I Keep A Book Of The Names

It all starts on a seemingly normal Friday night.

Stiles walks into Derek's house (friendship far past the point of knocking) and calls out his name a couple of times, only to be met by silence. He sighs - Derek must have forgotten that they were meeting up - and pulls his phone out of his back pocket. "Hey man, where are you?" Stiles asks, pacing back in forth in Derek's living room now, after Derek answers, sounding grumpy (like usual.)

"Sorry, I got caught up," Derek replies shortly. He must be in the middle of something. "Go ahead and make yourself at home. I should be there within the hour."

Stiles glances up at the new clock hanging on the living room wall. It reads 4:10. He sighs, "Do you have food?"

He can practically hear Derek rolling his eyes, "Foods in the kitchen. I'll be there by five." And then there's a click and silence.

Stiles shoves his phone back in his pocket and makes his way to the kitchen. Derek has been working on refurnishing the house (the living room is completely done) and the kitchen should be good as new in the next week or so. Stiles smiles when the lights actually turn on when he flips the switch and he grabs himself a muffin from the finished half of the counter before heading back to the living room.

In Stiles' defense, he doesn't mean for it to happen.

But then again, he's never really gotten the chance to look around the Hale residence on his own. He wouldn't call it snooping, really. If he were snooping, it would imply that he was actually looking for something or sneaking around. It can't count as snooping if he's just looking through the stuff that's already in front of him. Right?

Either way, Stiles finds himself walking aimlessly around the living room, his fingers running over the slightly dusty new leather couch and TV set. Derek obviously doesn't use it much, mostly just when he has people over. Which still isn't very often, even though he gets along with Stiles and most of his friends pretty well by now.

Stiles finds himself standing in front of the newest addition to Derek's living room: his bookshelf. It's actually pretty full. The top couple of rows are older fiction novels that Derek must have had since he was in middle school, judging by the way the spines are cracked with use. Even though the shelf is relatively new, Stiles can tell that they haven't been picked up or read in ages. The lower shelves are the books that Derek uses on a fairly regular basis. (One on lycanthropy, a couple of old bestiaries, old Latin books, even a book about basic first aid, which Stiles made him buy for the humans in the pack, Derek.) They're all quite familiar looking books to Stiles as he runs his fingers over the pages, save for one, which he comes to a stop at. A Bible.

(Once again, in Stiles' defense, he doesn't mean for it to happen. He is not snooping.)

But Stiles finds himself wondering why Derek has a Bible - he's never come across as a very religious person - and his finger lingers on it. He's not sure why he's so curious about it - maybe it's the little lingering kind-of crush he's had on Derek since he met him, or maybe it's because Derek never really shares much about himself - but then Stiles finds himself pulling the book slightly out of its place until it's dropping softly into his hand. He doesn't know what he thinks he's going to find (maybe Derek highlights or underlines the passages that he likes the most) but he can't stop himself from opening the book once it's in his hands.

And then he's not sure if he regrets it or not.

It's definitely a Bible - or at least it used to be - but that's not what it's used for anymore. The first half of the book is normal as he flips quickly through the pages, unmarked and seemingly normal, until he gets to the center of the book. It's cut out in the middle - much like someone would cut the center out of a dictionary or any other book to hide drugs or money or whatever - and in the center of Derek's Bible, is a smaller, leather, unmarked book.

Okay, now Stiles is snooping.

He knows he should close the Bible and forget he ever saw it - move on and eat some food and watch TV and wait for Derek to get home - but he can't stop himself once he starts pulling the hidden book out. He replaces the Bible and makes himself at home on Derek's couch, the small leather book in his hands.

"You're going to Hell, Stiles," He mumbles to himself, and then he opens it.

He immediately recognizes it as a journal. The first page is headlined with October 21st and it is definitely in Derek's handwriting, talking about Laura and New York and how much he misses his family. Stiles feels terrible for reading it (it's a journal, it's supposed to be private) but once he starts, he can't stop.

His eyes just scan over the first ten or so pages, which range from October to January and it's somewhat boring (maybe Stiles had expected too much excitement from Derek) until he gets to January 25th. There's no mistaking Derek's neat handwriting on the first line, spelling out, "I killed today."

If there was a line, Stiles had definitely crossed it. He swallows hard as he keeps reading, despite his better judgement.

"I didn't mean to. Laura doesn't know. I sincerely hope she never finds out."

That's the end of January 25th. No more details other than those three sentences. Stiles knows he should put the book away at that - put it away and forget he ever read it - but he can't. He flips forward a couple of pages.

"February 5th,

An arsonist moved in down the street. He was pronounced dead this morning. The police found him in his bedroom and are calling it an animal attack. I'd like to see them try to explain an animal like that in New York City."

Stiles swallows hard, flipping to another page.

"February 10th

Killed again. He deserved it."

He feels his heart rate quicken at the words, scribbled neatly in Derek's handwriting - how could someone deserve it? - then flips forward. And the journal quickly turns from a boring account of Derek's life in New York to a list of the people he killed while there. Sometimes he just writes their names. Sometimes it's just "killed again" and sometimes - Stiles feels sick - he'll write about the details.

He flips faster. There's page after page - some names he recognizes from cold cases, even in California – of accounts of Derek's murders.

Then he sees Laura's name again. He pauses at that page.

"Laura is dead. I snapped. I shouldn't have. I'm alone now. I have nobody. My sister is dead and it's all my fault."

Stiles shivers. So they were right. Derek Hale killed his sister. They were right all along. They were -

He feels like he's going to be sick.

He flips forward a few pages with shaky hands. Derek hasn't written much since then, but one thing does catch Stiles' eye.

Allison's school schedule. And on top of it, her father's work schedule. On the next page, Stiles finds his own school schedule, as well as Scott's. And his father's work schedule. As well as addresses and phone numbers.

Normally, Stiles would brush it off as Derek being weird, socially awkward, anything. A sad excuse for an address book. Now, though, now that he's seen inside of Derek's mind, he can't help but draw conclusions. He's keeping tabs on them.

This time, Stiles does get sick. He runs to the bathroom and throws up, his entire body shaking and convulsing. His skin is covered in a thin sheet of sweat once he's done and he feels clammy. Numb.

His legs somehow manage to carry him back into the living room and before he realizes what he's doing, he's grabbing that small leather book again, throwing his backpack over his shoulder, and heading out the front door, slamming it behind himself. It's a little after four-thirty. Derek should be getting home soon, and Stiles does not want to be there when that happens. There's only one thought ringing out in his head as he starts the jeep and pulls away from the Hale residence.

Tell Dad.

Once he's regained a little bit of composure - it takes until he's back on the main road, almost halfway home - he pulls out his phone and dials his dad's number. "Hey Stiles," He answers after a couple of rings, "What's up? I thought you were supposed to be studying with Scott after school."

A lie. A lie to be able to go to Derek's house without his father knowing. A lie, much like the majority of things he tells his dad because of the stupid messes he gets himself into.

Stiles swallows hard. "Dad, I need you to come home."

He sighs loud enough on the other end for Stiles to hear, "I'm working, Stiles, I can't just drop that."

"Please," Stiles practically whimpers, his voice even cracking.

The Sheriff seems to hear the desperation in his son's voice, "What's going on?"

Stiles swallows hard, "I - I don't know."

"Stiles-"

"It has to do with Derek Hale!" Stiles finally shouts, actually startling himself with the volume of his own voice.

"What?" His dad spits on the other end, "I specifically told you to stay away from-"

"I know," Stiles cuts him off.

"If this is another ridiculous idea that you and Scott came up with, I swear-"

"It's not, Dad. Just… Please," Stiles tries one last time, heart hammering in his chest because what if his dad doesn't believe him? He tries not to imagine having to sit in his house alone all night with Derek's journal - which he's sure Derek will figure out that he has - only for Derek to come over and want it back. And Derek's killed before… Well…

He doesn't let himself finish that thought.

"Fine," He father replies after a long moment, snapping Stiles out of his morbid thoughts, "I just need to finish up some paperwork and I'll be on my way. Alright?"

Stiles swallows, throat suddenly dry, "Alright."

Stiles gets to his house within ten minutes of getting off of the phone with his dad. He immediately locks the door behind himself, then goes to work making sure all of the doors and windows are locked, ending in his bedroom. He lets out a deep sigh of relief when he gets to his room, too, because for once, there isn't a werewolf sitting in there waiting for him.

Stiles tosses his backpack and jacket onto his bed - making sure that he keeps the journal in his hands - then heads downstairs, trying not to wonder if Derek has gotten home yet. Trying not to wonder if he's noticed what's missing yet. He hasn't called yet, wondering where Stiles is, though, so he takes that as a good thing.

As he sits on the couch, waiting for his dad to get home, Stiles quickly comes to the realization that in the journal - the one that he's still gripping onto for dear life - Derek doesn't just mention killing, he also mentions his family, and the Argents, and the fact that the Hale's are, well… Werewolves. Stiles starts to get nervous at that. He's spent almost two years now, actively trying to keep his father in the dark about that part of his life and now, if he wants to see Derek go to jail for the awful things he's done (he definitely does), he's going to have to be completely, one hundred percent honest with his dad for the first time in a long while.

Scott should probably be here for this.

Stiles searches his pockets for a moment for his phone and realizes that he must have left it in his coat pocket. Upstairs. On his bed. Of course. He sighs, and though he doesn't want to leave his safe spot on the couch in the living room, he stands, journal still in hand, and heads upstairs, telling himself that this will be a lot easier if Scott (and maybe his mom, too) was here to help explain things.

His eyes are trained on the floor when he pushes the door to his bedroom back open again, which is why Stiles is startled (okay more than startled, he definitely screams a little) when he looks up and sees the dark figure in the corner of his room.

Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck.

Stiles gulps, clasping his hands - and the journal - behind his back. "Uh… Hey man."

"I'm not an idiot, Stiles," Derek's voice growls out as he steps forward slightly, "I know you have it."

Stiles doesn't say anything at that. What is he supposed to say? Oh yeah, I found your journal where you wrote in detail about every person you've killed including but not limited to your sister and a small handful of cases that my dad has worked on. Right. That wouldn't work. What could Stiles possibly say to make Derek stop stalking out of the corner of his room like that?

"So, what? That's it? You're going to kill me now?" The words tumble out of Stiles' mouth when he catches a glance of Derek's claws out of the corner of his eyes.

Derek shrugs, still slowly - ever so slowly - closing the distance between them. Stiles takes a couple of steps backward, back toward the doorway. "You really haven't left me any choice."

"Jesus," Stiles mutters. Not really the answer he was looking for. He swallows hard. Come on, Stilinski, you can talk yourself out of this. You've done it a million times. Just… talk…

"You've saved my life a million times," Stiles blurts out, which surprisingly causes Derek's step to falter. Good. "From Peter, and the kanima…" He swallows, "And Scott. You've saved him too. You really want to do this? You won't have anyone, Derek. Let me help you. I've saved your ass a couple of times too, remember?"

Stiles feels his back hit the door frame. He's still backing up, stumbling against the wall, and Derek is still stalking forward, eyes dark. "I don't have a choice, Stiles," He replies, and then he's almost within arm's length. Derek's words from months ago - I don't trust you - ring out in Stiles' head and it all sort of all hits him then. Derek doesn't trust him. He never has. He has nothing to lose by killing him. Just someone to talk to every once in a while. Just a kid to do research when he doesn't feel like it. Derek doesn't need him.

Stiles immediately starts pleading. Frantic. "Derek please, just stop, think about what you're doing. I'll give it back, I won't tell anyone. I'll forget I ever read it, I-"

It happens in a split second. One moment, Derek is in front of him, body pulled tight like a spring, and the next, he's right in front of Stiles' face, one hand on his shoulder, holding him still and the other one… The other one is thrusting forward, claws digging deep into Stiles' abdomen like he's done it a million times. (He probably has.) Stiles' words and his thoughts are cut short by the curling, searing pain in his stomach and all he can do is look up at Derek's - his killer's - dark, red eyes.

His life doesn't flash before his eyes, necessarily, but the main thought that makes its way to the forefront of his mind beside painpainpain is of his father. Of how he doesn't deserve to come home to find him like this. Of how he's never deserved the shit that has been constantly thrown at him. Despite the fact that it's getting harder and harder for Stiles to breathe, let alone think, he finds himself hoping that Derek leaves before his dad gets home. That he at least spares him that.

Stiles is on the ground now, Derek's hands still on him, guiding him there. His eyes, though blinking through tears and fuzzy, white pain, can make out the pooling red liquid on the hardwood floor of his room. Blood. His own blood. His head is spinning. And then-

"Stiles?"

His mind doesn't really register the voice calling his name, not behind the jumbled mess of blood and pain and Derek, but Derek apparently catches it, tensing around Stiles at the sound. Stiles cries out at the pain of it - did the hand inside of him just clench into a fist? - and squeezes his eyes shut, almost willing it to be over. At least it would be better than the pain.

"Stiles?!" The faint voice is more frantic now, closer. Stiles screams again, voice rough and harsh, at the feeling of the hand drawing out of his abdomen when Derek stands.

"Step away from him."

Stiles mind barely registers the voice of his father giving the order, but he does, and with his last bit of strength, Stiles opens his eyes long enough to see his dad stepping into the bedroom, pointing his gun at Derek Hale and-

And then everything goes black.

AN: I'm REALLY excited about this fic! I've been working on it for quite a while now, and I hope you guys like it as much as I do.

Chapter title is from the song "I Never Told You What I Do For A Living" by My Chemical Romance
The title of the fic is from "Disarm" by The Smashing Pumpkins.

(I'll probably make a playlist for this once it's over)