Alright, so this may or may not be the penultimate chapter depending on how chapter 11 (which I'm still writing) turns out. It probably wont be because I don't want to rush the ending too much, and would rather give it all its own chapter to finish it all properly. I apologise in advance for any feels caused; I actually got upset writing this one.
On the bright side - camping trip! Yay! So all the outfits are below, depending on whether the links work or not.
Enjoy, and please, please let me know what you think. I've put the most work into this chapter and I want to know how it looks to other people.
Deexx
P.S I'll put the links to the camping outfits described on my profile page.
"Down corridors, through automatic doors, got to get to you, got to see this through. First night of your life, curled up on your own. Looking at you now, you would never know."
Derek found him lounged against a headstone, back resting there, legs out in front of him, one bent at the knee. He had a dandelion in his hands and was picking at it absent-mindedly. It used to be a lot easier to sneak up on him, back when he didn't have superhuman hearing, but it was so different now. So, so different.
He didn't approach though, not straight away. He lingered a few rows away, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, breath coming out in steady tufts, visible against the colder air. Winter was on its way again. Derek's jaw was set still, but his eyes and ears were honed in on his boyfriend, watching as the younger man stared at his mother and father's gravestones.
"Book's published now," Stiles spoke, and Derek's heart skipped a second because there was a tone in his voice that Stiles had only ever specifically used when talking to Sheriff John Stilinski. Derek never heard that tone anymore, and it was a shock to his system. He shifted on his feet a little, but continued to give Stiles his space, wondering if he was even aware of his presence.
"People are actually buying it as well," he remarked and Derek could practically see the smirk on Stiles' lips, even if he didn't actually have a view of his face "remember when you told me it'd sell and I kept saying nah, it's not good enough? You just… believed in me. Just like that, no question. You didn't even need to read the fucking story and you insisted that it was going to make money, that other people were gonna read it-" he cut himself off, throat getting a bit croaky. Derek heard Stiles' heart speed up however, could almost feel the tears on the younger man's face as if they were his own.
"You can stop lurking now," Stiles called over his own shoulder and Derek couldn't help rolling his eyes, sighing and moving forward, sitting down on the grass next to Stiles, using the headstone to the left of Stiles as a back rest "hey dad, mom, got myself my own town nut job. He's a bit of a creeper," he grinned, shooting Derek a sideways glance and wiping the tear tracks from his defined cheekbones "but he's alright really, when he's not scowling," he added, chuckling a little and sniffing when Derek did just that.
But, rather abruptly, silence fell again and the atmosphere was back to serious. Derek didn't really mind silence if he was being honest, he actually preferred it to noise about 80% of the time – which wasn't particularly representative of his lifestyle choices seeing as he was alpha to a hoarding of young-adult werewolves, and was dating the one with the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. But he'd had enough silence in his life to know and understand that there were different types of it. This… well, he supposed this was thoughtful, and he let Stiles have control of it because this wasn't a moment for Derek, it was for his boyfriend sat next to him and the two corpses lying six feet underground in front of them.
"How do you do it?" Stiles asked, his voice slightly startling after around twenty minutes of nothing but stillness and cold and the crows swooping through the cemetery every now and again. Derek didn't move much, but he turned his head slightly and raised an eyebrow in question.
"I mean how do you get up every morning?" Stiles repeated in more detail "I lost my parents and its crippling sometimes, but you-" he drew in a sharp breath, still staring at his parents' name carved into the stone before them "you lost your whole family, all of them, and jesus Der," he breathed, shaking his head a little, swallowing "I don't even come close to the amount of pain you must keep locked away in there every day. You're just freaking ridiculous," Stiles' voice was quiet, but it had raised a slight decibel and Derek knew it meant he was getting upset.
"If you want my honest answer," Derek replied dully "I don't have a clue," he sighed, eyelids flickering for a second "I don't know how I even managed those first couple of years, let alone everything that's happened since then," he shrugged, watching Stiles' brown eyes still stone clad fixated in front of himself.
Derek wasn't really the kind of person that dwelled on attractiveness – vanity was never particularly important to him in the relationship department (mainly because after Kate he didn't ever think he'd want to be in a relationship for the rest of his miserable days). But, even though it wasn't often he said it, Stiles was just… breathtaking.
It was everything about him. The warmth and compassion and mirth in his older-than-his-years eyes, the leanness of his body and the way his muscles moved beneath his ridiculously pale, alabaster skin. The moles dotting his jawline, the way he was always stupidly thin no matter how much junk food he shoved in his mouth. Ah, the mouth, the bane of Derek's existence on a number of occasions when he'd been trying to concentrate and Stiles' mouth was just so damn distracting. The cheekbones, again, thin and a little gaunt at times, but always stunning and always charming. The hair – even when it had been a buzz cut Derek had found it weirdly endearing, but it suited him like this as well; dark brown, soft, flicking up at awkward angles in the mornings, perfect to tug on at night.
So, Derek wasn't big on appearance, but he was well aware that Stiles was really rather fantastic in that sense – quietly so, on a much more subtle, detailed level with intricacies and sculpted bone structure, but fantastic nonetheless. And yes, sometimes he got a little carried away just looking at him, admiring his profile and counting the imperfections on his face. Right now, with the white, garish colour of the winter daylight laying itself obnoxiously around the two men, revealing their breaths to them on the air, Stiles looked – uggh he hated that it sounded so cheesy – but the little fucker looked beautiful. Masculine and matured with a remaining hint of childish arrogance, as always.
Derek didn't say it, but Stiles turned his head a little, meeting his eyes and giving him a smile that told him he knew exactly what he was thinking.
"You know I haven't been here since the funeral?" Stiles kept eye contact this time "I didn't have the time or the balls to come back here," he explained "and it's my fault. They died because of me. I know they wouldn't want me thinking that, but I pushed Klaus, and he killed my dad, and she was my fault too," there was a longer pause when Derek felt the catching of Stiles' breath in his own chest, and he had to lock his jaw in tighter to hide it.
"Stiles," Derek spoke firmly, shuffling closer to him and nudging him sideways so they were sharing a headstone, shoulders and legs pressed together "do you remember when you first met me?" he asked.
Stiles swallowed, blinked, and sighed again, nodding "when I first met you properly you were an asshole," Stiles admitted reluctantly, obviously seeing exactly where Derek was going with this.
"I wasn't just an asshole. I was reckless and angry and bitter and I didn't have any reservations about killing-"
"Yeah but you were always trying to save people as well, you just wanted to protect the town-"
"It doesn't matter, you remember the way I was when we first knew each other. I was bad, and selfish and broken. I'm still an asshole, but… I'm different now. Either way, I know what a bad person looks like, I know how it fucks with your mind and I know evil when I look at it and you-" Derek broke off, finding it difficult to put everything into comprehensible words, as usual "you're the farthest thing from evil I've ever known – and I've known some pretty malevolent bastards," he said, drawing in a shaky breath. Stiles took his hand between them, lacing their fingers together "my point is, you didn't kill your parents. Your mom was ill, it was shit, but it wasn't something you could have stopped or controlled, you were just a fucking kid! And you didn't kill your dad either, Klaus did and fuck, I'll return the favour one day, but you know you're not to blame for this shit. You were the one that taught me not to think like that, remember?" Derek nudged him again, uncomfortable with having to be so gentle in his words.
Stiles thought about it for another twenty minutes and eventually, he let out a breath through his nose, wetting his lips and dropping his head sideways into the crook of Derek's neck. Soon after, it started snowing, but they didn't move, remaining there watching over the headstones for a little longer as a blanket of white grew around them. And when they did leave, Derek helping Stiles to his feet – he still wasn't at full capacity yet – they walked away together, Stiles hugging Derek's arm, Derek with his hand in his pocket, pressing a rough kiss to Stiles' scalp.
Derek didn't ever want to lose Stiles again.
"Uhh… Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"Did you bring the room temperature down?"
"No, why?"
"Because it's fucking freezing"
Stiles looked up from his laptop, his brow creasing ridiculously as he sniffed the air for anything that was off. It was unlikely, he'd lined the apartment with protective herbs and spelled them to ward anything out apart from the pack.
"You're right," he agreed, darting it tongue out in an outrageous manner, tasting the air now, seeing if there was anything in particular that stood out. Scott blinked a few times at his friend, before rolling his eyes and pushing off of the bed, stepping barefoot across the bedroom out into the lounge.
Everything seemed pretty normal. The rest of the place was empty, the pack weren't due to be over for another two hours, and Derek would be even longer, seeing as he was on take away duty tonight. But as far as Scott could tell, nothing was specifically weird looking – at least not in comparison to how it usually looked anyway. Stiles moved to stand behind him, still worrying his brow and narrowing his eyes, scanning the room more closely. He placed a hand on Scott's shoulder and stepped in front of him – it was a little bit of an alpha instinct now; he had this strange subconscious need to put himself between anything suspicious, and his betas.
He swallowed to wet his throat, walking slowly and cautiously across the oak wood flooring, grabbing the handle of the metal door and sliding it across, poking his head around it and looking up and down the hallway. Nothing was there, nothing looked peculiar or attention grabbing. He closed the door again with a small tut, huffing and going with short, fast paces towards his airing cupboard, flinging it open to check the heating dial.
It was up at full heat and the boiler was rumbling in a low tone the same way that it always did. He heard Scott shiver from nearby as his lips parted a slit, and he held back a gasp when his breath could be seen in the air in front of him. Jesus it really was cold in here. Stiles didn't know why he hadn't noticed straight away. Although, when he was writing, it did take a while for him to notice much of anything outside of his own fictional universe unless it was directly pointed out to him.
Shortly after noticing his breath in the air however, a horrible feeling of foreboding washed over him and jolted in his gut, harshly lifting all of the hairs on his body and giving him goosebumps, sending a shiver up his spine. He snapped the cupboard shut quickly and turned to his friend, who looked slightly worried when he met Stiles' eyes. Shit, maybe Stiles was panicking more than he'd originally thought. Why though? They were werewolves for fuck sake – why would a change in temperature and a weird, prickling emotion send them into full on horror movie terror mode?
"Dude, did you feel that?" Stiles asked, heart beating picking up ever so slightly. Scott's pretty brown puppy eyes got even more concerned when he heard the question, rubbing his own arms to gather some heat, and shaking his head.
"No man, feel what?" he replied. Stiles didn't answer, instead he pushed past Scott gently, going to the nearest window ledge.
"Shit," he breathed, as though the word had escaped his lips without meaning to, turning to condensation in the air, more visible against the garish white sunlight streaming in through the paned window.
"What?" Scott asked, watching Stiles swipe a finger across the plastic surface and sniff at it. He drew in a deeper, shaky breath, meeting Scott's eyes again.
"Sulphur"
"A ghost?" Derek reiterated with raised eyebrows, big arms crossed over his chest.
"Yes, genius," Stiles replied "a fucking ghost, spirit, presence. Whatever. The point is, this place is haunted and I'm not leaving just because it wants to shack up here. Ergo," he gestured wildly at Derek from where he was perched on the kitchen counter "we get rid of the little hitchhiker and I can go on living my normal, young-adult, apple pie, mildly drug free life," he finished, oblivious to the rest of the pack looking either doubtful or concerned.
The apartment was quite big really – light and dark browns mixed with reds, brick walls and high ceilings. The steel metal slider front door opened out into a spacious living room that extended to an open kitchenette complete with a microwave, a sink, a kettle, a toaster, a stove oven, and a couple of small cupboards containing plates and cups and cutlery. There was a door on the far wall connecting the kitchen and living room that lead to Stiles' simple, large room complete with a king sized bed, a desk, his famous spinning chair, and an en-suit bathroom that did everything it pretty much said on the tin. It wasn't overly expensive for Stiles; his book sales usually either stayed on a manageable line, or went up as he continued to get mostly good reviews. At one point, he'd even been a New York Times bestseller, but John Green and his damn faulty stars had taken the spot almost straight away the following week.
Right now, Stiles mainly just worked at the baristas for most of the week, spent time with Derek and the pack, and carried on working on the new book he'd started. It was good. It was peaceful. He was really fucking happy.
But, of course, now he had a fucking ghost for a lodger, and he doubted that whilst he was sure the process of eliminating it wouldn't be all that complicated, it would be mildly dangerous and slightly terrifying. Werewolf mage or not, ghosts and spirits were still fucking scary okay, it was just integrated in him.
"Are you sure it's a ghost? I mean, it does seem a little far-fetched," Jackson commented from the couch in the lounge.
"You can talk, lizard man. You had fucking scales and green shit. And we're werewolves dude, fucking werewolves. That you can come to terms with, but the concept of a ghost is too difficult for you to grasp?"
"Just because you're my alpha doesn't mean I won't still kick your ass," Jackson pointed out loudly and Stiles rolled his eyes, jumping off the counter and grabbing the plates from the cupboard when the front door went and the smell of Chinese food filled his senses, making his stomach rumble.
Derek answered the door, and Lydia and Allison helped him carry the mass of food to the sofas where everyone now automatically congregated. Scott wordlessly took out the six bottles of cola and began pouring glasses out, Stiles handed out the plates and cutlery, Jackson opened the windows so it didn't all stink the place out, Isaac and Boyd began giving everyone the individual dishes, and Erica crouched in front of the TV, scanning the DVD collection for a new movie they could watch.
"Erica, I love you," Stiles grinned when she dropped down next to him and the title sequence of the new Disney movie Frozen played across the screen. He gave her the spring roll and chicken balls she'd ordered, and took his own drink from the table, sitting back a little more against the plush cushions and moving so that he was a little closer to Derek on the right of him.
There was a small wrestling match when Erica, Stiles, Isaac, and Scott all enjoyed singing Do you wanna build a snowman at the top of their lungs, much to the dismay of Derek and Jackson who both found the habit annoying and were perfectly aware that was one of the reasons why they did it. Stiles finished the bickering by abruptly shoving a battered pork ball covered in sweet and sour sauce straight into Derek's mouth, smiling widely and innocently at him whilst everyone – including Jackson – held back fits of giggles at Derek's pork ball filled murderous expression.
Come eleven that night, everyone had left including Derek who had to travel up to Missouri the following morning to see a guy about some more vervain and mountain ash because he was a good boyfriend and Stiles was low on supplies but had a busy week ahead of him doing some press updates.
Before he went to bed around midnight after giving the lounge a quick once over, Stiles padded around the apartment, bloated, overindulged on literal puppy love, and sleepy. Yawning loudly and ridiculously, he burned sage all the way through the rooms and made sure to strengthen his wards – although there wasn't a lot of magic he could really perform when he was tired, it was dangerous for him and he didn't really want to be taking a trip to Beacon Hills memorial at half twelve in the morning.
He turned the heating all the way up once more, locked all the doors and windows, and lined his doorframe with salt, all the while fighting against droopy eyes and sluggish limbs. Eventually, when he finally fell into bed, he was simply too tired to really acknowledge that there was something wrong with the fact that he was this exhausted after a day of doing so little. He just flopped onto his front against the duvets and immediately dropped out for the count.
He was jolted awake abruptly, fangs elongated, claws growing out as something in his lounge smashed loudly, pulling him forcefully from whatever he'd been dreaming about and sending him straight into full blown defensive mode.
After a few seconds of calming himself down, he sniffed the air and growled a little low in his throat at the putrid smell of sulphur, stronger now than before. He clicked his fingers and his desk lamp flicked on, casting a warm glow over his whole room, bathing it in light. He blinked a few times with his human eyes, getting rid of the tired blurriness and rubbing his forehead. He jumped out of bed, padding slowly across the carpet and out into the lounge, shaking his hands a little to get his sleep numbed fingers used to the claws protruding from them.
"Derek?" he called out, blinking once again now he had more control over his wolf, his eyes switching to red as he scanned the apartment with enhanced vision "what have I told you about creeping around in the middle of the night – fuck!" he yelled as he stepped straight into a pile of broken glass and hissed, hopping around clutching his foot, blood dripping everywhere. He huffed, grabbing at the kitchen top for balance when he almost fell on his ass, pulling the shard out and breathing deeply as he watched at least one of the layers of skin heal over straight away. It was still sore looking though, and covered in blood. He tried to gather himself as much as he could before crouching down slowly where the glass was still shattered across the floor. He swept his finger softly across one of the smoother pieces, bringing it up and cursing some more at the black powder on it.
"Motherfucker," he half-shouted, standing back up and panting slightly with a mix of fear, fury, and lingering pain "you're a tricky little bitch aren't you?" he breathed, clutching the fabric of his old t-shirt over the place whereabouts his heart was situated, clicking again to turn the lights on in the lounge and kitchen as well. He didn't want to call anyone – everyone was busy the following day and needed their beauty sleep, but honestly this was a pack development and as much as he didn't want to wake anyone up with this new incident, he also didn't want to listen to everyone ranting at him for leaving it until morning to talk to them when he could be in danger.
Not that it made much of a difference of course, he could very much protect his own backside – they were just funny about these things, Stiles put it down to the way they still found it difficult to remember that he wasn't a helpless human anymore.
"Stiles, its two in the morning," Derek's croaky voice sounded on the other side of the line "I have to be up in three hours and I am not doing another fucking taco run for you because your insomnia is playing up again-"
"The spirit smashed something," he cut across him, earning himself a moment of silence followed by a deep sigh.
"Are you sure you weren't dreaming?"
"I think I can tell the difference between reality and non-reality," Stiles hissed in reply down the phone, hopping up on the kitchen stool and running a hand through his bed hair, screwing his face up at the horrible taste in his mouth and the dull ache behind his eyes.
"You've got a very active imagination-"
"Yes well right now I'm imagining kicking your furry little ass-"
"Okay!" Derek exclaimed, still croaky and slow "okay," he repeated "make sure your wards are all good and I'll be over in half-hour," he grumbled, pressing the red button and hanging up.
Stiles put the phone down on the counter top in front of him, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and rubbing at them some more, yawning loudly, eyelids droopy and weirdly sore. He darted his tongue out to wet his lips and swallowed heavily. Shit, there really was something not right here. He was completely fucking exhausted – not the usual kind of exhausted either, like full on woozy, thin blooded, manic kind of exhausted that combined a lethargic sensation (representative of being woken up at two in the fucking morning), and an irritated, uptight shiftiness (representative of having a fucking ghost trying to play with his head).
He dropped his head down on the marble surface in front of him, vowing to only rest his eyes for a little while until Derek arrived, but he must have blacked out or something because about an hour later he was being shook awake from the kitchen floor with a specific sharp stinging shooting up the right of his rib cage.
"Stiles," Derek was saying urgently, holding his lolling face in his hands "Stiles, what the fuck happened?"
"I- I think… shit, I think I was attacked or – or something. I don't know," he spoke, wincing as he tried to sit up some more, helped along mostly by Derek "I think it's fucking with my body. I don't know how, but I was really tired and when I woke up it was like everything was heightened. Help me stand," Stiles requested, wrapping an arm around Derek's shoulders and allowing him to thread an arm around his waist, hauling him upwards. Stiles put a hand on Derek's chest, indicating for him to pause for a moment because his world was spinning around him.
"You look like shit," Derek's voice was soft and frightened and Stiles drew in a deep, shaky breath, unable to disagree with him. It was true. Stiles felt incredibly spooked and unsettled – this was nothing like what he'd imagined dealing with a ghost would resemble "are you coming down with something?" he wondered out loud, pressing a warm hand to Stiles' forehead.
"I'm fine," Stiles dismissed, using Derek as a leaning post so he could slowly make his way back to the stool he'd been sat on "fuck, I don't remember anything that happened in the last hour. One minute I was sat here, the next you're shaking me awake like a fucking rag doll down by the fridge? Dude, this is sketching me out," he sighed.
"I'll call your supplier, tell him I'll go up there next weekend instead. We can get Deaton over here tomorrow morning and figure out what's going on properly-"
"No, dumbass. Whatever this thing is, it wants to mess with me and I'm not letting it. Look," Stiles breathed weakly, looking up at Derek from where he was sat "can we just go back to bed? You can get up at five and go to Missouri, and I'll get Scott and Deaton over here after I've had a lay in until at least eight," he proposed. Derek was reluctant. Whilst he wasn't sure it was a ghost, there was definitely something going on in Stiles' apartment, and he disliked leaving him when something wasn't right. But they really did need to re-stock the mountain ash supplies, and it wasn't like Stiles was a baby, he could handle himself. Also, he really did want to curl up in bed with his boyfriend and go back to sleep for a few hours, so the lure of Stiles' warmth and the promise of some more shut eye before he had to get going won out.
He blinked heavily, moving to stand between Stiles' legs and wrapping his arms around him, nuzzling his nose in his neck.
"Alright," he breathed groggily, a little bit intoxicated by the smell of his mate "but you've got to let me clean the blood off of you first-"
"It was dark, I didn't see the glass, it has nothing to do with my complete lack of spatial awareness and limb control," Stiles grumbled in response, drawing a small, wry chuckle from Derek that vibrated softly along their bodies. Derek reluctantly broke away, grabbing the wet wipes from the space next to the kettle and gently getting the blood off Stiles' foot and hands before helping him to the bedroom.
Stiles struggled for a few moments to push himself up the bed to the pillows, but by the time he'd managed it, Derek was undressed and crawling in beside him, gathering him against his body and wrapping himself against him. Alright, so it was fucked up that there was a ghost wondering around somewhere in the apartment with less-than-innocent intentions, but whatever, Derek was here which meant that whatever it was could wait until the morning.
"Stiles, do you smell ink?" Scott frowned when they were vegetating after that month's full moon at the Hale house. Scott wasn't due in at the vets today, and Stiles was taking a leave of absence from the baristas because of the fact that he had a fucking ghost following him around trying to ruin his life. Derek was on a grocery run, Isaac was upstairs taking a bath, and the remaining members of the pack were puppy piled in a giant congregation of blankets and pillows in the living room. They'd moved the sofas back against the walls a couple of days back in preparation for the time of month (the wolfy kind, not the human kind), and after setting up about a thousand duvets in a large square in front of the TV in the lounge, had gone running in the woods.
Stiles had been a little more agitated than usual this month, so he hadn't noted the time they'd gotten back – they'd simply all grumpily sludged in naked in the early hours of the morning, changed into their pjs, and curled up in a tangle of nine lots of limbs, passing out after a few minutes of squirming about trying to get the right positions. This was a new tradition that Stiles approved of very much if he was being honest – he was never too old or mature to have a forty eight hour cuddle session with his pups in his pyjamas.
They started to wake up around twelve the next day, and after an hour of arguing and squabbling about who was going to disturb the elaborate weaving of arms and legs to ring the Chinese, Lydia growled and climbed over everyone, deliberately digging her knee into Jackson's crotch to reach for the phone. She spoke perfectly and politely down the line to the takeout place in contrast to her little outburst, and she smiled sweetly and patronisingly at her boyfriend as she settled down beside him and watched him with a satisfied grin on her face as he cradled his balls with his hands and tried to recover through the pain.
"It's cold," Erica commented about five minutes later when Lydia had put the phone down and they were just putting on the pilot episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
"We're literally surrounded by human radiators," Boyd frowned at her from where she was laid back against his chest and she tutted at her husband.
"Yes, I know that, I'm just saying, it's cold," she repeated herself in a frustrated voice.
"And I still smell ink," Scott added again, sitting forward like a puppy dog demanding everyone's attention – Stiles half expected him to reveal a wagging tail "and… old tobacco. Also burgers. But mostly ink, like pen ink," Scott sniffed heavily at the air before catching himself, and pouting at everyone's bemused expressions.
Stiles frowned and took the remote control off of an offended Lydia before he irritably shushed his betas, batting them down. He listened hard, focusing all of his senses on looking for something out of place. All he could hear were the breaths of his back, and Isaac's steady heartbeat from the bathtub upstairs.
Then he smelt the ink. He smelt to old tobacco, and he smelt the burgers. And something else, something that was inherently unique and separate from the scents of everyone else in the house. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it sent chills down his spine and raised the hairs on his back. Isaac shifted abruptly in the water upstairs, before the sounds of slipping were heard, and he was stood in the doorway within second, sopping wet, white towel wrapped around his waist, a panicked expression on his sculpted face.
"The temperature dropped really suddenly," he said with widened eyes, swallowing heavily as Stiles met his eyes. Then he looked down and his heart skipped a beat as his breath became visible in the air. Lydia instinctively moved in closer to Jackson and Boyd placed a hand on Erica's thigh over the blanket they were tangled in.
There was complete silence aside from the heavy, shaky breathing of the pack – not even a pin drop. It was like the birds in the area had stopped singing in the trees and the deer's in the reserve had frozen still.
Then something smashed upstairs, shooting like an electric shock through the whole house. All at the same time Isaac jumped violently and grasped the doorframe, his dislike of loud noises bringing harsh tears to his pale green eyes; Lydia screamed fast and short, her hand grabbing straight at Jackson's arm one side, and Stiles' on the other, Stiles gasped and furled his hand in the duvet around him and Boyd sat up fast, Erica's eyes shooting quick and sharp around the room.
There was another moment of petrified quiet, before Stiles pried Lydia's hand away from his arm, and peeled the sheet away from his legs, standing slowly, still sleep numbed and struggling to catch his balance. When he was steady on his feet, he slowly went to Isaac, taking his beta's face in his hands and moving his head to catch his line of terrified vision.
"Alright?" Stiles asked in a firm, barely there voice. Isaac stared at him for a moment, before finally blinking, nodding once. Stiles nodded back, pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, and turned back to the room, gesturing for the pack to slowly raise from their positions on the floor.
"Give Isaac a pair of pants and a t-shirt, I think mine are on the back of the sofa," he instructed in a whisper. Lydia responded first, breaking out of her fear and handing Isaac the garments. Stiles drew in a deep breath, gesturing for Scott to text Derek and let him know that something was in the house.
They made their way up the stairs slowly and wordlessly, bunched together, clutching each other, Stiles leading the way. Jackson was tightly clenching Stiles' old baseball bat. Boyd had somehow obtained the biggest knife in the kitchen, and was holding it with a look of determination that could only be representative of a gathering of shivering young adults potentially confronting a ghost at midday in the middle of autumn. No one would believe them now if they told them they were a collection of the most powerful creatures on the planet.
"What the fuck are you doing?" a bemused voice came from the bottom of the stairs and they all flinched furiously, whipping around and glaring at their older alpha who had two arms full of food shopping and was looking at them all impatiently as if they were all completely insane.
"One of these days-" Lydia growled as the pack forgot their original goal and began to file grumpily back down the stairs into the kitchen where Derek started to put the groceries away. Of course, he was never fully successful, as a bottle of soda would be taken fluidly out of his hand on the way to the fridge, and someone would steal a packet of Doritos before he could place the multi-pack in the bottom cupboard.
"Anyone want to tell me why you were all climbing the stairs like a bunch of airheads in a college horror film?"
"Stiles is still being haunted and the temperature dropped again. Can't you smell the sulphur?" Erica explained as she settled in Boyd's lap on the kitchen stool and rubbed her sleepy eyes tiredly.
Derek paused, sniffing the air for a few moments, before frowning deeply, putting the packet of ham in the fridge with the milk and sighing heavily.
"I'm calling Deaton," he spoke, immediately glaring at the automatic flaring of protesting shouts against it as he pulled his phone out of his back pocket "shut the fuck up. I am done dealing with this – it's too strange, Stiles is exhausted, you're all ridiculously spooked, and Deaton knows the most about this shit- hey! Deaton, we have a problem…" Derek left the room so he could talk properly to the resident expert in all things supernatural whilst Scott huffed, nudging under Stiles' arm and burying his nose in his neck, scenting.
"Hey buddy," Stiles said softly "I'm fine you know. It's not a big deal," his hand automatically came up to the back of Scott's neck, stroking through the hair there.
"Are you sure about that though?" Jackson asked, one eyebrow raised, his voice taking on that rare tone of careful concern as he gestured to the dark lines under Stiles' eyes and the thinness of his fingers. Stiles swallowed, feigning innocence as he shrugged nonchalantly, scoffing.
"Yes, I'm sure, I'm just a bit wired lately," he spoke in a rather unconvincing voice. Allison moved to stand on the other side of him, taking his free hand and covering it with both of her own.
"You're ice cold," she said gently, rubbing at his skin to create warmth through friction.
"Stiles, something is draining you, it's pretty damn obvious. It doesn't take a werewolf to figure that out," Lydia looked at him firmly, green eyes narrowed a little as Scott's arms went around his middle tightly.
"You're all worrying for no-"
"Deaton says you're dying," Derek came back into the room, eyes wide, lips parted slightly, phone still hanging numbly from his left hand.
"What?" Stiles exclaimed "bullshit, I'm not dying. This is fucking ridiculous, he doesn't even know all the details!"
"I've been cataloguing them all week," Derek said, blinking once "every time we have an incident like this with the temperature and the sulphur, you get more and more tired. We practically had to carry you back from the woods last night after the run. Its – Deaton says it's an elemental spirit drawing on your magical energy to get its foothold here," he spoke, but there was a broken quality to it that stung Stiles' tear ducts "it's killing you Stiles," Derek repeated "it's draining the life out of you"
"I still don't understand why you thought this was a good idea, or how the hell I wound up agreeing to this," Derek huffed as Lydia pulled up finally in Jackson's shiny black SUV, the two of them being the final members of the pack to turn up to their impromptu camping trip "its fucking freezing"
"Oh stop whining and help me with the tent," Stiles replied, rolling his eyes.
"He's just been looking for an excuse to wear his new winter clothes," Scott said as he dropped a bunch of heavy looking firewood in a dip in one of the rocks and crouched, beginning to try and light it "and its super annoying that we don't breathe fire you know"
"Scott, we're werewolves, not dragons," Erica snorted, fondly smoothing her hand over the back of her pack mate's neck when she walked past him to get to her and Boyd's Range Rover in search of the cooler containing their beer.
"Oh shut up okay," Stiles retorted with a look of mild annoyance "you all love camping and the fact that it gives us an excuse to look hot in winter gear," he added, wincing a little when he moved to try and lift the large box from the boot of his jeep containing all the blankets and bedding.
It was true really, winter/camping gear really did suit them.
Allison had bought thick, tight black leggings covered by black leather hunting boots. On her top she wore a demowoman jacket sky mission. It was a smooth, blue, asymmetric and minimalistic, complete with a removable hood, closing by metallic snap buttons and zipped pockets along with a lightening effect on surface when stretched. It was a fucking beautiful piece of fashion and it looked as though it had been made specifically so that Allison could wear it for the good of the damn universe.
Lydia wore thick, thigh high woollen tights held up by suspenders that disappeared under what she'd informed him was a midnight lion-print, silk crepe de chine smock dress, finished by a black leather fur collar biker jacket and black smart western ankle boots, her fiery red hair loose and curly as ever.
Erica wore a slim-fitting jacket with a khaki cotton body, soft black leather sleeves and collar trim, fitted with a thin camo under layer and zipped cuffs. On her legs she simply wore tight blue skinny jeans and dark brown winter boots.
Isaac was wearing his usual funnel necked, black woollen pea coat and looked his normally epically beautiful self in slim fit jeans and black leather boots, his sharp cheekbones reddened by the cold.
Derek's wardrobe never changed, apart from the fact that he now wore thick woollen gloves with his usual leather jacket, dark green tee, and dark skinny jeans and sneakers. Scott wore a red plaid lumberjack coat with faux sheep fur lining and a button fastening. He also wore slim fit jeans and black converses.
Jackson had invested in a kaki green, quilted jacket that looked both warm and extremely expensive, along with leather gloves, dark blue jeans, and Nike high tops. Boyd was wrapped in a navy coloured, waxed, two tone parka jacket; simple and convenient, but not completely plain.
Stiles on the other hand, was very much enjoying the new opportunity for winter simplicity that seemed to effortlessly suit him, and outfitted a dark blue, long sleeved thermal top under a hooded, grey padded gilet with his usual red chinos and sneakers.
All in all, for a group of mostly werewolves on top of a rocky cliff overlooking their hometown in 52 degrees Fahrenheit weather whilst Stiles was supposed to be on the verge of death, they were extremely attractive young people. The death thing sort of put a downer on things though, and it had been bumming Stiles out all week. So, after finally losing his patience with all the horribly painful chemo signals everyone had been giving off, he'd yelled at them all to be ready in twenty four hours for a weekend camping trip on the cliffs, no arguments.
There had been arguments of course, but he'd literally silenced them all with a spell until they'd finished packing and loading the cars. Now he was very much enjoying that for the first time in around six days, everyone had given up trying to fight him and baby him, and were now throwing themselves into the little adventure, despite the fact that he'd taken their voices away beforehand.
"It's not even winter, its autumn," Derek huffed, taking the crate of bedding off of Stiles, ignoring the glare he received, and walking back over to the tent the two of them would be sharing, slipping it inside.
"Beer!" Stiles exclaimed, his attention diverted when Erica came back out from behind the Range Rover with a cooler of refreshments. He ran over to where she placed it near the fire, opening it and cracking open a bottle eagerly, needing alcohol if he was going to continue ignoring the weak feeling in his limps and the way his vision kept blurring in and out of focus, his head occasionally going dangerously fuzzy and light. As far as he was concerned, the pack did not need to know how worried he was for his own wellbeing – tonight was for fun and family, it was not for everyone to sit around with sad faces like 'let's all mourn Stiles before he is even actually confirmed to actually be dying from a soul sucking ghost haunting him'.
The sky quickly turned from garish autumn white to dark inky blue, the stars becoming visible amongst the crescent moon. Part of Stiles' idea to bring them all up here was so that they'd all be close to it – lunar proximity usually worked to calm them all, and the nearer they were to its light, the less the lot of them seemed to worry. They settled around the fire Scott had finally managed to get going, drinking, eating marshmellows, and bantering, Isaac sometimes play fighting with Erica and Jackson as they got a little rowdy now and again.
This was what Stiles missed the most when he'd been at uni. Being sat alongside the very earth that fuelled his wolf and his power, wrapped up between Derek's legs, surrounded by the people he loved most, the people who had always been there and never given up on him.
And for one terrifying, heart wrenching moment, he thought about what it would be like for them if he really did die. He was their second alpha, their go to for comfort and laughter. He loved them all like his own, his best friends, his children, his link to life and survival. He was a part of the pack on an elemental level that existed beyond all of their understanding – they all were. Every single one of them were part of a magical ebb that held the world together for them all. Any one of them being ripped away from that body and soul, any one of them dying, would damage it all beyond full repair.
He couldn't leave them again, he just couldn't. They would all lose their minds. At least for a little while anyway. He'd like to think that Derek would be able to pull them all back together – that was if the dude survived at all himself, Stiles was his mate. He'd read horrible, gruesome, vomit worthy stories about werewolves whose mates had passed away. It did irreparable breakage to the mental state, the literal equivalent of losing a limb.
But then he realised that he was probably giving off vibes reeking of fear and sadness, and instead focused on the feeling of Derek's warmth against his back and his chin resting on Stiles' shoulder. He focused on Scott's cheeky grin as Allison recalled the time he'd gotten drunk on beer laced with wolfsbane and ended up singing Gangnam style on the roof of the argents half naked. Stiles laughed and winced at the memory of how loud Chris had yelled at them all, trying to keep his smile wide as he reached out sideways and took Erica's free hand in his own in what he hoped was a subtle way.
She glanced briefly sideways at him, but didn't ask him about it, and simply squeezed softly before pressing a kiss to Boyd's cheek as Jackson began telling them about his trip to London the previous year, and how he'd managed to wake up curled up on top of the statue in Trafalgar square, literally stark naked and clutching a British football to his chest. Stiles remembered getting the call from half way across the world and the snappy, asshole voice on the other end of the line demanding to be bailed out of jail for 'indecent exposure'. Stiles had called one of his British druid friends, and got them to go and rescue Jackson from the clutches of the English jail system.
And Stiles thought, as he stared deeply into the embers, if he really had to die – which objectively was bullshit because it was only a damn ghost and he already had several ideas lined up on how to banish the damn thing – he'd be okay with it, if this was his last night, he would be alright.
It was quiet. Not silent, because Derek could hear the arrhythmic lightness of Stiles' fast typing and the slow beat of his heart; but it was quiet. He could smell the anxiety on him however, and taste it almost like a bitter, metallic consistency on his tongue. It hurt like hell in Derek's chest, but he remained on his side of the bed, facing the wall, keeping his breathing steady so as not to alert Stiles of his state of awake, simply thinking idly.
Research was keeping his mate sane right now, giving him the sensation that he was doing something, that he wasn't completely powerless.
The ghost was dormant for the moment, Deaton had found a spell for Stiles to perform that had somehow temporarily blocked its access to his power, but Derek was worried. Really fucking worried actually. They were running out of time, and whilst Stiles had stopped the spirit from draining his energy, he wasn't gaining any of it back either. He'd basically been stationary for the past week, although he could still walk slightly and could keep himself upright in the shower.
During the day, Derek helped him downstairs, and he sat on the sofa typing away, talking to his contacts in different part of the world through webcam, trying to get an idea of how to find out who exactly the ghost was, and how to either communicate with it safely, or banish it all together without killing anyone.
"Ah! Bonnie! Thank fuck, I thought you'd be asleep," Derek heard Stiles half-whisper at his computer screen through the darkness, and his ears perked up to hear their witch friend talking on the other side of the link.
"I get up at 5am every morning for a run, it's the only way I deal with the excess energy I've had since the whole 'other side collapsing' thing. Stiles, why do you look like you should be laying in a coffin at a wake?" she demanded, not trying in the slightest to keep her voice down as it vibrated through the microphone.
"Right," Stiles sighed tiredly "about that. I'm being haunted by an elemental spirit that's sucking the energy from my body to gain a foothold in this world. I was wondering if you could help me figure out who it is," he said, still keeping his voice down for Derek's sake, but not so much now he was properly paying attention.
"Stiles!" Bonnie exclaimed in outrage "why didn't you tell me? You asshole!" she scolded loudly.
"Sorry," Stiles said simply, clearly not at all sorry "I'm trying to stop everyone from worrying at the moment. But that won't mean anything if I actually die," he explained, his voice solid and even and fast.
"Well next time you need to tell me – wait, you said it's an elemental spirit?"
"Yeah Deaton says that's why it has to use my elemental magic to get its grip here"
"That's true," she confirmed "but elemental spirits are usually the result of a violent, unexpected death that causes a lot of devastation. People who are important to the community that are brutally assassinated usually end up like that. I think I had a bit of trouble with the ghost of Joan of Arc a couple of years ago, she was a bitch to get rid of. It's not easy Stiles, and it's very dangerous"
"C'mon Bon Bon," he replied, feigning mirth "you know me, danger is my middle name"
"No, it's Derek's middle name," she said sternly and Derek smirked to himself, rolling his eyes a little despite the situation "I'm learning that all my best friends have a habit of getting involved with extremely dangerous people"
"Yes well, regardless of my danger magnet life partner that you frequently remind me you don't approve of, can we get back to discussing my looming death?"
"Stiles this isn't funny," she sighed, sounding more and more upset with every sentence.
"I know that Bonnie," Stiles said, almost snapping, his voice suddenly serious "I know it's not fucking funny, I might have to leave them all behind again. They already have abandonment issues because of me. You know Scott still can't even look at me sometimes?" he spoke a little louder now, clearly losing his patience, and Derek had to swallow a lump of emotion in his throat at the truth of Stiles' words, the truth that the pack had never really voiced since Stiles' return from university "but I'm doing my best here"
"I know," she breathed, her voice cracking slightly "I know…. Okay," she said, suddenly sounding more business-like, gathering her wits about her "so elemental spirits give off a lot of raw, residual chemosignals – smells, emotions that transfer to the people they're haunting. Have you been documenting what you can smell and feel every time the spirit makes an appearance?" she asked, and the bed shifted slightly as Stiles moved to get a little more comfy.
"Yes," he replied "Scott mentioned a couple of times that he could smell ink and old tobacco, Jackson said that he could smell burger grease, Isaac says he's even heard a gunshot once or twice, like the kind of ghosty echo of one"
"Alright," she said "so try and put it all together. Do all these smells and senses sound familiar to you?"
"Yes!" he said "but it's… it's difficult to place because it's like… it's like there's this block. It's on the tip of my tongue, I know it is, like I know who it is, but I don't because it hasn't fallen into place yet"
"Think of people you associate with ink, tobacco, burgers, and gunshots," she said "keep thinking about that and I'll look through all my old notes, see what I can remember about what I did before and I'll call you tomorrow. Stiles?" she said, with a small tone of finality "you'll let me know if you get any worse, won't you?"
"Yeah," he said softly "I really am sorry for not telling you"
"You can make it up to me once this is over"
And Derek heard the noise of the video call being ended, and the sound of Stiles sinking further against the headboard, radiating exhaustion and stress.
"What's going on?" Melissa exclaimed as Derek came crashing through the double doors of the hospital, coatless and drenched in rain, the liquid percolating through his blue Henley, an unconscious Stiles cradled against his chest.
Melissa liked to think that she knew Derek Hale quite well after all these years of her son being in his pack, and dealing with the horrible dangerous dumbass monsters that seemed to always want to take up residence in their home town – but she didn't think that she'd ever seen the alpha look quite as panicked and broken as he looked as she gestured for him to bring Stiles to one of the rooms, calling for a doctor.
"I don't know," Derek said desperately, shaking his head, hazel green eyes terrified and heart-wrenchingly young "I just couldn't wake him up. He was fine when we went to sleep-"
"Has anything happened to him in the last week? Any unnatural symptoms"
"He – fuck – he keeps breaking out in cold shivers and he wouldn't tell me yesterday but he was sending of these intense pain chemosignals," he managed as he put him down on the bed. Melissa checked Stiles' vitals, flinching at how cold his skin was and wincing at how fast and shakily his chest moved as it rose and fell in tiny, helpless, weak gasps for air.
"Alright," she said firmly to Derek, that bone chilling panic setting in her bones as she registered the gravity of the situation "it's okay. We can stabilise him for now. He's mildly hypothermic and severely fatigued. I'm going to hook him up to an IV whilst the Doctor gets here. Derek," she said, moving for a small moment to take his stubbled face in her soft hands "he'll be okay"
"So I have a question," Stiles croaked from where his head was settled on the pillow "when I left, did you have a song?"
God he looked so small. So fucking small. And so pale. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker than ever and his lips were raw and chapped, his skin white and blotchy. The veins along his wrists were terrifyingly visible, and the IV attached to his right arm was only adding to his overall sickly demeanour. Underneath his own rib cage, Derek could physically feel his heart breaking slowly as he watched his boyfriend deteriorate further by the day. It was even more mind shattering because he honestly never thought he'd have to do this again. He never thought he'd have to sit at Stiles' bedside and watch him waste away. It just seemed to be happening way too frequently of late.
"What sort of stupid question is that?" Derek sighed, face pressed against Stiles' hand which he was holding up to the side of his face, elbows resting on the mattress next to his body.
"A valid one, seeing as I'm not exactly going anywhere right now," he replied, blinking through red rimmed eyelids, drawing in deep, slow breaths. For now, he was stable. But that wasn't very comforting "c'mon sourwolf," he teased ailingly, and Derek had to swallow a tight, choking lump of emotion in his throat "I had a song. I want to know what yours was"
"You are my sunshine," Derek said blandly, trying to get off the subject as quickly as possible. He regretted it immediately however, as Stiles' eyes widened slightly and filled with tears, a deep expression of shocked sadness and guilt spreading over his features.
"Fuck," he breathed "fuck. Holy shit. Der-"
"Its fine," Derek shook his head.
"It's not though," Stiles whimpered slightly, tongue darting out to wet his mouth "it's not okay. All the time I swear I'm imagining these new scenarios of you by yourself after I left and I feel like shit"
"It's not important right now Stiles," he said firmly, holding his hand tighter "it's in the past. We lost some time, it was painful and traumatic, but I'm a grown ass man dammit," he insisted, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand "I can handle it. I'm going to be even more pissed off if you let this thing right now beat you," he spoke in a solid, yet slightly desperate voice, looking him right in the eyes "if you die, I will literally go out of my freaking mind"
Stiles didn't blink, but the tears spilled over his eyes and dripped unceremoniously down his cadaverously gaunt cheekbones. Derek drew in a deep, shaky breath, standing from his chair and slowly moving Stiles over on the bed, shifting in beside him and wrapping the younger werewolf in his arms, careful not to jolt the wire attached to his arm.
Derek would not sleep tonight, his superhuman hearing attuned committedly and unwaveringly to the bleeping of Stiles' heart monitor. The newly appointed Sheriff Jordan Parrish had gone out minutes previous to collect coffee, and would be back soon to take his place beside them in the chair Derek had just moved from – but for now, the way Stiles' pulse slowed and his feeble limbs visibly relaxed against him, was an illusion of momentary safety.
Things were hanging by a lethargically fraying thread, and unless they figured out what the hell was draining on his life force, Stiles would be dead by the end of the week.
"Derek!" he had a split seconds warning before a small, slender body slammed against him and arms wrapped around his neck, and he got a face full of glossy dark curls "oh my god I'm so sorry," she breathed desperately when he gathered himself and wrapped his own arms around her waist in turn "I'm so sorry. I got here as soon as I could, but the quickest flight was seven hours," her soft, dark hands bunched gently in the hair at the back of his head as she held him tighter, somehow knowing that he was breaking, and that he pretty much just needed a hug.
He had a strange relationship with Bonnie Bennet. She didn't approve of him for Stiles because of his attitude, which was fine because there were a lot of people that didn't like his burly and introverted demeanour – but at the same time, they sort of loved each other. Bonnie had been instrumental so many times over the years, and she'd helped the pack even when Stiles had been at university, despite the fact that she lived seven hours away on the plane, and two days away in a car. She always managed to find a way to be here if they needed her.
So whilst he sometimes mismatched with the young brunette because their spunky personalities clashed, he cared for her deeply and appreciated her strength and compassion. He was extremely grateful that she'd taken his short, quiet phone call letting her know that Stiles was in hospital, as an understanding that she was needed in California with them at the moment.
"Hey Bee, how much do you wanna bet that I can make the receptionist drop her clipboard within the first couple of seconds of talking to her? Oh hey big guy"
Derek inwardly groaned, grimacing as he lowered his line of vision from the floor, to the irritatingly beautiful crystal blue eyes of Damon fucking Salvatore. Bonnie finally pulled away slowly, keeping one arm around Derek as she turned to look at the vampire.
"You bought him into a hospital full of innocent people?" Derek said, although his voice was void of malice as he raised his eyebrows.
"Your lack of faith in me hurts my soul, Hale," Damon pouted tragically, placing one hand over his chest. Derek snorted.
"You're a 180 year old vampire, you don't have a soul," he retorted. But a moment later, when they finally met each other's eyes, the vampire's expression changed, and a moment of truth passed between them, before Damon stepped forward, letting out a deep sigh and pulling Derek into a tight, one armed hug.
"I'm sorry buddy," he said "dying significant other; sucks, right?"
"We're going to help him Derek," Bonnie insisted firmly the moment Damon pulled away "we won't let him die on us"
Wires. Everywhere the fucking wires. It used to be a big thing, when the pack were dealing with something that required hacking. His living room would be covered in wires of varying thickness and length, all connected to random devices that looked both intimidating and highly important. Isaac, Danny (after they'd told him about all their bullshit), and Stiles would be dashing about typing so fast sometimes that there was smoke coming off keyboards, and his electric bill would be as high as the tech half of his pack on caffeine.
But this was indescribable. A whole different kind of stress.
Derek hadn't slept in a week, and when he had dosed, it had been for mere minutes, and he felt as though his tears were constantly tracked on the skin of his face, the facts of the situation sitting in his bones, tearing apart his muscles, choking in his throat and stinging harshly in his eyes.
And the wires. Jesus fucking Christ the wires. A different wire for each different drip. Two wires in Stiles' nose to keep him breathing, two wires in each of his forearms for basic fluids, a wire in his leg feeding copious amounts of morphine into his nervous system as his organs failed him and his super healing counted for absolutely fucking nothing. Two wires monitoring his brain activity trying to determine the parts of his body causing the overall problem.
Beneath the blanket tucked around his ghostly bale body and the hospital robe, he was bordering on skeletal, his cheekbones more hollow than ever, deep dark shadows around his sore eyelids, lips almost blue. He looked as though he was already dead.
And all that was going through Derek's head, were all those times on birthdays and at winter, with Christmas lights reflecting in his amber brown eyes, and the flash of red in them every time he got an idea that could make everything ten times better, or possibly worse depending on the situation. And with those memories, came floods of others – running down corridors and white hallways with effulgent hot panic pulsing through him, breath fast, eyes stinging with warm tears, anger conflagrant in his gut. The images of Stiles knelt in front of Lydia with dried blood on his wrists, and later on, Stiles' dried blood on Derek's helpless fingertips.
But he'd always been alive. He'd always been animated and snarky and real. He was the most real person Derek had ever known.
Looking at him now, Derek would never know.