AN: The next chapter might take a bit because April shapes up to be one hell of a month work-wise. My apologies for the delay. /o\

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"Keys."

Stiles hands over the keys to his Jeep with a sigh, and trudges up the stairs. It's a good thing that his dad's opinion of Harris is pretty low and he doesn't even ask why he kept Stiles late because Stiles so does not want to explain that he manfully kept himself from committing manslaughter in chemistry class. That would go over well, especially when he starts in on the part where he was imagining sinking his teeth into Harris's neck.

No, dad; not a vampire, but hey, you're close.

It's awful, Stiles thinks as he shuffles into his room, throwing his backpack in one corner and himself onto the bed. No, scratch that. It's beyond awful. It's... he was ready to kill someone. Really kill them, and he doesn't think he could have stopped himself if Harris had come after him. If he hadn't had the chance to get out.

He can't do this. He needs to find his anchor and then never lose control over himself ever again. Just stay human all the time, no wolfing out. He should make a list of what his anchor could be, but before he does that he needs sleep because his brain is even less useful than normal and shouldn't this have been fixed?

Then again, Erica's epilepsy didn't really get fixed either, just sort of pushed down or something.

A snort escapes him, then a yawn almost cracks his jaw. Stiles reaches for his cell phone, setting the alarm for seven, and prepares to get some shut-eye before working on his homework.

It takes him completely by surprise that he actually manages, and he starts when his alarm goes off because he could have sworn he'd only closed his eyes, like, maybe two minutes ago. There's a funny taste in his mouth, reminding him that he didn't brush his teeth before lying down.

It's the taste of burning wood and burning flesh. Meaty. Terrible.

Stiles rolls out of bed, rushes towards the bathroom and inside. He sticks his head under the faucet and turns it on, washes out his mouth, taking in water and spitting it out, again and again, while fighting down the urge to throw up or cry or maybe both.

Images swim to the forefront of his mind. A burnt out husk of a house, still hot and smoking. Body bags lining the driveway.

"Oh God."

He straightens up, throws some water on his face before turning off the faucet. The face, his face, in the mirror is pale, eyes blown wide, jaw twitching.

Derek, he thinks. Those are Derek's memories, have to be, and he'll never ever joke about Derek's moodiness again. Ever. Because those images? If that had been his mom and dad and Scott and fuck, everyone he's ever loved… Stiles would be moody as fuck. Hell, he'd probably go on a rampage, and Jesus. Jesus.

Peter.

Feeling for Peter Hale was so not on the list of things he ever expected to be doing.

He wipes his face dry with the hand towel, then throws it on the floor because it needs to go in the wash. Returns to his room, grabs his backpack, and settles down at his desk.

Can't really concentrate on homework, but has to try. He needs to read several texts and the notes he copied from Scott, who is not a great note taker, but it's better than the shit that is his own notes.

Two hours later and he's made some headway. He sort of understands what was being talked about today in most of his subjects, and even managed to complete a couple of assignments. Two left, and one of those isn't due until the day after tomorrow.

He's feeling good, productive. His list of things he needs to do is slowly but surely getting smaller and checking stuff off sure feels very satisfying.

Until he comes to the part that says, ww practice. Because it's just a little after nine now, and he has to eat something, and still finish an assignment, and his dad's gone by now, so he could go to Derek's place after a quick meal. Only.

Only he doesn't have his car keys.

And Derek doesn't have a phone, or maybe he does, but Stiles sure doesn't have the number. He turns on his computer out of habit, thinking. Derek didn't say when he expected him. For all Stiles knows, he thinks Stiles will show up at three am. So, that sort of gives him time. And he can find out Erica's number, maybe. Or Boyd's. He has no illusions about Isaac because Isaac's living situation has to have changed drastically.

Where does he live now?

No matter, Stiles, focus. Plan. Find out someone's phone number, do your last assignment, eat something, then call Derek to tell him you don't have your Jeep.

Stiles opens the browser, firmly intending to search for Erica's number in the online phone directory, but then he gets sidetracked by six letters: G.O.O.G.L.E. It stares at him, beckoning, and he types in 'werewolf porn vid' again before he's even conscious of what his fingers are doing, watches the site load, changes the setting to 'past 24 hours'.

The screen doesn't exactly load slowly, but by the time Google's spitting up results of the past 24 hours, his heart is beating frantically. Stiles leans closer towards the screen, scrolling past one link after another. None look promising, most are just discussion threads on a forum or two, and the preview makes it clear they're talking about some older movies, mostly Ginger Snaps, even though that's not really a porn vid.

He settles back on his chair, feeling lighter, though his face is prickling as blood rushes back in.

He doesn't even know why he's looking. It's not like it would change anything.

He just, he just wants to know what he was doing the second time. He wants to know what happened. He doesn't like the blank space in his memory.

There's a tap-tap-tap from behind him and Stiles starts, heart racing. Derek is staring at him from the other side of the window, and Stiles remembers that he locked it. He hits ctrl-F4 to close the tab, jumps up, rushes to the window and hastily opens it.

"I haven't eaten anything yet, and I'm not done with my homework. Also can't get at the Jeep because dad has my keys, so it's a good thing you showed up because I don't know your number and that's really inconvenient, you know." He pauses, changes tracks. "What are you doing here already?"

"You're grounded. It would be stupid to drive your Jeep through town." He strides past Stiles to the desk, picking up a pen and scribbling something down on a post-it note. "Let me know when you have your own cell again."

"Right," says Stiles. "Okay." That might take a while.

Derek nods and walks back to the window. "Hurry up; we have a lot of ground to cover."

Stiles stares at Derek's ass moving out of the window, stares at his chemistry assignment, and thinks, fuck it. He grabs a couple of granola bars, stuffs them into the pockets of his hoodie and follows Derek outside.

The ride to the old train station is a silent affair on Derek's part. Not so much on Stiles's because the point when Stiles stops talking is the point when something is going so seriously wrong that even he can't ignore it, but Derek is really silent this time. Really, really silent.

Stiles grasps around for something to draw him into a conversation because the silence has turned from uncomfortable to almost terrifying, and they're still trapped in this car for at least five more minutes. He finally hits on something that should be vaguely safe to discuss, and is actually useful, so he goes with it.

"So, um. About the anchor thing. How do I figure out what it is?" Scott had it easy. Scott's anchor just walked in through the door one day after he'd been bitten. How Scott always manages to be so, hah, supernaturally lucky is beyond Stiles.

Derek keeps staring straight ahead, which yeah, good, because that's the street there and Stiles would rather not end up in a car accident – though he'd probably survive that now, come to think of it. Anyway, Derek isn't answering and Stiles is pretty sure Derek's capable of doing more than one thing at a time. Mind, it was mostly stuff like 'jump and also growl menacingly', but! Two things. Moving and makes sounds.

"It has to be something that grounds you."

"Oh, no shit, Sherlock."

Derek looks away from the oncoming traffic and snaps, "I can't help you find your anchor. It's different for everyone, and personal. Only you can find it."

"Watch the street!" Stiles squeaks in reply, grabbing onto the seat as Derek swerves to avoid mowing down a bicyclist.

"It could be a parent. Or your girlfriend. Or anyone who means something to you." Almost killed a guy, now cool as a cucumber. Derek fucking ice cube Hale. Meanwhile Stiles tries to get his breathing under control.

"Right, so, my dad maybe." Or his mom. Or Lydia. It could be Lydia, Stiles thinks. Wouldn't that be awesome? He can already feel himself calming down at the thought – or maybe it's just that Derek is parking the car because they've finally arrived. He'll stick with the Lydia theory, though.

"Maybe," Derek replies absently. He gets out of the car and Stiles scrambles to follow. The train station seems deserted at first glance, but looking more closely he can see signs of habitation, and some of that stuff definitely doesn't belong to Derek, like several textbooks that Stiles is pretty familiar with. A second later, Isaac jumps down from the roof of an old train to land gracefully a few yards before them.

"I'll be going out." He flicks his eyes towards Derek, waiting for him to nod before brushing past them.

Well, that explains where Isaac lives.

Derek takes off his jacket, throwing it behind him – of course, it lands perfectly on a rickety old chair that Stiles hadn't noticed before – and turns towards Stiles. "You know how this goes. Try to get angry."

"Uh, problem. I don't feel angry right now."

"What was it that Harris said to get you all fired up today? Something about, oh yes. Taking your happy pills. Did you?"

Stiles gapes at him for a moment before feeling the familiar rush of humiliation and anger. "You, you fucking asshole!"

He glares at Derek, seeing him smirk and – seeing that his eyes don't really reflect that. They're calculating, patient. Anger drains out of him quickly, though irritation remains.

Derek makes a frustrated noise. "You have to practice, Stiles."

"Fuck, I know, alright? I just can't get angry now." He can dredge up hopelessness, anxiety and bitterness, but the kind of homicidal rage that took him over in school is beyond him at the moment. "Can't you just, just make me shift?" Peter had made Scott shift. Stiles knows because Scott told him.

It occurs to him that Derek being his alpha means that Derek has a whole lot of control over what Stiles does while he's all wolfed out, which is...which is really worrisome actually because Derek sometimes doesn't think like a rational human being. All the more reason to find his anchor ASAP.

Derek closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can, yes, but you have to learn to force the shift by yourself."

"Yeah, we can do that second, though. Right? Not killing people is a bit more important than getting a bit more hairy; not that I'd mind getting more hairy. Hairy's manly. Only, the werewolf hairy look is actually a bit too hairy, I think. Okay I'll shut up now."

A growl is beginning to trickle from Derek's mouth, building up like a tidal wave and crashing over Stiles. He gasps, dropping to his knees. His pulse starts to race and he's – shifting. He's definitely doing that and he should feel, think of an anchor.

Thoughts of his dad drift through his mind, then Lydia, and his mom, and then Scott, but he still feels that pull, that call and it's getting stronger than ever and he can't concentrate.

Snarling.

He scrabbles forward; movement left. And that pulse, blinking red. Dark shadow.

Pain.

Fucking lot of pain.

Stiles throws up a hand in front of his face, but there are no more fists flying at him, and he lowers his arm finally, looking up at Derek's face. He stands up slowly, one hand on the wall behind him. They moved to the other side of the hall, he notes. He can't remember doing it.

Derek stands in front of him, Scott's next to him. Derek's snarling. Someone laughs.

The air still in his lungs whooshes out of him. There's a tight feeling around his chest and – dammit, not another panic attack. No more panic attacks, please. He doesn't like them.

There's, there's a breathing technique, he knows, he remembers from way back when. Stiles claps a hand on his stomach, breathes in, counting to five. Holds for two seconds, breathes out slowly. Repeats the pattern, starts breathing normally (or as normally as he can).

When it feels like the panic is slowly receding, Stiles opens his eyes again – he's closed them? He closed them.

Derek's no longer looking at him. He's leaning against an old bus, arms crossed in front of his chest, face turned away, giving Stiles the illusion of privacy.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, then across his face, wiping off the fine sheen of sweat.

He has to get a grip on himself, on his mind, on his wolf. If he can just find a way to not shift, or keep his mind, he won't find himself some place, not remembering how he got there or what he did.

"Again." It comes out low and breathy, so Stiles repeats himself, in a stronger voice. "Let's try again."

Derek pushes off from the train, turns his head. His face is blank, but there's an undercurrent of tension. He nods sharply, and Stiles prepares himself to try and think of someone, something even, to anchor him to reality. He closes his eyes, focuses.

"Go."

It's 3:30 a.m. when Stiles climbs through the window and into his bedroom. He'd have used the door – his dad isn't home yet – but he forgot his key when Derek told him to follow earlier that evening. No matter; he can climb through windows now like every other werewolf. Yeah.

Yeah.

He shuffles over to his desk, stuffs his school things into his bag. Homework won't be done tonight. Maybe he can do it during lunch. He'll look for a quiet place. Or maybe Scott will let him look at his, if he did it, that is. If he did it right. Scott usually tries, but doesn't really succeed half the time.

Unlike Stiles.

This whole werewolf thing is going to fuck with his grades so much.

He briefly considers taking a shower; he stinks of sweat. In the end he decides that everyone will just have to live with it. Derek was right. Stiles needs to sleep, and how hilarious is it that Derek of all people basically told him to go to bed. Derek generally keeps him out of it. Like Scott.

Stiles takes off his shoes, his clothes, leaves his boxers on and climbs under the covers. This whole night had been an exercise in futility. Derek making him change, Stiles failing at controlling himself, Derek bringing him out of the whole bloodlust mindset either by punching him or using some weird alpha voodoo crap, crouching over Stiles and snarling in his face, demanding Stiles's attention. Stiles's. Not Stiles's sudden wolfy instincts that had him blink back to awareness with his head turned submissively, though those were there, too. Though Derek only did that once before going back to just using Stiles as a punching bag.

And Stiles would swear it was because Derek liked causing him pain or maybe he thought pain was a better motivator, but he'd looked really weirded out that one time.

Like he remembered something.

Stiles shakes that thought out of his head, turning to other things. He needs to make a list tomorrow, he thinks. A list with people he could think about, who could be his anchor. Because he needs to find that anchor and he's no closer to that than he was back in school when he tried to kill Harris.

At least he can't really muster much anger either. That was a total failure, too, which is a good thing in a way, though Derek looked disappointed. Stiles doesn't care though. If he can manage to stay human all the time, that's good. Works. Until the full moon, but he's not gonna think about that.

He remembers their voices better than he remembers their physical appearance. That should bother him somehow because what if he sees mug shots of them?

If he sees mug shots, though, they're not present. He can't catch their scent; can't hunt them down and rip them apart for what they did. For what they made him do. For everything.

No police, a voice whispers. No police, Stiles agrees. Not getting Dad involved in this.

Scott did his homework - sort of. Stiles stares at the chicken scratches and tries to tell himself that beggars can't be choosers. It's just..."Did you do that on your bike or something?"

"Uh," Scott answers, flushing. And Stiles has been joking. Joking. Jesus.

"You did. You so did. I can't believe – how? No, why?"

Scott grins at him self-consciously. "I'd kinda forgotten about it? Like, you know, you."

Like him, yeah. Stiles stares at Scott's notebook. He's almost completely certain that nothing in this whole assignment can be right because how can you think about chemistry and ride your bike and still arrive in one piece? But the only alternative is hitting up Danny and Danny is a firm believer in 'do your own homework'.

He doesn't even think about asking anyone else because, well, no one else is even likely to give him the time of the day. Except maybe Allison, but Allison has been kind of distant what with her mom.

Well, there's also Greenberg, but...it's Greenberg. No one likes Greenberg. He's not even sure that Greenberg likes Greenberg.

"Two minutes, Stiles."

Too late to go to someone else. He copies what he can decipher, writing quickly and almost illegibly, and not really understanding what he's writing either.

Stupid. He should have started with chemistry last night before doing anything else.

The bell rings and Stiles scribbles down the last couple of words, pushing Scott's notebook back at him as Harris strides towards the door to close it. He leans back, trying hard to look like he's fully prepared for whatever may come, only he never really knows how to look in these situations. Should he look bored? Eager? Should he look at the pen in his hand, or at his book, or out of the window – no, no. Bad. Out of the window is bad; he might look like he's distracted and – holy shit is that Derek?

Stiles twists his face away, looks around to catch Scott's eye – not happening, he's busy staring at Allison from afar – then finally Isaac's two rows before him and one seat to the right. Isaac raises an eyebrow. Stiles mouths 'Derek' at him and Isaac shrugs and then there's Harris standing right in front of Stiles and in his line of sight.

"Mr. Stilinski, if I could have your attention?" It's not really a question, so Stiles doesn't answer, which might have been a mistake. Harris lets his index finger trail over the chicken scratches in Stiles's notebook, and Stiles wonders if he can read anything at all.

"I trust that – given the fact that you were first mentally and then physically absent – you thought it wise to catch up on the material we covered last lesson."

That's a trick question if he ever heard one. He can't say no obviously, but he can't claim to have caught up because he'd be caught in a lie a moment later and claiming to not have understood the material... well, Stiles really doesn't want to go there.

Say you forgot. No

Say you had a headache. Oh God, worse.

What comes out of his mouth is, "Sure!" Stiles could seriously punch himself, but he holds back with the whole flagellation thing for the moment. Harris is doing a much better job of it anyway.

It's worse than yesterday. Stiles grips the edge of his seat with one hand as Harris lets lose one scathing remark after another even as he strides back towards the front and tells Stiles to follow and show his knowledge. Stiles rises woodenly from his chair, keeping his eyes down because he can't tell what color they are at the moment.

Naturally, logically, he can't show what he knows because he knows shit and Harris finds new and creative ways of telling him so. Stiles is biting the inside of his cheek so hard, he can taste blood and looks straight ahead, towards the window, trying to avoid everyone's gaze.

Everyone's but Derek's, that is, because it is Derek lurking outside the window.

Stiles tries to focus on him, focus on the way his chest moves as he breathes, on the way the wind tousles his hair, trying everything in his power to block out the sound of Harris' voice.

As such, it takes him a moment before he notices that Harris has finished laying into him. There are snickers coming from some of his classmates, mostly Jackson and his friends.

"Sit down, Mr. Stilinski," Harris says, and Stiles walks stiffly back to his seat.

Stiles usually doesn't dwell on his dreams. They tend to be on the weird side when good, and on the downright terrifying and panic-inducing when not. He doesn't believe in dream interpretation, in looking at symbols (did you walk through a door? changes will happen!) or any of that stuff. He knows what's giving him nightmares and doesn't need it spelled out.

When he dreams about ripping out people's throats, that's pretty straightforward and he doesn't need a book or some webpage to tell him what it means. That it means something.

It might just be his new more feral instincts. Or it might be something else. Someone else. He needs to talk to Derek.

Stiles usually sees Derek by day, but lately they've been meeting at night and that felt right somehow. Stiles sneaking to off to the parking lot during lunch and finding Derek next to his Camaro should not make him feel weird, except it sort of does. Like Derek is his older boyfriend and they're meeting for some clandestine making out, and, really, meeting at night would be better for this.

Stiles doesn't ask why Derek is here. He's pretty sure he knows. As such, he just leans against the car, next to Derek, looks straight ahead and says, "Thanks."

Derek grunts.

"No really. I like this shirt, see. Wouldn't have wanted to try and get blood stains out of it."

"Getting bloody-minded, are we?"

Stiles gives him a look. "Dude, you so do not know me if you think that's a recent development. I'm totally bloody-minded. And vengeful. Just ask Scott."

Derek just sort of hums low in his throat, like Stiles has just said something totally amusing and he doesn't believe a word of it. That's fine, 'cause that's what Stiles was going for.

"Like, see, just last night I dreamed I was going to go and slaughter those guys who kidnapped us. Vengeful, see. Bloody-minded." Entirely unlike himself. Stiles wouldn't mind if his dad busted some asses.

Derek freezes for a moment, then licks his lips and visibly puts some effort into relaxing. The wind's still blowing slightly and it ruffles his hair, blowing it this way and that, and Stiles has to fight the urge to just reach over and fix it.

"And if I am?" Derek asks. He lets his eyes flash to red briefly as if he's losing control over himself, but Stiles knows better now, because Derek doesn't smell like fury. He smells cold somehow, compressed.

Waiting to explode. Waiting, like he has a plan or he's stalking his prey and, yeah, Jesus, that's it.

"They're human. Let the human authorities handle it." It's out of his mouth like a reflex because Stiles believes, trusts, his dad and people like his dad and if there's nothing supernatural fucking around, this sort of thing is best left to the authorities. Even if his dream self had a different opinion.

"How many times do you think they've done that?" Derek's in front of him now, staring him down, even though they're the same height, but it's Derek. The alpha wolf, and something in Stiles can't help but try to make himself smaller even if just in his mind. "The wolfsbane, the cage, that kind of equipment. The scratches in the floor. You must have noticed them."

While you were on all fours getting humped by an out-of-his mind werewolf. As if hearing what Stiles' mind supplied for the rest of that sentence or maybe thinking it himself, Derek flinches back from him.

And it hits Stiles then that for all that Derek had suggested they avoid killing Stiles by having sex, he truly didn't want to have sex with Stiles or anyone else for that matter and had only suggested it to save Stiles's life.

And Stiles didn't even thank him. Can't remember thanking him for that, and he doesn't know how to do it now because, because what do you say to someone who forced themselves to have sex with you in order to save your life? 'Thanks, babe, was it totally horrible for you too?'

Was it worse actually?

"Stiles?"

Stiles blinks, noting that Derek is standing about as far from him as possible while still being within normal, human, hearing distance for a conversation.

"I...I think I'm going to be late for my next class." God, he's such a coward. "Bye." He takes off running, turning his back on Derek and taking the long way round the cars, so he doesn't have to go past him.

Surprisingly – or maybe not; shit, definitely not – Derek doesn't come after him or call out to him or anything, and Stiles makes it back to school with plenty of time to spare.

Coward, the thought echoes through his mind again. Cowardly coward.