The next Saturday night found the whole pack at Derek's again, this time scarfing down pizzas after helping Erica and Boyd move all day.
After a long and contentious debate about which movie to watch Derek had finally exerted his authority as both alpha and owner of the television, and put on one of the few DVDs he actually owned — E.T. There had been lots of groans at first but now everyone was watching raptly.
"You're such a sap," Stiles murmured, nestling closer into Derek's side.
"Shut up, E.T. is a classic," Derek grumbled.
Stiles smiled, leaning his head against Derek's shoulder. "This is nice," he said a few minutes later. "We should make this a regular thing. Pack get-togethers, I mean. We don't have to wait until somebody survives mortal peril, y'know?"
Derek grunted. "Think people would want to?"
"'Course they would," Stiles said, just a moment before a chorus of agreement from the rest of the pack.
Stiles kicked at Boyd and Erica, who were sitting at his feet. "Bad wolves! No eavesdropping." Erica smacked his foot back. "Then shut up, this is a good part."
"It's all good parts," Derek muttered, offended, and Isaac threw popcorn at him.
After E.T. finished they took a break for ice cream, Derek somehow finding himself in charge of scooping while everyone else placed their orders. It was probably a good thing they'd have three freezers to work with from now on, given how no one could agree on the best flavor.
Derek was only half-listening in to various conversations, handing each carton of ice cream back to Stiles when he was finished with it to go back in the freezer.
"Is kitsune healing different?" Boyd was asking Kira. "I was thinking of getting one of Erica's pieces on my bicep, but Derek told me that when he got his tattoo they had to burn it on, and aside from hurting like a motherfucker I don't think that'd work for the kind of detail she has in her drawings."
"I think the healing's the same, or better, but my tattoo artist is a shifter too, she mixes a special blend of wolfsbane into the ink to keep your body from healing around the needle too quick. Once the ink's in, your body doesn't see it as a threat, so —" Kira shrugged, making the watercolor tattoos across her collarbone ripple. "I'll give you her contact info. Pricey, but worth it."
"Cool."
Derek finished scooping the vanilla and turned around to hand the carton to Stiles, but he wasn't there. Derek found him standing in front of the open freezer door, still. His heartbeat was elevated, hurt radiating through his scent.
"Stiles?" Derek rushed closer, hand automatically going to Stiles' wrist to drain any pain. "You okay?"
Stiles yanked his arm away in irritation. "I'm fine. Stop — stop doing that without asking me."
Derek flinched back from Stiles' tone, as well as from the anger now intermingled with the hurt clouding his scent. Stiles never spoke to Derek harshly, and something about hearing that tone of voice from him made Derek want to curl into himself.
"I'm — I'm sorry. Just — are you hurt?"
Stiles shut the freezer door with a solid thud, pulling in a breath and then letting it out in a sigh. "I — I'm fine. I just — I hit my head on the door, and I'm being snappy with you about it." He must have known that Derek would hear his heartbeat tripping on the lie, but he told it anyway. "Just — we'll talk later, okay? Please, Der?" His mouth was twisted with distress now, his eyes growing shiny.
"Yeah." Derek's chest felt tight with anxiety, not knowing what was wrong with Stiles or how to fix it, but the pleading tone of Stiles' voice left him no alternative. "Okay."
He backed away, feeling awkwardly voyeuristic as Stiles opened the freezer door again, using it as a shield between himself and the rest of the room as he rubbed his palm across his eyes to wipe away the wetness, apparently unaware that Derek was still watching him. Then Stiles shut the door again with a decided thunk, turning his face back to the room with a forced smile. "Now, who has my bowl of mint chocolate chip?"
Unsure what else to do, Derek sat back on the couch as the next movie started up. Erica had decided on a Spielberg theme and picked Raiders of the Lost Ark, also one of Derek's favorite movies, but he couldn't concentrate at all. All of his attention was on Stiles, who was lingering in the kitchen. His heartbeat was still elevated, the scent of sadness still surrounding him.
Derek knew the others were aware of it too, either sensing Derek's distress through the pack bond or picking up on Stiles' misery themselves. Derek caught a few sidelong glances but otherwise the pack seemed determined to ignore the awkwardness. Derek appreciated it as much as it made him feel like a failure — his whole pack aware now that he was unable to comfort and care for his mate.
He sat stiffly on the sofa, eyes fixed unseeing on the screen, until finally Stiles stopped puttering in the kitchen and came to join them. He settled down at Derek's side, a little bit apart at first, but then slowly relaxed, leaning into him. Derek felt his heart flutter in relief and he wrapped his arm around Stiles, pulling him closer, burying his nose in Stiles' temple to breathe in his scent. Stiles allowed it, smelling closer to his usual warm, soft scent but still tinged with a bitter edge of sadness.
The residual tension no doubt resulted in the pack dispersing pretty quickly after the second movie ended. Erica claimed that it was time for her and Boyd to "christen" their new apartment, and the resulting chorus of groans and thrown popcorn lightened the mood a little.
Derek ferried empty glasses to the sink, pretending he didn't hear as Isaac pulled Stiles aside.
"Scott said you'd be cool with it if Kira and I crashed in your bed tonight, but — it's no problem, we can catch a cab home if — if you were gonna sleep over there tonight —" Isaac was mumbling, his eyes darting to Derek.
Derek's grip on the glass he was holding tightened so much that a hairline crack zigzagged down the side, and he gritted his teeth in frustration as he threw it in the trash.
"No, it's fine. I'll sleep over here. Maybe we can grab breakfast together in the morning. Erica and Boyd are off shift too," Stiles was saying, and Derek felt a frisson of relief that, whatever he had done, it wasn't enough to make Stiles leave for the night. Unless he was just being polite, to give Isaac and Kira his bed, and it would have been his choice to leave after all…
Derek busied himself collecting the rest of the dishes from around the apartment as Stiles saw the last of the pack out, locking the door behind him. Derek raised his head but Stiles barely acknowledged him, going straight to the sink and starting to rinse the glasses, loading them one by one in the dishwasher.
Derek approached cautiously. He made enough deliberate noise with the clatter of stacked plates he was holding that Stiles must have known he was at his side, but Stiles still kept his head down, doggedly rinsing the next glass.
"Stiles?" Derek finally asked, his voice low and tentative.
Stiles pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's fine," he said, his voice carefully, artificially, casual — as if Derek couldn't hear the rapid thumping of his heart, the shortness of his breath as he struggled with some emotion. "Just…you have a tattoo?"
Of all the things Derek feared Stiles would say, that question was not one of them. "Yeah?" He could hear the confusion in his own voice, his hand reaching back automatically to touch the triskele between his shoulder blades. "I mean — I must have mentioned it before, right?"
Stiles' mouth was pressed into an unhappy line, his scent tinged with salt. "No."
"Stiles." Derek's gut felt hollow as he scrambled for something to say. "I'm sorry, I —"
"It's not your fault," Stiles bit out. He shook his head and rinsed another glass, seeming frustrated when he ran his left hand across the crowded dishwasher rack, unable to find a place to put it. He yanked the top rack of the dishwasher open a little more with such force that the glasses rattled.
"But you're mad." Derek reached a hand toward Stiles but then pulled it back, unsure how to make this better.
A muscle ticced in Stiles' jaw as he ground his teeth. "Not at you," he finally said, but his voice was flat. He found a space for the glass in his hand and turned back to rinse another.
"I should have —"
"I said I wasn't mad at you!" Stiles thundered, turning toward Derek. The glass in his hand cracked against the side of the sink and shattered.
"Fuck," Stiles muttered, his left hand turning off the water while his right hand felt around in the sink for the jagged pieces.
"Let me do it," Derek said, reaching out for Stiles' wrist. "You'll hurt yourself."
"I can do it!" Stiles snapped, yanking his wrist away. "I'm not a — fuck — just let me — goddammit!"
He turned the water on again, running his finger under it before putting it in his mouth, sucking at the cut.
Derek watched in silence — wanting to help, but wary of making another misstep.
Stiles turned the water off again, leaning his forearms on the edge on the sink, his head sagging between his shoulders. He smelled of bitterness and an old, worn sadness, and the scent of it made Derek's throat feel tight with anxiety.
When he spoke again the anger had drained from his voice. He just sounded...sad. Resigned. "It's just —" he said. He pulled in a harsh breath through his nose, letting it out in a sigh, as the bitter salt-scent deepened. "It's like — your eyebrows."
Derek thought he was used to Stiles' conversational leaps by now, but this one had him stumped. "My eyebrows?" he repeated stupidly.
"Not just your eyebrows, of course not. But — your eyebrows, there's this part of your eyebrows, right near your nose, where the little tufts go the wrong way, and it's adorable, and I can feel it, but...but I'll never see it."
Stiles pulled in another breath and this one came out shakier. "Anyone who passes you on the street can see it, whenever they want, but —" Stiles' voice broke, and he swallowed thickly and started again. "But I never will, and it's — it's just not fair. They get to know you in a way I never will, no matter how hard I try, and it just...it just sucks. It's — I'm not mad at you, you didn't do anything wrong, but it — it just sucks, and that's all there is to it."
As usual, words failed Derek. He reached out tentatively, laying a hand on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles straightened up and turned toward him and Derek gathered him in, careful not to squeeze too tight as Stiles buried his damp eyes in the curve of Derek's neck.
"I —" Derek started. He wasn't sure if this would make it better or worse, but he had to try. "I got it after Laura died. It's a triskele, three spirals that join in the center." He tugged at the hem of Stiles' t-shirt. "Let me —"
Stiles leaned back enough for Derek to pull the t-shirt over his head, and then Derek pulled off his own for good measure. It felt good to press back against the warmth of Stiles, skin to skin, as he enfolded him back into his arms. "Like this," he said, his index finger carefully tracing out the design between Stiles' shoulder blades. "It was the symbol of our family. It has a lot of meanings — past, present, future. Mother, father, child. Alpha, beta, omega. I — all of them seemed to fit. To remember Laura, and my family."
Derek could feel Stiles' fingertips tracing over the corresponding spot on his back. "And you — you had to burn it in?" Stiles pulled in another deep breath, warm air gusting against Derek's skin as he exhaled. "Jesus."
"It —" Derek shrugged. "It seemed right. So many things hurt so bad, but never leave a mark. I wanted there to be a mark of what had happened." They stood there for a while longer in silence, Stiles' hand rubbing a firm path up and down Derek's spine, as if to soothe away the long-ago hurt.
"Yeah." Stiles finally pulled back a little, his hands coming to rest gently at Derek's waist. "I — I can understand what you mean, I think."
Derek's hands came up to cup Stiles' cheeks, his thumbs gently wiping away the trace of tears. Stiles' own loss was marked here, in his unseeing eyes, but it made him all the more beautiful to Derek, all the more precious.
Stiles sighed, nuzzling his cheek into Derek's palm.
"Let's leave the dishes for tomorrow," Derek murmured. "Come to bed."
"Yeah."
They curled up together, Stiles pulled tight into the curve of Derek's body. Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles' chest, burying his face in the nape of his neck. Stiles' soft breathing rustled the pillow, his heart beating steadily against Derek's forearm. Long after Stiles' muscles had relaxed in sleep Derek stayed awake, thinking about what Stiles had said, and wondering.