," he said quietly. "I… it's just…" Stiles sat on the side of the bed and stared at his hands in his lap. "End of the day, Derek, we're buddies, I guess… But I – I dread you."

"Dread me?"

"I can't think of a better word." Stiles drummed his fingers against his knees. "You werewolves, you get anxious when the full moon is coming, right? You know it's right around the corner, and you know it could just, like, wreck everything. It could change your whole life in a night. So it's part of your life, but you dread seeing it."

Derek stared down at his feet covered by the blanket. "I'm your full moon?"

"You…" Stiles struggled for words. "You – probably because you showed up right when my world was turned upside down, right after Scott got bit… By default, Derek – even though it's not really your fault – you've come to represent everything that has caused my friends and me pain. You're walking danger, dude." Stiles swallowed the humid air in his throat.

Derek summoned his Alpha voice. "You're forgetting something about the full moon. Something important."

"What?"

Derek straightened his back and leaned closer to his friend. "Yeah, I dread the full moon. It puts those I love in danger. But, Stiles, it also makes me stronger so that I can protect people I care about." The werewolf licked his lips and sighed. "Try to think of me like that, will you? Not as someone who makes your life chaotic but…" Derek winced, but forced himself to say, "Think of me as your strength."

"You're my full moon," Stiles whispered. Then, he faked throwing up onto the floor. "Sappy. I'm taking this chick flick back to Redbox."

Derek chuckled, but managed to keep a straight face. "Pick up a Die Hard movie for me while you're there, will you?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Bite me, I'm not your slave." He shouldered his book bag and dug out his car keys. "See ya."

Derek settled back into bed. "Stiles?" he said when he heard the loft door start to close.

"Yeah?"

"You're still sick. The Nogitsune's gone, but you're still sick."

Stiles froze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're trying to mask the scent with all that cologne. It's very faint, but I can smell it… Scott doesn't know, does he?"

Stiles took a breath like he was about to answer, then shut his mouth and left without another word.

Derek frowned at the ceiling. "Dammit, Stiles," he whispered.

The End