But he heals, enough. Of course he does. Derek comes back to Peter gone, to darkness, to the taste of his own stale blood going tacky on his teeth. He drags himself sideways and chokes, vomits rivers of it.
Derek wipes his mouth, tries to remember how to breathe.
The skin over his ribs pulls tight, tighter, tighter, struggling to mend itself back together. The bones work slower, splinter trying to reach each other. His chest is shifting layers of gravel, shredding the muscle above it with every new breath, slicing his new skin open again, again, again.
He shoves himself to his knees, staggers, catches himself on raw palms. He gives the world a few seconds to rearrange itself steady, tries again. Grits his teeth, swipes at his eyes impatiently.
He's a werewolf. He'll heal. There's no point being a baby about it.
It's dark, but not quite night. Stiles' father probably isn't home from work yet. Stiles might still be at Scott's. That's good, that's—Good.
Derek just needs to—get cleaned up, get his head straight, and then he can find them. Check the house again, make sure.
This doesn't have to matter.
The lake is a bad idea. Derek's feeble as foam, and the ice water breaks him, changes his new-formed bones to fragile stalactites, buries him under a chill he can't claw his way up from.
His wolf gets sick of the stupid human trying to kill it and takes over. Derek's too cold, too empty to fight back.
He lets it run, lets it drag him through the depths and back up again, rust trails swirling in the water all around him. Lets it bite back against the biting cold, dive deep under the ice and come up howling, shaking out fur matted with still-drying blood.
It's almost a relief, letting go. Being led. Just following, just swallowing water and still breathing because he isn't in charge of keeping himself afloat anymore.
Derek lets his wolf cage him in his chest, kept safe under layers of instinct and need. Wolves don't think at all, they just act. They just survive.
He should have done this from the beginning.
The wolf that once called itself Derek has the wrong shaped body for a wolf, but the still-sinking Derek part knows his body is the wrong shape for everything, now. The wolf barely cares. It stretches to fill every inch of itself, joints cracking as it learns its new shape.
It doesn't mind the blood on its teeth. It dives back under the ice, swims for miles. The cold is clarity, power against the sharp lances of pain still running through it. The air is fresh fire through its veins when it raises its head again, grins too wide.
It holds its human very still, breathes deep and sharp and even, and dives under again.
The water is the best place for a wrong-shaped wolf, where man and beast move mostly the same. The wolf knows this, somehow. Maybe its human is still giving some direction somewhere.
Torn flesh knits together clean. New bones form smooth as polished stones. Old blood swirls away into nothing. The wolf breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
The stories, the sayings are all wrong. The lone wolf survives.
Under everything, it's still a wolf.
Werewolves read the darkness like a map, seek out the slightest shade of moonlight. The night over the wolf is blue-black and cold. Its fur stands on edge. There isn't enough of it, but this wolf has dealt with worse conditions than a confusing shape and a few bald patches. It isn't searching for a mate. It isn't fighting to keep in line with a pack. It's a lone wolf, so it's fine. It's fine, fine, fine.
Fine is a very human word. The wolf is content.
Its human barely struggles under its skin.
The wolf tests out its new throat. The roar shakes the trees and echoes back.
Names the wolf shouldn't know come with the sounds. The wolf pushes this away.
It rises from the water, picks fibers from under its new flesh. The moon hangs in the night, a Cheshire cat's sharp slice of teeth. The wolf grins back.
The night is very young, and the world is new and full, and the wolf is hungry.
The fight comes to the wolf all at once: an alpha, young, hesitant, approaching too slowly. Behind it, a coyote, a fox, two humans. An ambush. The human in the wolf's chest is saying something, struggling again, but the wolf ignores it. He rears up on his hind legs, roars.
The alpha backs away, spreads his arms wide in front of the others.
The wolf grins sharp. Gets ready to charge.
His human is screaming.
His claws comes out. The alpha roars.
He's not the wolf's alpha. His roar is barely a challenge.
The wolf braces against the tight-packed dirt.
"He's feral," the coyote—Malia—the coyote says. "The wolf's in control now."
The wolf doesn't know human names. Words are for thinking things, for the weak. A wolf would never lay down and die to hide from words.
"No," Stiles says. "He's hurt."
The wolf looks up.
"Derek?" Stiles says, and steps forward.
In the wolf's chest, something grows claws.
"Derek?"
Derek's never heard Stiles like this, his voice strangled, pitchy with panic.
For just a second, his wolf stills.
A second is all Derek needs.
He forces his wolf down like thrashing back to the surface, looks out through his own clear eyes again. Stiles is feet away, watching him, his hands outstretched.
Half-reaching, half catching.
"Stiles," Derek says. At first the word won't come at all, and then it's everything. Heavy on his throat, light on his tongue, harsh and desperate, easy as breathing.
Stiles' hands find his shoulders just before he stumbles.
"You shouldn't've done that," Derek says, when he can say anything but those two syllables, over and over and over like a prayer.
"Yeah?" Stiles says. "Holy god, Derek, what happened to you?"
His hands map out the worst of Derek's remaining wounds. His face—Derek's never seen it like this. His eyes are so bright with fire they're practically glowing.
"I—" Derek says. "I got lost."
"Of course you did," Stiles says. "Look at you. You're barely held together."
Derek's world is still spinning, his ears are still ringing, the back of his head is a thousand uncoordinated gears trying to scrape into machinery, but he's healing. He's healing, he'll heal, that's not an excuse—
Stiles shouldn't trust him like that. No one should trust him like that, no one should trust Derek at all. No one should be—be running in front of a wild wolf, he could've—
"I could've—" Derek can't stop shaking. "I could've h-hurt you, I could've—"
"No," Stiles says. His arms come up around Derek, close him in warm against his chest. "No, you couldn't. Fuck, Derek, you need a doctor. A hospital."
"'m fine," Derek says, but he sounds like death, sounds like he's still dying. He clears his throat, squeezes his eyes shut when they threaten to water. His wolf is still fighting, still snarling inside him.
"Derek," Stiles says, but now it's so soft. Light fingers find the back of Derek's skull, explore the still-healing tender patches so carefully. Stiles' hand cups his jaw. Derek winces.
Stiles' hands disappear in an instant.
Derek takes his palm, drags it against his shoulder. Shivers, holds it there.
"You're not gonna break me," he says.
The hug is loose but full of Stiles, full of apology, just full. There's a horrible wetness to Stiles' voice when he tries speaking again. He's suddenly hoarse.
"What happened?" Stiles asks, but before Derek can answer, Stiles says, "Who? I'm gonna kill them."
"It was—It's nothing," Derek says. Stiles lets out a soft sobbish sound, stares at him. "It's worse than it looks," Derek says, before realizing that isn't right at all. "I mean. It looks worse than it is. I'm fine."
"I'm gonna kill them," Stiles swears again. "I'm gonna, I'm gonna take a baseball bat—You know what? I'll take a fucking wolfsbane chainsaw if I have to. It was a werewolf, right?"
"It doesn't matter," Derek tries. He's never seen Stiles this angry.
"It matters," Stiles snaps. "You matter. Stop fucking acting like—like you're disposable."
"Okay," Derek says, just to get that look off Stiles' face.
"Good," Stiles says.
He holds Derek together until Scott says, "Maybe—my mom—"
"Right," Stiles says, nodding, and unwinds from around Derek, but his arm hooks under Derek's almost before Derek can miss him, keeps him upright, secure against his side. "Right, yeah." He turns to Derek. There are tear tracks all down his face. "Can you walk?"
"Yeah," Derek says. "I'm fine."
"Someone cut your fucking head open," Stiles snaps. "If you were human you'd be dead."
"I'm not human," Derek says.
Stiles just looks at him. Just pulls him a little closer against his side.
"Yeah, well," he says. "I don't care."
"Don't fucking scare us like that again," Stiles says, after a while. Scott's pack is all around them like a guard rail, but Derek barely sees them at all.
A lead weight thumps heavy against Derek's chest. His eyes burn. "I'm sorry—"
"No," Stiles interrupts. "You should've called. Howled, or—Scott would've heard you. We would've come."
"I'm not part of your pack," Derek says, somehow, over the lump in his throat.
"Yeah you fucking are," Stiles says.
Lydia had screamed, lead them all to the middle of nowhere, two blood-smeared walls and a gore-washed floor. Stiles was sure it was more than one again. There's no way one person has that much blood in them.
But there weren't any bodies, there wasn't anything, and then Scott caught a scent under the copper and went quiet. Didn't want to tell Stiles what it was, just started following it.
They ended up at the lake, edge washed bloody, and Scott said, quietly, "Stiles..."
And then they heard the howl.
Lydia won't stop staring at him.
She doesn't say anything, she just—stares. Her gaze is impressive, eye-watering.
"What?" Derek says, finally.
"It's her first real rescue," Stiles says. "Kind of a big milestone."
They're at the McCall's, Derek all set up in the guest bedroom. The back of his head is still bleeding a little. He doesn't need to ruin these nice white sheets, but no one else seems to care at all.
Stiles is focused on the bleeding, running his fingers, careful, under Derek's hair. Derek closes his eyes.
"Whoa, whoa whoa whoa!" Stiles says, grabbing his shoulder. "You are not falling asleep. You probably have a concussion, or six. Keep those pretty peepers open."
"I'm a werewolf," Derek reminds him. His ears heat a little. He tries to ignore it. "I'm in a bed."
"For support purposes only," Stiles clarifies. "C'mon, dude, what do I have to do to keep you awake?"
A lot of really unhelpful suggestions pop into Derek's head at once. He pushes them away, blushing harder.
"Stiles," Malia says. "I think we should break up."
Stiles turns, looks at her. Derek misses his fingers immediately.
"What?"
"We should break up," Malia says. "See other people."
"Other people," Stiles repeats. "Who else do you wanna see?"
"And the world," Malia says.
"Other people and the world," Stiles says. The news doesn't seem to have caught up to his face, which obviously thinks this is some kind of long set up to a punchline. "Where in the world, specifically?"
"You're a really great guy," Malia says.
"Oh," Stiles says. "Well that's fine then. Do you want to maybe give me a straight answer at some point?"
"There's just a lot going on in my life right now," Malia says.
"Is there?" Stiles asks. "Me too! We should go out, maybe talk about it."
"I don't want to be with you anymore," Malia says.
"Now you're just lying," Stiles says, but his face crumples.
"Well I can't," Malia says.
"Can't," Stiles says tightly. "Why not."
"Because you're in love with somebody else, obviously," Lydia says.
"Okay, all points bulletin?" Stiles says. He's talking very fast, his tone very sharp. Derek's stomach hurts. "I am over you. Completely. Like, for months."
"Not me," Lydia says, rolling her eyes.
"Well then who?" Stiles snaps.
Derek has to go. Derek has to go do—something, has to go do something somewhere not here. Now.
"Where are you going?" Stiles demands, getting in his way. "What, are you dumping me too? I know I'm not your pack—"
"You are," Derek says. It's undeniable, it's—it shouldn't make sense, doesn't, but it's true.
"Yeah," Stiles says. His eyes are very bright. "Yeah, sure, till the next time you go off and get yourself killed—"
"That was stupid," Derek says. "I wasn't—I didn't think."
"Yeah, no shit," Stiles says. "I was wrong, okay? I was wrong."
"I don't—" Derek says.
"You're exactly like him," Stiles says. "You are him. There's nothing different about you."
It's obviously a lie. Derek's small, young, weak like this. Stupid. He's useless, he's nothing—
But Stiles really believes it.
And Derek, Derek—
Derek kisses him.