Derek climbs in through the bedroom window to find Stiles hunched over on his bed, flipping through books that smell of old ink and animal. He's mouthing words to himself and chewing on the end of a pen between marking down notes. Derek watches for a moment, waiting, but no acknowledgment comes.
"You called?" he offers, not quite impatient, not quite comfortable.
Stiles drags his gaze away from a page and lets the pen drift out from between his teeth as his focus shifts. "Yes." He jabs the pen in Derek's direction. "Yes, I did. What is it with wolves and windows? Can you not use the front door? Anyway, I found something for you. You're gonna love it—" He does a head dance of minor indecision. "You'll like it. Should like it. Definitely should like it. It'll be useful—"
"Stiles." A huff.
"It's a ward. Okay? Perfect for not-so-secret lairs. Just..." His attention returns to one of the books, and he starts skipping back through the pages. "Just get me a sketchpad and marker." He waves a dismissive hand in the direction of his desk.
Derek presses his lips into a tight line, holding back a hot rush of indignation, and follows the order. Stiles's desk is more...orderly than he would have figured and mostly filled with a computer. He tries the top drawer first and easily fishes a Sharpie out from between a pack of gum and an extra printer cartridge. A sketchpad seems large, so he pulls open the bottom, largest drawer in the desk and is met with a well-worn pink leather notebook stitched with a butterfly.
One eyebrow quirks all the way up on its own, and a derisive bark of a laugh starts working its way up his throat.
He picks it up and starts to turn, jibes already vying to be first, but Stiles—
"DON'T TOUCH THAT!" Screams.
And Derek flinches at the sudden shriek, and Stiles is halfway across the room before he seems to realize what he's doing. And then they're both ambered, Stiles's face red and outstretched hand shaking, Derek's skin prickling with distress and warning. He just stares and then glances carefully to the book in his hand. Waves of sense-emotion roll off Stiles and batter against him, confusing for their suddenness but strong, strong.
"Just. Put it. Back," Stiles says, low and breathless, his eyes glassy and heart racing.
He looks wild and fragile. Derek holds up a placating hand, bends slowly, and lets the book slip back into the drawer he took it from, never taking his eyes from the young man's face. The knot forming in his stomach isn't fear, precisely, but the air is charged with hurt and anger, and he's not sure how they got here so quickly—how he broke this, too.
Stiles doesn't move until he sees Derek's hand come back empty. Then he sags and looks out the window, looks anywhere but in Derek's direction, and his scent shifts again.
"Why do you smell like sorrow?" Derek hears himself asking. Because it was just a book, and how could—
"Oh, I don't know, maybe it's the sorrow," Stiles shoots back, daring to give him a scathing look before shaking his head in disgust, maybe dismissal.
"But why?" If he knows, maybe he can fix... His hands itch to do something useful, and the scent burns sickenginly in his gut.
Stiles sighs, looking away again, and takes a few steps back until he can sink onto the edge of the bed. The color drains from his face, and his heartbeat kicks up rabbit fast. He stares down at his hands like they are foreign things.
Eventually, "It was my mom's."
Like an ice bolt.
Oh.
Oh...
Derek presses his eyes shut, cursing himself as a heavy sense of loss pours through his body. "I didn't know..." he says weakly. Which doesn't make it better.
He should go. Definitely go.
"We—we don't talk about her," Stiles says, his voice growing thick. "Ever. It's like"—his breath shudders. Quieter—"like she wasn't here. And I know..." He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and his lips quiver as he tries to push the words through them. "I know what he's thinking. About me. And if he'd just…"
A band squeezes itself around Derek's chest; it hurts just to watch, and his well-worn sense of guilt flares at what he's ripped open. He moves softly and crouches in front of Stiles, dipping into his line of sight until their eyes meet. "Tell me?" he asks, because this is what he has to offer.
Stiles returns his gaze for a while, but his eyes grow redder and face flushes. He swallows hard and looks down at his hands, the nail of one scraping a line down the palm of the other. Stiles frowns, his heart racing, and digs the nail a little harder, scratches faster. Derek lets him for a bit, then snatches both hands in his own to avoid the smell of blood. He holds on, Stiles lets him.
For a long moment there's only breathing. Derek waits.
"It was a car crash," Stiles says above a whisper. "She died in a ditch." His voice breaks over the last word, like he wanted to laugh but couldn't, and tears pool in his eyes. He shrugs a little. "I know it's not as dramatic as—" Their eyes meet again, and Derek feels it slide sharp between his ribs. For a second he can't breathe and gives Stiles a wounded look. You can't, don't, compare. Christ.
He loosens his grip on Stiles's hands, because the freedom is important, and Stiles draws back, burying his hands under his thighs instead.
"It's not a competition," Derek says gently, and he's not sure what it says about him that Stiles thought it might be. Nothing good.
He moves carefully, lowering himself onto the bed so they're next to each other, knees just touching. He watches Stiles's face, but for the moment it's stone. He could be a statue if not for his heart rate spiking high again.
"It's my fault," Stiles whispers to the carpet, his breath hitching after he says it.
Derek frowns, going cold. "What?"
And Stiles turns to look at him then, tears brimming in his eyes, barely holding it together. "It's my fault she was there."
Derek starts to shake his head, "Stiles—" Because it's ludicrous to think—
"We were at the movies. Scott and me. Sherlock Holmes... and... I." He pants, looking away. "I just couldn't. The building and the dark and the people. I don't— I dunno. Like I was gonna die right then. A big black void of eternal nothing right then." He shakes his head, the sharp edges of blame facing in. "We had to leave. Got to the hallway, and I couldn't feel my face. Then my hands." He huffs without humor. "Then I was on the floor, and they called for an ambulance. Scott kept trying to tell them I didn't have epilepsy, that it was a panic attack." Stiles shrugs slightly, an embarrassed look on his face. "They brought me in anyway." He draws his hands out from under his legs and lets them hang uselessly in his lap. "Scott's mom called my mom at work," he says. "She was heading to the ER, when..."
From the ache in his chest, Derek might not have been breathing. "That... that doesn't make it your fault."
"It does," Stiles says, nodding, and his face gets redder as he fights against crying. "You can fight it. Right at the beginning. If I had... If I'd kept it together, been"—he draws in on himself, voice breaking—"better, she wouldn't've been out on the road—"
God. "It was an accident, Stiles. Terrible. And random."
Stiles doesn't look at him, just shakes his head more and more until he hunches under the weight, and breaks.
Derek's heart thuds hard at the sound of the sob and the sick scent of salt, and he puts a hand on Stiles's shoulder, not sure what else to do. Stiles leans against him, shaking, shuddering on each breath, like of course it was an invitation to snuffle against Derek's shirt. If he's honest with himself, it was. But Derek can't think of a thing to say against all this… sorrow and tears and fragile tragedy. Can't think of a reason not to hold on, like hugging is a thing they do.
It opens like a pit inside, this responsibility. He doesn't make things better. Doesn't comfort. Doesn't know how, and the fear of failing makes him swallow hard. Lost, he rests his cheek on top of Stiles's head and tries to imagine what his mother would do. Closes his eyes. Pictures her face, her warmth. Breathe...
Stiles jerks with an ugly kind of cry, and Derek breathes.
Deeply.
Calmly.
With just enough intention to be heard.
And if tears burn at the edges of his closed eyes, that's just sympathy.
In...
Out...
Eventually the shivering stops, and Stiles sniffs but doesn't move, his arms still looped around Derek's waist.
Derek shifts his hand to the back of the young man's neck and squeezes gently. He gives in to the instinct to draw out the suffering, and a few black lines spider along his fingertips, even though he knows it can't help, not really. He can hear Stiles's heart rate slow as his shoulders drop.
In...
Out...
He's not sure if Stiles knows what he's doing, but for a minute they fall into unison.
He's the worst person to tell someone their guilt is unfounded, unfair. But he should try. Has to try, because Stiles is... Stiles. And he can't deserve this slow poison.
Derek's voice cracks from emotion and disuse when he starts to speak. "Scott used to have asthma, right?" There's nodding against his chest. "Did you"—he can't tell if this is a good idea—"did you ever blame him when he had an attack?"
"No..." Muffled.
"Even if he could have not run instead?"
Stiles pulls back enough for them to look at one another. His eyes are swollen and red, but he manages a smirk. "He wouldn't be Scott if he didn't make bad choices."
And Derek has to suppress a grin, even as he nods and gathers his hands in his lap as they unwind. He looks down for a second, then back up at Stiles. "Keep that in mind." Stiles swallows, looking vulnerable, and then nods.
They're silent for a minute, regarding each other with easy calm. Derek tries to read the expressions he sees, some pleased, thoughtful, some more inexplicable than that. The pulse of fear in his blood fades, and some of the knots in his stomach come free.
"That was cool with the breathing," Stiles says suddenly and gets up, heading for his desk.
Derek grins sadly at his back. "My mom taught me," he admits, and Stiles whips his head around to look at him, eyes wide, like he just saw, like he just realized. Then he turns back without saying anything and grabs a pad from the middle desk drawer and the Sharpie Derek had liberated.
"This..." he says as he draws, "is a ward against evil intent. Basically."
"Basically?"
Stiles stops drawing to give him an exasperated look. "If it wants you dead, this will help." He tears off the sheet and hands it over.
Derek studies the symbol, a collection of concentric boxes and bisecting loops.
Stiles goes on, "Draw that around doorways, both sides." He draws another symbol and hands that over as well. "Draw that somewhere in the middle. It's... like an alarm. One of the other ones fails, this one will let you know."
Derek runs his thumb over the ink and arches an eyebrow. "Let me know? How?"
Stiles drops onto the bed and peers over, looking serious. "If I tell you, it'll ruin the surprise."
"Stiles."
"Seriously."
And Derek can only sigh.
He gets up to go, but pauses, uncertainty crashing around his ribcage. He turns and gives Stiles a long look, hoping for directions, clues. Stiles lifts his eyebrows eventually, and yeah. They don't need to talk about this. At least not now, maybe not ever.
Instead, Derek clears his throat and says, "So where do I find this 'door'?"