Dark Paradise
Loving you forever, can't be wrong
Even though you're not here, won't move on.
And there's no remedy for memory
Your face is like a melody, it won't leave my head
Your soul is haunting me and telling me
That everything is fine, but I wish I was dead
Derek's eyes flitted to the changing numbers on the pump, willing them to go faster as the scent of arousal grew stronger. Uncomfortable, he chanced a glance to make sure the source hadn't moved closer to him.
She hadn't, but she also hadn't stopped shamelessly eye-fucking him even when he caught her. She smiled, a dirty, confident curve of her lips as she leaned against her car in way that could only be inviting.
Despite his survival instincts urging him to completely refuel his tank – you never know when the next emergency will pop up like a jack in the box, the next time you'll have to run from hunters, the next time you'll have to be the getaway car or an ambulance – he almost tucks tail and runs.
He's so wound up debating if he should just escape or tough it out, that he jumps when his phone vibrates in his pocket.
He swallows hard when the older woman across from him gives a giggle.
("It's sooo cute when they spook like that," a voice croons from his memories.)
He fights back a shudder, answering his phone without even looking to see who's calling.
"…Dude, you're supposed to say something. You know, hello, hi, who is this, what the hell do you want, sup, hola, ANYTHING," the emphatic voice catches his attention, "You can't just breath in greeting."
"Stiles," he finally recognizes.
"There we go, man. That was perfect!" the voice praises him. Derek isn't certain, but he's sure it's sarcastically, "See, that's much better than just breathing heavily into the phone. What are you, Darth Vader? Please tell me you get that reference. Please. For my sanity. Because Scott –"
"Stiles," he says again simply, cutting off the rabid Star Wars fanboy mid tangent.
Stiles gives a put-upon sigh, but he obliges Derek. "Yeah, yeah. I'll get to the point, Sourwolf."
There's a pause that goes on a little too long, before Derek breaks it with a deadpan of, "You forgot why you called didn't you."
Stiles sputters on the other end, clearly trying to say a million things at once. He finally makes a noise of triumph as he yells, "Werewolf puberty!"
Derek pulls his phone away with a wince, shooting a dirty look at the device. Sighing, Derek simply asks, "Why?"
"Just curiosity," Stiles tries to explain.
Derek knows better and it doesn't take long for Stiles to break and dive into recounting his newest venture. Apparently, he's putting together a book for newbie werewolves. "The Do's and Hell No's of Wolfyhood". Distractedly, Derek begins to explain how awful that title is as he puts the pump back, rejects the receipt and slides into his car.
It's only after he hangs up on Stiles and moves to shift into drive that he remembers the woman from earlier. Cautiously, he glances to where she had been laid out like an offering only to find the spot blessedly empty.
'Looks like the cougar retreated to her den.'
Derek snorts, agreeing with the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Stiles.
He relaxes again, glancing down at his tank.
It's full.
It had been nothing but an occasional passing thought at first. Nothing he really paid much heed to.
He'd be in a mildly uncomfortable situation – people staring as he ran errands, people whispering about the fire in the store, cashiers getting too bold in their attempts to flirt – and he'd find himself wondering what Stiles would say. How he would react if he'd been there with Derek too.
How he would probably stumble and fall into a tower of cereal, thus stealing all the attention from Derek. Or how he would steal all of Derek's attention with his incessant blabbering.
Just fleeting little day dreams that put a little distance between Derek and the real world. Something that eased the tension from his shoulders. Made it easier to breath. Just a little bit.
He didn't think anything of it.
So, of course the habit grew.
His silly little day dreams of Stiles began infiltrating his nights of terror.
He'd be running from something – always running from something whether awake or asleep – with no end in sight and growing apprehension that he would be caught. Tortured. Killed like the rest of his family.
Then Stiles would come sliding in with Scott's baseball bat, just as freaked out as Derek, but with some crazy plan to save the day.
Sometimes, he would grab Derek's arm, yelling "This way!" as he charged down a path Derek hadn't noticed before. They'd lose their pursuers in a labyrinth of twists and turns, Stiles seeming to be the only one who could navigate Derek's dark dreamscape.
Other times, he would help Derek fight off the shadows. His bat would reign down fury as the shadows skittered away from him, letting out wounded shrieks when he connected. In perfect tandem, Derek would snarl and rip at their enemies alongside him.
Every time, no matter what variation he would come to Derek's rescue in, he'd smile and say, "You're safe. You're safe now, Derek."
Derek would still wake up tired, but not defeated.
He believed Dream Stiles.
Of course, right when he finally began to feel safe and comfortable, hunters managed to drag him out of his home. His only consolation was that Peter had been snatched too.
Well, it had been a comforting thought that Peter would suffer too, right until he realized his uncle's snarky mouth would just earn them more pain.
On the first night, weak with pain and slipping in and out of consciousness, Stiles came to him.
Unlike before, where he would be a force of nervous, but determined energy, the Stiles before him now was completely calm, if not solemn. He eyed Derek sympathetically when the tortured man futilely reached for him with shaking and bound hands. "Stiles," he rasped.
"Derek," his eyes met his steadily, "We have to get you out of here."
Derek wanted to laugh, but he probably sobbed instead. How? This wasn't a normal nightmare that Dream Stiles could just crash. This was reality. He had no power here.
"Derek," he called again, stooping down to be at eye level. "We're going to get you out of here."
"How?"
Those sharp eyes darted about his bindings, looking for a weakness. "These bindings are pretty secure," he observed.
Derek refrained himself from griping, "Yeah, no shit." Stiles was already striding around the dark, dingy room, looking for anything that could help.
"Tell me what you know about your captors," he demanded. When Derek began to sag into the darkness of unconsciousness, Stiles called again calmly, "Derek, tell me about your captors."
"One's got a limp…" he began, struggling to recall anything and everything at Stiles's urging.
"That's good, Derek," Stiles reassures, "You're doing good. Keep going. You have to keep going."
Two more days of captivity and torture pass, only marked by the comings and goings of his interrogators. In the waking world, his imagined Stiles analyses his situation, coaching Derek to pay attention to his environment, to look for a chance. In his dreams, his mind flips through his memories of the real Stiles. For those few blessed hours of sleep, he can forget his current reality.
On the third day, Stiles presses close, so close that Derek is sure he is actually tangible, and whispers in his ear, "Here's what we're going to do."
Before he knows it, Derek is free and his captors are dead, their blood violently painted onto him. Peter is quiet, wearily observing his nephew, intrigued with what he witnessed. But Derek pays no heed, his eyes thankful as they focus on his hallucinated hero, following him to safety.
Stiles had kept his promise. Even though he isn't real, he had saved him yet again.
It is after this that his imaginary Stiles becomes a permanent fixture.
It is also after this, that the line between real and imaginary begin to blur for Derek.
It's always nice to see Stiles he finds himself admitting, even if it's only to himself.
Of course, no one can tell this from the disgruntled frown he makes sure to wear at all times.
But really, even if they're only hanging out to discuss the newest threat of the week, Derek can barely restrain his fondness from showing through his usual eye rolling and scoffing. He suspects Stiles knows regardless.
This time though, Stiles is too nervous to be his normal over-observant self. He paces around Derek's studio as he rambles, barely avoiding knocking into or over things. Derek is eventually able to corral him to sit on the couch after Stiles nearly trips over the hand weights left lying out. Even so, Stiles is still the embodiment of movement, hands fidgeting and knees bouncing as his mouth runs a mile a minute.
"So you're saying that you're somehow responsible for that bomber guy attacking Scott's new girlfriend?" he cuts off the outpour of observations and theories Stiles had been spouting for the last ten minutes. His tone sounds disbelieving, but the truth is, he believes Stiles. He always believes him, but this time, he doesn't want Stiles to be right.
"She's not his girlfriend," Stiles corrects as if Derek actually cares about Scott's love life. He seems to rethink himself and adds, "Well, not yet at least."
"What did Scott say about all of this?" he decides to ask.
Stiles deflates a bit, ceasing his fidgeting and sinking into the blue cushions. It will smell like him later, Derek distractedly thinks, already planning to take a much needed nap there when Stiles leaves. He'll probably sleep there until the scent leaves, he muses a bit pathetically. "You know Scott. He doesn't think I should worry. That I'm just being paranoid." He's a bit frantic when he defends, "But I swear I had that key! I brought it to the black light party at your loft!"
"So you were one of the ones who broke into my home and threw a party while I was gone," Derek accuses. He's not mad, not even irritated really, but simply looking for a subject change. He doesn't want to talk anymore about Stiles being the bad guy. Doesn't want it to be true.
Fortunately, Stiles takes the bait. "It wasn't my idea," he defends, "It was totally one of the twins. Probably the evil one. Or the more eviler one. Anyways, I was totally innocent and I only came to be Scott's wingman."
Derek doesn't even need to say anything. Merely raising his eyebrows is enough to set Stiles off again.
"I'm serious! I was only here for like fifteen minutes at the most," he argues easily. Familiar with such banter, they both relax further into their seats. "I danced to one song – hey, I got moves, don't hate – and then left after Kaitlyn helped me realize the key was to the chemical supply closet."
"Kaitlyn?"
"Her girlfriend was one of the Darach's victims. She just came up to me and kissed me and well," he shrugs, "We got to talking I guess."
"She kissed you?" Derek makes sure to emphasize his disbelief.
"Yeah," Stiles sounds offended and then smug when he adds, "And she was hardly the first."
The thought of anyone making out with Stiles makes him uncomfortable. It's not that he's jealous. He doesn't want to kiss Stiles himself, but perhaps it's because he doesn't want anyone to steal him away. To change him. To corrupt him. It's not a fair or rational thought, but Derek wants to keep Stiles away from that world that ruined him.
"Well, you did say you've had a hard time distinguishing between your dreams and reality. I think it's pretty safe to say that was just a dream." The dig is a bit weak, lacking his usual snark, but Stiles is too ruffled to point it out.
"Hey," he practically squawks, "I am a certified stud muffin."
Derek gives a theatric sigh, "Just because your dad bought you that stupid shirt –"
"I refuse to take fashion critiques from a guy that basically lives in leather and only wears Henleys," he interrupts, pointedly glancing down at Derek's shirt. While it is indeed a Henley, it's a bright blue, a departure from the usual drab colors he favors.
"You were the one who convinced me to get this one," he grouches, remembering how Stiles wouldn't shut up the last time they went shopping and Derek had tried to buy yet another gray Henley.
Stiles doesn't have a witty comeback this time, appearing only confused. "I did?"
"You dragged me to the mall last week, because all of my shirts were 'bloody, ripped or boring'" he quotes.
"I didn't say – We never went –" Stiles only looks more confused, frowning at Derek's shirt as if it will clarify things. "I don't think that happened, Derek."
He's probably right just like he's probably right about being part of the current threat, Derek realizes, a cold feeling seizing him. But he wants for Stiles to be wrong about this too, and so he weakly reminds Stiles, "You've been losing time - getting your dreams mixed up with the waking world, right? You probably just forgot."
Normally, Stiles would argue with Derek until he was blue in the face, but Stiles isn't sure of a lot of things these days. Just as Derek said, he's losing time. His reality blurring with his imagination.
Just like Derek.
Of course, Stiles is right about everything.
He knows something is wrong even before he gets the call from Scott one night. One moment he and Stiles are hand in hand as they run from Derek's nightmares. The next moment, Stiles is ripped from his hands, sinking into the shadows as he screams for Derek to help. To find him. To save him from the darkness that swallows him.
So by the time Scott calls him in the middle of the night to tell him that Stiles has gone missing, Derek is already looking for him.
But no matter how hard he looks, no matter how clever he tries to be, he doesn't find Stiles that night. No one really does for a while, because the Stiles they find isn't really their Stiles.
They take Stiles in for tests at the hospital and Derek does his best to hide his panic. Because he's not sure what he can do for Stiles if it isn't a supernatural problem. He finds himself anxiously occupying a waiting room, the Sherriff's discomfort and Scott's awkward redirection the only things that stopped him from following them into the MRI room.
Later, when Scott rejoins him, he seems confused by Derek's presence. "I want to thank you, Derek, for being here," he says, the question of 'but why are you here?' goes unsaid, but not unheard by Derek.
"Of course," Derek answers, just as confused. Why wouldn't he be there for Stiles? Stiles is always there for him. He's always there to push him to try new things and pull him back to the present when his mind drifts to the past. He's always there nag him about eating healthy meals, because that junk-food loving teen is perpetually concerned with the cholesterol of others. Or to come up with plans when everything seems hopeless. Or simply to save Derek from being lonely. "Stiles wants me here," Derek defends.
Scott looks uneasy, like he doesn't believe him and Derek desperately ignores the little voice of reason that reminds him that his relationship with Stiles in almost entirely in his head. All of his memories of casual grocery trips or lazy days of lounging around his loft with his hyperactive sidekick might very well be fabricated. All the inside jokes and deep conversations mere figments of his imagination.
But Scott doesn't push, even though he rightfully holds the title as Stiles's best friend. He's too thankful for any help he can get at this point. He has the feeling he'll need it later on. So he just smiles and thanks Derek again while they wait for results.
Derek can't stand not doing anything, so he fixes Stiles's beat down jeep, because he can't fix anything else. He deflects Aiden's suspicions to protect Stiles even when the beginnings of realization are sparked.
He's the first one to realize that Stiles is possessed and he tells no one.
He can trust no one now that Stiles is the monster.
Stiles doesn't return to Derek's nightmares or day dreams no matter what Derek does. Soon, Derek's nights become sleepless and his days a little less bright.
And just as Stiles had lost his mind, Derek loses his too without him.
The others find out and Derek exhausts himself keeping an eye on the twins and Chris Argent. They're less interested in saving Stiles and more interested in stopping him at any cost. And Derek simply can't afford to let Stiles die. Even if it's what Stiles wants.
While the others are easy enough to string along, Peter sends him insufferably smug smirks that let him know he sees right through him.
When he sees Stiles again, he looks sick. He's paler and skinnier than he normally already is. He looks like he's slept even less than Derek. His eyes are the only things that are remotely familiar, the usual glint of mischief and clever wit sharper than ever. But even that is all wrong. His eyes are just as dark as his designs.
He sweeps Derek aside like he's nothing. He sweeps them all aside with little effort. Their pulled punches and words do nothing to reach Stiles. Having exhausted all of the nonlethal methods, Chris pulls a gun and Derek feels like he might as well be aiming it right at his own heart.
In the end, they all play right into the nogitsune's hands and it makes its escape leaving Derek with nothing but questions.
Why did he choose Derek's loft for the confrontation? Why did he label Derek as the king on the chessboard? He desperately wants these things to mean something. To mean that Stiles is in there somewhere fighting back just as much as they're fighting to get him back too. To mean there's hope.
Derek must truly look pitiful with his heavily-bagged eyes as he frantically pours over chess pieces for a hidden meaning, because even Peter takes pity on him.
"Chess is Stiles's game. It's not the game of a Japanese fox," he concludes, eyes pointedly looking at the king piece clutched tightly in Derek's hand.
Before he can solve the puzzle Stiles left for him, he's swept away by the madness of the nogistune's latest scheme. He almost burns Chris Argent alive, but he has to wonder if that has more to do with the fact that his sister set fire to his home and almost his entire family. Either way, as sleep-deprived and emotionally wrung out at he is, he can do little to fight against the fly's influence when it keeps showing him flashbacks of Chris pointing his gun at Stiles and Kate burning down his house with a smile on her face.
He's a mess of 'Protect!' and 'Avenge!' and 'Stiles! Stiles! Stiles!' Even after Chris frees him from the dark influence, his thoughts remain fixated on Stiles.
He only truly gains back a little of his sanity when he finally figures out the hidden message Stiles left for him. It's as if Stiles is right there whispering in his ear, 'Don't go alone. Please, Derek. You'll die if you face me alone.'
He listens and Aiden dies.
He watches Ethan mourn his twin and Lydia shriek as she loses another loved one with a guilty conscience. But as he glances at Stiles, sickly looking, but whole and sane and completely himself again, he can only feel relief that for once, it's not him left mourning.
Stiles is back and Derek can breathe again.
In the weeks that follow, Derek watches from afar as Stiles settles back into his routine. All the while, he waits eagerly for the return of his imaginary Stiles to no avail. He has no nightmares for Stiles to save him from and he doesn't particularly need him. But all the same, he misses him.
It has to be a nightmare, he thinks desperately, because that's only place he sees Kate now. She's dead.
She can't be real, but her bullets are.
She shoots and he closes his eyes.
He's not sure if it's a dying man's dream or if he's already dead.
But when he opens his eyes again, the lighting is warm and soft and Stiles is waiting for him patiently.
Stiles has too many fingers on his hands to be real, but Derek finds comfort as he clutches them nonetheless.
It's irrational and maybe a little naïve, but he only feels peace as he looks at his imaginary Stiles's game face. Because he knows whether it's the one fabricated by his damaged psyche or the real one that's safely tucked away in the real world, Stiles will save him.
Every time I close my eyes
It's like a dark paradise
No one compares to you
I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side
But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight
I don't want to wake up from this tonight
Author's Note: Hi, everyone! So this was a bit inspired by a beautiful post I read on tumblr by cupidsbow and the song "Dark Paradise" by Lana Del Rey. They are both very beautiful and I sincerely hope you check them out :) You can view the post here: post/80682811327/derek-hale-love-ptsd-and-maladaptive.
Thank you so much for reading and have a great day!
~Dotti3