The bench Derek sits on is cold and hard and uncomfortable, the corridor smells of disinfectant and stale smoke and too many people and everywhere there's too many people and he wants to be anywhere but here.
His own clothes reek of smoke and his hair is black and sticky with soot and he's lost a shoe running through the woods and everywhere hurts but most of all inside. Why did he have to survive? It would have been better if he'd burned too, then he wouldn't have to be here, talking to the stupid sheriff and his stupid men with their sweaty uniforms and everything is too loud and he really wants to cry but boys don't do that.
There's a little boy, maybe ten years old standing across the hall, his little face all serious. He smells clean, there's a nervous energy to him but it's not frightening like in the adults. Derek scowls at the boy, he wants to be left alone and he doesn't like strangers anyway, strangers mean trouble and he's had enough to last a lifetime by now.
The boy disappears into the room behind him for a moment and Derek hears fragments of a conversation between the boy and a grownup - the sheriff, he recognises the voice.
"Stay away from him Stiles, he's going through a difficult time right now - last thing he needs is you bothering him. I just need you to stay out from underfoot for a while longer. I love you son, ok? Go find your mother. "
The boy mumbles something in reply that Derek doesn't catch, his heart aches in his chest. I love you, son. His own father used to say that when he was small too, but now he would never say anything to him ever again. For a moment anger, jealousy, white-hot and fierce flashes through him before he calms again. There's nothing he can do about what happened now, he needs to grow up strong so he can find those responsible and pay back what they did to his family.
He's so caught up in his thoughts that he hasn't noticed the small boy - Stiles - walk over to stand almost right ahead of him. He has messy hair and big brown eyes, his expression still just as serious as before. There's none of the pity and fake sympathy that he sees in the adults' eyes, the boy is sad but it's different, real.
"Here. My dad said you're hurt, real bad. When I'm hurt real bad I cry, you're really brave - I haven't seen you cry at all. Here," he sticks out his small hand, there's something squashed in it. "It always helps if you put a bandaid where it hurts most, it does for me," it's a multi-coloured bandaid and almost without thinking Derek takes it.
"Thanks," he grunts in reply, strangely touched by this unexpected kindness. He almost cries then, something loosening up inside his chest as the small hand presses against his palm, the first real human contact since all the horror began.
It's a touch he'll remember years later, when there's a whole lot more weighing on his shoulders and a whole lot more people depending on him. And Stiles is the only one who understands, the only one Derek really trusts. The only one never afraid of him, even when he really should be.
And think it all started with a bandaid.