Stupid, stupid, stupid. Letting himself get caught in a trap. He should know better by now. He should know how dangerous hunting is without a pack. But he's so hungry. Even now, his stomach twists with it, the emptiness. He's swinging by a single foot five feet in the air, and all he wants is just a morsel of food, just a taste. He's a pathetic excuse for a werewolf.
"Well...it's been a long time since I've seen that face." Derek's ears prick up. He hasn't heard that voice in over ten years. Not since the day he shattered its owners innocence and left his home town for good.
Stiles.
"Since...Scott's funeral. Right?" Stiles is leaning against a nearby tree, crossbow held loosely in one hand. Derek isn't fooled by the relaxed stance. He can see the muscles coiled beneath the loose clothing, ready to spring at any moment. He swallows to wet his parched throat, to no avail. He hasn't had water almost as long as he hasn't had food.
"I don't remember," he says hoarsely. "That was eight years ago." It's a lie and they both know it. He remembers Scott's funeral all too well. Remembers that sick feeling of loss, like someone had reached inside of him and ripped something vital out. He remembers Allison and Stiles, perched by the grave as if Scott would come crawling back out at any moment.
"Hm. Where's your pack?" Stiles' smirk is mocking, almost challenging, and Derek's blood boils at the sight of it. He knows all too well. He heard the cries of his betas as their lives were cruelly snuffed out. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd all...achingly silent at the hands of the man they once called friend. Peter disappeared, taking Jackson with him, severing their ties with Derek as they went. He doesn't know their fate.
"An Alpha Omega is such a rare sight." Derek feels the rope on his leg loosen half a second before he topples to the ground in a heap. Stiles released the trap. Now he's nothing more than a shivering, curled-up ball before the other man, without even the strength to get up and run. "Such a sad sight."
"Shut up," Derek growls, fixing his red-eyed glare on Stiles' face. He's closer now, crossbow still at his side, as if to emphasize how little of a threat he views Derek. He's so close the wolf can smell him.
He smells like her.
"How's Allison," he asks, uncaring in her well-being but aching to know just what she was to Stiles that he would smell so much like her. Even now, after everything, the ache for him burns strong.
Stiles hesitates for only a moment, then, "We're married now. She's pregnant with our second child."
Derek feels as if all the air has been knocked from his lungs. "You're...a father," he says, breathless.
"I am." Stiles trains the crossbow on Derek. "Despite what you did to me, I got up and I kept on going. And I vowed to track down and kill every single one of your kind."
Derek doesn't want to beg, but the stuttered "please" falls from his lips before he can stop it. It's pathetic and needy and he knows it. Stiles coos at him mockingly, caressing his face with the edge of the crossbow bolt.
"So the big bad wolf knows how to say please. Well...better late than never." His face morphs into rage, and his free hand bunches in the werewolf's tattered shirt. "I loved you, you know," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "As a friend. Maybe as more. I trusted you, more than you deserved. But you took that trust, and you destroyed it, and I have hated you ever since."
"Is that why you killed the others?" Derek asks. "Because of me? Did you...kill Scott too?"
Stiles' eyes widen and he throws Derek down, stamping down on his ribcage hard enough to knock the wind out of him. "How dare you," he hisses through clenched teeth, a face that speaks volumes of pain. "Scott was killed by a wolf like you. An Omega. I killed her the night of his funeral. I did it slowly. I watched the light go out of her eyes as she took her last breath. But it wasn't enough." The toe of his boot pressed down onto Derek's throat, cutting off his airflow. "Scott was an exception, but the rest of you are monsters. So I made it my life's mission to rid the world of you."
Derek gasps desperately, clutching at Stiles' leg, his gaze trained on the other man's own cold one. This isn't the Stiles he knew. There's nothing left of him in those cold eyes. It's his fault. Scott's death may have been the final tipping point, but that hatred in his eyes is for him and him alone.
"I'm...sorry..." he manages, and it's almost like a switch has been flicked on the other man's face. Surprise, doubt, fear, compassion, all in an instant over Stiles' face before the foot is gone and he takes in a gasping breath.
"You're sorry." Derek lifts his head, rubbing at his bruised and battered throat. Stiles is standing just away from him, body turned, head down. His shoulders are shaking. "You're sorry?!" Derek can hear the rage in his voice and quickly backs away. "You don't get to be sorry, Derek. Not now. Not ten years later." He sinks to his knees, and his breath is coming in gasps, like so many years ago when he used to suffer panic attacks. Sometimes Derek would help him through those. He wonders if Allison does now.
Derek crawls closer, hesitantly, until his hands find the other's tensed shoulders. He feels Stiles flinch, but he doesn't pull away, and Derek pulls him in closer instead, until the other is tucked against him. It's easy to feel the difference the years have made. Stiles is strong and solid beneath him, while Derek is close to withering away.
"I never wanted to hurt you," he says, breathing in the scent of Stiles. It's been so long. "Please forgive me."
The next thing he feels is pain, erupting in his gut and spreading throughout him. He keens, clutching at the bolt lodged deep within him. He loses his grip on Stiles as the other man moves away.
"Those arrows are made from pure mountain ash," he explains as Derek writhes on the ground. "They're soft and brittle, meant to dissolve in a werewolf's bloodstream." Stiles crouches next to Derek on the leaf-strewn ground, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "Much more potent than those wolfsbane bullets. These are meant to kill a wolf in a matter of minutes."
"Please..." Derek gasps. The pain is like burning now, searing through his veins. He reaches for Stiles and the other man grasps his hand, almost tender.
"There's nothing I can do to stop it now," he says, a tinge of regret in his voice. "This is your punishment, Derek."
Derek gasps shakily as Stiles pulls the bolt from his skin, then pulls him into an embrace. His head rests on the other man's shoulder. He can hear his heartbeat and sighs happily, closing his eyes.
"I wish you could have met my son," Stiles says, his words resonating through Derek's being. "His name is Scott. He...he has his mother's dimples. And that stupid curly hair...we don't know where that came from." He takes a shaky breath, the entirety of him moving with it. "He looks just like him, Derek."
Derek smiles. The pain is beginning to fade now, though he doesn't fool himself into thinking it's because he's healing, or that he'll be okay. Stiles is right; this is his punishment. If this is what it takes to earn Stiles' forgiveness, he'll gladly accept it.
"You would have loved him." A drop of moisture on his cheek. Derek reaches up to touch the other man's face, feeling the tears there.
"I already do," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Because he's yours."
A rough sob and the press of lips against his own. He doesn't even have the strength to press back, barely has enough to reach for Stiles' hand and hold it to his chest.
They say when you're about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. For Derek, it was just the one memory. The memory of his family, slowly burning to death inside that house. The knowledge it was his fault, now burned away to leave room for forgiveness. His family's forgiveness. His own forgiveness. And Stiles, who never had a stake in it, but whose forgiveness he cherished above all others. Stiles forgave him for this long ago, and now, he was forgiven again.
The last thing he hears is Stiles' voice - and it doesn't really matter what he's saying - and then he's gone.