AN: Sorry, don't quite know.
Stiles hasn't done anything, not yet. He doesn't even plan to act on his thoughts, treats it as just a minor inconvenience. Sure, it drags him down a bit. Sure, it colours his every wandering thought. Sure, he zones out in class sometimes (a lot of times) and comes back to yelling teachers and Scott unsubtly nudging him with his foot. Sure, he'd been a little distracted in his downtime, because sitting on the bed and staring at the ceiling while remembering how it feels to pull your skin apart could be time better spent.
And sure, Derek Hale seemed to be side-eyeing him more than usual lately, watching Stiles with his brow furrowed and mouth pursued (adorably), like Stiles is some problem to be solved. And isn't that rich, with all the issues in Derek's life, that he's looking at Stiles (Stiles!) of all people like he's the problem. Stiles had resolutely ignored the side-eyeing and the staring and lifted his chin with dignity, because he was dignified and regal and a prince among men, and tried to stop thinking non-supernatural related thoughts while in Derek's company, just in case Alpha werewolves could actually read minds (he'd checked - resounding no, but just in case.)
But, you know, who was Derek to make him feel bad? It's not like he's hurting anyone to fantasise a bit, he tells himself as he sits in his bathtub of rapidly cooling water. It's not like anyone knows. He can indulge a little.
And so what if he also dreams of just fading away sometimes? It's not like he's going to act on it. He wouldn't ever - he would never leave Dad like that. Not after Mom. So a bit of harmless daydreaming isn't going to hurt, if he's not actually going to do anything.
Stiles lifts his arm and flexes, watching the water droplets fall away and the tendons pop and the blue veins move beneath his skin. It would be so easy, like crushing a bug. Like flicking a switch or shutting his eyes. It wouldn't even have to be messy - he could sit in the tub, filled up to the brim with warm water, and just sit there, and sit there, leaking his life away. He could see it in his mind already, red curling into the clear, clouding everything until it was all pink pink pink. Like the rot in his mind draining out with his blood. His mind would become clearer and clearer and sharper - like the glassy reflection of a still pool of water - even as the water that holds him becomes muddier with each thump of his struggling heart. It would be a purging, yes. A purging. He shivers just thinking about it, that numb part in his chest now twinging at the thought, and watches as his arm flexes again, into a fist.
Stiles jolts awake because he's fucking freezing. He's still in the bathtub, go figure, and the water is now ice-cold. He shivers, getting out. His mobile is on the bathroom counter and it's three in the morning. The numbers burn themselves into his eyes. Stiles swears inwardly as he towels himself dry and puts his clothes on. Trust him to fall asleep in the bathtub for five hours. There's still homework to be done, an assignment to be turned in the day after and most importantly, research of the supernatural kind to sink his teeth into. He can't afford to laze around and fall asleep in bathtubs. He's got to stay focused. People (werewolves) die when Stiles isn't focused.
When Stiles gets to his room, Derek is on his bed, leaning against the headboard with his eyes closed. They slide open as Stiles stops uncertainly at the threshold, hand on the doorknob.
He's aware he's gaping like a moron, but that only seems like the natural reaction to very nice-looking alpha werewolves lounging in his bed like they own it. Besides, he's still sleep-addled and shivering in the cool night air, so a little delayed reaction time can be forgiven.
"Where have you been?" Derek says. Growls, rather.
"That's it? No 'hello' or 'good evening' or 'hey, Stiles, great to see you on this fine night, incidentally your bed is really comfortable, did you get it on sale'? What did they teach you in puppy school?" Stiles snipes as he shuts the door behind him. He slides into his computer chair and because Derek's staring doesn't seem to be stopping, starts spinning around in it. "So what can I do for ya, big man? I take it this isn't a social call? Not that I'd mind if it were, except it's kind of three in the morning so you should probably be sociable earlier, like earlier in the evening. Be sociable at a sociably acceptable time, as it were," Stiles says and snorts to himself.
Derek doesn't say anything and Stiles frowns.
"Research? If it's about the harpies, man, I swear to god I was gonna do it tonight after school stuff. I fell asleep, but I promise, I'll get it done." Stiles glances at the time again. Derek's silence is starting to unnerve him because while the werewolf had never been particularly talkative, he usually could manage one or two word responses. Maybe he was pissed Stiles hadn't been pulling his weight. It's gone without saying that Stiles is the research monkey since his firepower is sorely lacking. That's the spot in the (informal) pack into which Stiles falls. What's the point of a research monkey that doesn't do any goddamn research? Stupid. Stiles is so stupid. Why did he have to fall asleep before?
"Actually, you know, I could probably get it done after this. I don't have to leave for school until like, half past seven so I've got a solid four hours to get shit done. It won't be everything because I've got to check out the Argent bestiary as well, but I could probably get eighty to ninety percent of what's on the web together." As soon as the words leave Stiles' mouth, he wants to smack himself. Eighty to ninety percent? Like that's going to be fucking sufficient in a life or death scenario. If he wants to keep everyone alive, they've got to go in fully armed with all the knowledge about what they're facing. They can't eighty or ninety percent live. You're so fucking stupid, Stiles rages. Why can't you fucking just do things?
"Hey. Stiles. Hey!" Derek's voice cuts through his thoughts and Stiles jerks his head up to look at him. He didn't even realise he'd been staring at the floor (at that faded stain on the carpet), his hands winding through his hair and grabbing and pulling. He drops his hands self-consciously.
Derek is looking at him speculatively and Stiles wilts under his assessing stare. He so very much wants to be alone right now. Can Derek leave? Can he just leave Stiles to do the fucking research that he was meant to do and wallow in his own stupidity? Please and thank you?
"It's fine. We weren't going to make a direct assault until after the full moon, remember?" Derek stands up and stretches, and Stiles very deliberately does not look at where his shirt rides up. "So relax."
Did Derek just tell him to relax? And now Derek's sitting back down on his bed, making little settling-in movements on the mattress like he doesn't plan to leave, resuming his creepy staring.
Stiles shifts uncomfortably. "Um. I kinda do vaguely recall that at pack meet yesterday. Right, um. I've got homework to do anyway, so I'll just do that. You just..." Stiles waves his hand lamely. "Make yourself at home. Since you're not here for research?" He phrases it like a question, but Derek just closes his eyes and ignores him.
"Ohh-kay then," Stiles says in an undertone and turns back to his computer screen. If Derek wants to play chicken, Stiles can play chicken with him.
Despite his best efforts at staying awake, Stiles does end up falling asleep at his desk. He wakes up with drool pooling under him and a horrible crick in his neck. "Mmmnghm?" He says, grabbing at his blaring phone. It's just his alarm and it's time for school.
It takes him about ten seconds to remember creeperwolf but when he spins around, his bed is made and the window shut. It's like Derek was never there. Stiles stares at the bed, frowning. Maybe Derek had just needed a place to crash. Maybe his freaky half burnt house or his freezing warehouse loft wasn't cutting it anymore. Stiles shakes himself and gets up, yawning.
Or maybe he just wanted to keep an eye on you. The thought hits like a thunderclap on a still night. Maybe he knew you wouldn't do what you were meant to do. Maybe he knew he couldn't rely on you unless he watched your every move. Stiles feels sick in the gut. Maybe he knew you wouldn't be able to focus on what really needed to be done, that you're always going to be a liability to the pack. Derek wouldn't think so little of him, would he? Stiles had always come through for the pack before. He'd always done what he thought was the best he could do in limited circumstances. And he had always been acutely aware that lives depended on his research and planning. Stiles wouldn't ever take that responsibility lightly. But you did just bench the harpy research and get some shuteye instead, idiot. God, he really was an idiot, wasn't he?
Stiles is suddenly aware that he's chewed through his lip. The iron taste in his mouth is real this time. He shuts his eyes and tries to calm his breathing. He needs to get ready for school. He needs to get through today. Then he'll come home, and do the research, and show Derek he can be a responsible adult when he needs to be.
