A story of Stiles post-nogitsune and how he handles everything that's happened during 3b.
Chapter 1
"There's never the right last moment. There is always more to say, somewhere to go, something to remember. Another discussion, another fight. There is always supposed to be another day."
ā Pamela Ribon, You Take It From Here
It was over. The nogitsune was finally destroyed; for good this time. He was safe. Everyone was safe. Well, not everyone. Allison was dead, and so was Aiden. Not to mention all the other nameless, faceless people who had been killed in the nogitsune's wake. But it was finally over. Except it wasn't.
It wasn't over for Stiles. He plastered on his fake smile well enough as his dad hugged him; he'd had plenty of practice after all. He cracked a joke at Scott and laughed along as everybody heaved a sigh of relief. He was Stiles again. Everything was fine. They all hugged him and laughed and joked until his dad decided that Stiles must need rest and finally drove him home before heading back to the station.
He was standing alone in the middle of his room when he finally let the smile fall from his face, an ugly grimace taking its place. He didn't know how the rest of them could even look at him after all the horrible things he'd done. How could they act like everything was alright? Allison, who was meant to end up with Scott, who knew what she stood for, who was perhaps the strongest of them all was dead because of him. And Aiden was gone too. Maybe the pack never would have forgiven him, but he didn't deserve to be dead. Ethan didn't deserve to lose half of himself. They may have made the wrong choice more than once, but they were trying to survive for each other; Stiles understood what that was like.
His hands shook as he held them up to light. He could feel the blood on his fingertips. He had killed people. He had blood on his hands. Icy tendrils of guilt gripped his stomach and tore at the walls of his abdomen until the next thing he knew he was curled over the toilet in his bathroom heaving up the dinner his friends had gotten in celebration of Stiles being Stiles again. The bile kept rising in his throat even after the food did, and soon he was a mess of sobs and dry heaves, clutching at the porcelain in front of him with shaking fingers.
The bathroom floor creaked behind him, and he thought it must be he father ā though that didn't make any sense because he had left for work ā as a strong hand came to rest on his back until the owner of the hand whispered his name.
"Derek?" Stiles murmured, furrowing his brow. Why would Derek be there?
Derek simply hummed in response as he carefully wiped Stiles mouth with a washcloth before gently lifting him to his feet and guiding him forward. Stiles complied for the most part until they made it back into his room. His mind was slightly clearer now, and as he turned to face Derek, his brown eyes widened as if realizing for the first time who he was with. He tried to shove Derek away, but that was a hopeless pursuit.
"Leave," Stiles rasped, his throat raw.
"No," Derek replied evenly.
"Dammit, Derek, get out!" Stiles tried more forcefully as he shoved Derek again.
Derek didn't answer the time. Instead he pulled Stiles closer until he had both arms firmly wrapped around him.
"Fuck you! Get off me!" Stiles screamed, pounding his fists against Derek's chest, but Derek just held on tighter until Stiles dissolved into tears.
Stiles ended up collapsing to the floor, and Derek followed, arms still securely wrapped around him. He didn't say anything just held Stiles as he rocked back and forth and muttered under his breath until Derek finally made out what he was saying.
"Don't touch me. I'm a monster. I don't want to hurt anyone else."
"Stiles," he spoke firmly grabbing Stiles' chin and turning his face to meet his eyes. "You're not going to hurt me."
"I might," Stiles whimpered desperately. "I'm a monster."
"You are not a monster," Derek growled fiercely, but regretted it when Stiles flinched away from him. "You want to know how I know?"
Derek took a deep breath and waited until Stiles met his gaze once again.
"I know you're not a monster because you drove me all around town while I was bleeding out on your seats with a bullet in my arm. And you were willing to chop my arm off before I was poisoned by the wolfsbane. I know you're not a monster because you held me up in a pool for hours when I know you're biggest fear is drowning. I know you're not a monster because you didn't leave me unconscious in that elevator at the hospital. You made sure I got out, and you stayed to hold off the cops for us. You're not a monster because you've saved me more times than I can count, and I haven't even done anything to deserve it. You see the good in people. You're what holds us all together. If anything, I'm the one that'sā¦"
Derek stopped himself rather abruptly, but Stiles was too far gone to care. He had finally relaxed into Derek's grip, his mind slowing to a level that allowed him to see past the wave of panic and guilt that had swept him under; his mind was comfortably numb. Derek's voice had been rough but soothing, and he was radiating a comforting warmth. He wanted to stay like this. It was safe. He was finally safe.
But then Derek's strong arms were lifting him, and he was being carried. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and burrowed further into his warm chest. Derek laid him down gently on the cool sheets of his bed, bringing his comforter up to his chin tucking it around his shoulders. The room was dark when Stiles peaked through half-lidded eyes as he felt Derek turn away.
"Stay," he mumbled sleepily. He reached his hand out from under his blanket when Derek seemed to be frozen between the bed and the window.
"Okay," came Derek's soft reply.
Stiles let his eyes slip shut again, but he heard Derek walk across the room to his desk chair, sliding it up to the bed. He listened to the rustling of material as Derek shrugged his leather jacket off his shoulders and set it on the back of the chair before taking a seat.
"Sleep," Derek commanded softly as he grabbed the hand Stiles had held out to him. And Stiles did. He fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of Derek's soft, even breaths and the warmth of Derek's hand clasping his own.
Stiles woke the next morning to the sun casting a blinding glare through his window. He rubbed his eyes groggily and sat up as the memory of the night before slowly returned to him. Since when did Derek stick around to comfort people? He was almost convinced that it must have been a dream when he felt a cold breeze. He casts a glance at his window realizing it had been left open. It was December; the sun may be shining, but it certainly wasn't warm. And he definitely didn't leave it open himself. So it was all real. Derek had been there. He smiled and tried not to analyze the warmth that spread through his chest at the realization.
Prepare myself for a war
And I don't know what I'm doing this for
Trying to let it all go
But how can I when you still don't know?
Damien Rice, Prague
Not totally sure where this is going to go in the end, but I have some ideas I'm working with. We'll see. Hopefully it's not awful.
