A/N: My apologies for the long way. Real life has been kicking my (and my beta's) butt spectacularly and is continuing to do so. Many, many thanks to everyone who's left a comment. I'm not ignoring you deliberately. /o\

Speaking of gratitude, I would like to thank evitably, who has taken over betaing for this fic. You're amazing.

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The guidance counsellor corners him after the classes let out about setting up an appointment, to talk. Stiles is confused for a moment about how she could possibly know about what happened with Derek and Scott and everything, before remembering that one of his classmates is dead.

He tries really hard not to think about how crap just keeps piling up and up and up.

They set the appointment for the morning of the lacrosse game, and Stiles writes it down on his arm because he doesn't have a new cell yet and he's basically lost without a calendar to keep track of things and the remaining copy is on the harddrive of his computer - which is at home. Where he should be because he's grounded.

He says goodbye to Ms. Morrell and heads towards his jeep, settling into the driver's seat. The parking lot is emptier than usual because he's running late. Stiles starts looking for Derek's camaro before he knows what he's doing.

It's not there, of course, and neither is Derek, and Stiles can't figure out how he feels about that. Relief is there, but also guilt, and he's also a bit sad, he thinks, which is stupid.

Stiles runs a hand over his face. His usually way of dealing with problems is ignoring them until they go away, but he's also his father's son even if his dad is currently not really feeling the love - or maybe feeling too much of it and hurting all the more for it, for Stiles's lack of...not trust because Stiles trusts his dad plenty, but for his refusal to really talk about his problems. Only, of course, it would look like a lack of trust - and he's getting distracted.

Although this is still about trust in a way because his dad has raised him not to be that guy, the one who abuses the trust of girls - or boys - who're passed out drunk on the sofa. And, while Derek was neither passed out nor on the sofa, he was definitely out of his mind and even if Stiles didn't cause it, isn't really responsible for it, that doesn't mean Derek might not feel that Stiles took - that Stiles...

Stiles didn't want to do that, didn't really give his consent either because forced consent was as good - or bad, definitely bad - as non-consent, but out of the two of them Derek made the greater sacrifice.

He was wronged more than Stiles and he probably kinda associates Stiles with that whole thing now, and that is just horrible because Stiles doesn't want him to and, dammit, he's making this about himself again.

He should...they should clear that up, like Stiles apologizes and offers his gratitude and just says it out loud, so it's there and Derek can, can react however he wants to that. Stiles is fine with it. Will be fine with it, with whatever Derek will do. And then maybe, maybe, this whole tangle of thoughts can get untangled and he can be, can finally think straight again and not feel like his head is about to explode because he doesn't even know what to feel anymore, never mind about thinking.

So, that's what he'll do, once he sees Derek again. Hopefully tonight.

Erica and Boyd are there this night, and Stiles doesn't get a chance to talk to Derek alone.

He still sucks as much as ever as a werewolf.

"Do you ever get the feeling," Stiles asks, "like your days just run into each other, cracking their heads and giving you a concussion?"

"Huh?" Scott's not looking at Stiles naturally. Stiles doesn't try to figure out what he's looking at because he really doesn't need to look in order to know.

"Dude, hello? Stiles to Scott, we have a problem. That is, I have a problem, aaaaand you're not listening at all."

"No, no, I'm listening. Someone's got a concussion?" Scott turns back to him, trying to look attentive and failing miserably. Stiles flaps his hand.

"Not what I was - you know what, never mind." Stiles turns back to his plate, trying to convince himself that the food actually smells good or looks good or tastes good - or, hell, just gives off a vague vibe of good.

"Derek's not helping you, is he?"

Stiles looks back up from his plate, lowers the fork he was about to shove into his mouth. "He's - helping. I mean, he's trying. It's just-" He stops and sighs, drops the fork on the plate. It splatters food all over the table. "I can't figure out what my anchor is. Hell, I can't even figure out how to transform, how do you do that? And no, I know, anger. But I'm not angry. I'm cool as a cucumber. I'm downright stoic."

"You were plenty furious in chem."

"Yeah, but that's Harris. He's like that potion that Dr. Jekyll drinks to turn into Mr. Hyde. I can't really take him with me to practice." Well, maybe tied up, in the boot of Derek's car. "Look, that's not the important part for now. The important part is finding my anchor before the next full moon. I've gone through a list of people I know and who I even vaguely care about - hell, I even tried thinking of Jackson; Jackson, dude, and I don't like him at all - but nada. Nothing."

Scott pulls a face, possibly at the idea of Jackson as someone's anchor. Stiles was getting kind of desperate when he hit upon it, so he totally understands. "Okay, so. Maybe it's not someone you care about?"

"Does that even make sense to you?" Stiles asks. "I mean, they're sort of supposed to pull you back and calm you, right? I don't get calm thinking of, say, Coach Finstock."

"Dude, I don't know either. All I know is that Allison is my anchor and I spend most of my waking hours thinking of her, so. I don't know. Who do you think about most of the time?"

Stiles just - just opens his mouth and, but nothing comes out because he's - because the person he most thinks about nowadays, well, that's.

That's Derek.

Jesus fuck.

"What? What is it?"

He can't really force any words past his lips right now, and it takes him way too long to notice that his mouth is hanging open.

It would make sense. Hell, it makes so much sense, only that it doesn't and, oh god. "Scott," Stiles says slowly, carefully, because it's really fucking important right now that he doesn't say what's on his mind. "I need you to do me a favor. After school."

"Sure." And Scott doesn't even ask what it is. Best friends, Stiles thinks. Scott may be an idiot sometimes and do really stupid things like kiss Lydia, but they're best friends for a reason.

"Thanks, man."

It's like every adult at the school has decided to conspire against him. Stiles and Scott are on their way out of the building when Gerard Argent stops them in the middle of the hallway.

Smiling.

Like he didn't hand over three people to some assholes who wanted to see one of them get eaten by the other two.

"Scott. Stiles. I may call you Stiles, yes? Only, I feel that I have become quite familiar with you in recent days." He pauses, waiting for Stiles to make the connection, which doesn't take long at all since he's been thinking about it already. Gerard Argent smiles wider when he takes in Stiles's furious - humiliated - expression, and Stiles can feel the wolf pulling at him. He rams his hands into his pockets and means to lower his eyes, but the wolf won't have that. It doesn't feel like submitting to that asshole in front of him, even though Stiles isn't submitting; he just doesn't want to obviously wolf out.

Gerard is still smiling.

Showing his teeth.

It's a challenge. Stiles's heart beat sky-rockets; reds inches into his vision and he reminds himself that Gerard will kill him if he changes right now. The hunter will have absolutely no compunction about it, and he'd probably be right because there are still a few stragglers walking past them, oblivious to what's going on, and Stiles might hurt them.

Derek, he thinks, and hopes to god that he's right.

Derek. Derek, Derek, Derek. Derek's scent and the way he growled and Derek's hands drawing him away from the bars and -

Stiles comes back to himself, feeling shaky and unreal, but human.

Gerard's smile has vanished from his face. He's looking more serious than Stiles has ever seen him before. "Now, I know that young boys have a temper, all those hormones, the changes in the body, but I would be ever so upset if you couldn't keep your temper, Stiles. It would result in quite a lot more disciplinary action than a simple detention."

He emphasizes 'disciplinary'. Stiles isn't stupid and Scott isn't really all that dumb either, but apparently dumb enough to start growling lowly. Stiles rams an elbow into his side. If Stiles manages to keep himself in check, Scott had better. "I'll try to behave, sir," Stiles grits out. It comes out rougher and lower than his voice usually sounds.

"See that you do, young man."

He turns his back on them, confident that neither Stiles nor Scott will attack, and walks back towards the principal's office.

"If he weren't Allison's grandfather-"

"You still wouldn't kill him," Stiles finishes because Scott isn't like that, and Stiles isn't really like that either - and if he keeps saying that to himself often enough, he might start to actually believe it at one point, even if right now it doesn't feel that way.

Scott looks at him, shoulders slumped, voice quiet as he asks, "You okay?" And suddenly they're no longer talking about Gerard. Stiles knows Scott isn't asking him about his little anger problem just now. Yet, he can't talk about this, not yet. Or ever really.

"Yeah," he says, "I'm fine. I'm like weed, you know. Nothing can keep me down for long." Scott nods at him, accepting, because that's what best friends do.

Then he grins. "Because you get people high?"

And that, what? "Did you just make a pun? Oh my god, you did." Stiles slings an arm around Scott's shoulders, hugging him close and he starts to walk to the double doors. "I'll mark this day in my calendar. Scott McCall has learned to pun."

"Dude, shut up."

"Never. I wouldn't be me if I did."

Scott snorts and pulls away from him as they exit the building. "Right, so. We do it at your home?"

Stiles halts, suddenly feeling a little light-headed again. "I, yeah? Or you know, it's fine, actually. I - I think I got it."

"Your anchor," Scott breathes. "You were smelling so angry back there and then your heart rate went down suddenly."

"Uh, yep, Yeah, it did. So, I'm fine. Thank you. Bye!" He almost jumps down the stairs before remembering himself in time and just racing down - perhaps a little too fast for the average human. Scott calls after him, but he ignores it because he just doesn't want to tell him yet. Telling Scott would mean acknowledging it, and before he can do that, he has to think this through first, figure out what it means.

Because it sure means something.

His dad isn't home, so Stiles puts the keys on the kitchen table and makes himself a sandwich. He notes absently that they're running low on mustard and writes it down on the sheet of paper they keep next to the fridge. It already has 'flour' and 'coffee' on it; the first in Stiles's handwriting, the second in his dad's.

He puts the sandwich on a small plate, grabs a coke from the crate in the aisle and heads up to his room.

He's not quite as tired as he was the day before and the day before that; mostly because Derek sent him home earlier and Stiles had been totally fine with that because getting his ass kicked in front of Boyd and Erica was really far from his favorite pasttime.

Also Derek was looking even more constipated than he usually did, and he kept shooting looks at Erica and Boyd, and they kept shooting looks at him, and there was definitely something going on, but no one would talk. It all was pretty funny when added to the fact that Stiles had also wanted to talk to Derek.

Derek was really fucking popular these days.

Stiles sits down at the chair Derek usually sits in if he's sitting in Stiles's room at all and isn't prowling around like an angry tiger in a cage, and shit. No, not going there.

Derek doesn't pace in cages. Derek sits in a corner and looks gloomy.

Not going there, Stiles. Not.

Stiles puts the bottle of coke down next to his feet and starts eating his sandwich, trying for slow because his latest procrastination tactic seems to be eating before thinking about stuff. Problem with that is, of course, that he can think and eat at the same time. Hell, he can even talk at the same time. Might not look pretty, but he can. He's a great multi-tasker.

He puts plate and sandwich on the bed and reaches down for his coke to take a swig. It's his undoing. The conversation with Scott swims back to the forefront of his mind and then the run-in with Gerard, and yeah.

Yeah, his anchor is definitely - unbelievably - Derek Hale.

It should have been obvious, shouldn't it? If he'd just been thinking because not getting angry with Derek in the room - Derek, who's actually pretty good at pissing people off - should have tipped him off. Hell, the one time Derek was leaning over him, probably wasn't some kind of alpha voodoo, but Stiles taking notice of his anchor.

Which probably means that Derek's figured it out before him.

Which means he didn't tell Stiles and, fucking why? Why?

They're so going to have a talk about this.

Derek doesn't bother climbing in this time. Hell, he doesn't even bother coming to the window, just stands in the yard and says Stiles's name, like he's certain that Stiles is awake and waiting for him.

Which Stiles is, of course. He huffs, but creeps over to the window and out. His dad is already asleep, and Stiles took another nap before attacking his homework in preparation for tonight's excursion. They have a lot to discuss.

Stiles jumps to the ground, landing as easily as he did the nights before. It still hasn't stopped to amaze him that he can do crap like this now, and he actually tries to avoid it whenever possible. Or whenever he's in his right mind. He doesn't want to get used to it and accidentally do it in front of his dad, because his dad would notice. He's the sheriff. He notices things out of the ordinary.

Derek walks off to his car, not bothering with a hello and Stiles follows, sliding into the passenger seat and waiting for Derek to get in.

Derek starts the car, and this is probably the best moment because Stiles will lose every last bit of courage if he doesn't get the words out soon, and then he'll be left with the part of the conversation where he snarls at Derek for not telling him about the anchor thing and he really shouldn't do that first.

"Derek," he says, which is a good start. A great start. Now if only the rest of the words would come.

He's apparently been silent for so long that Derek feels the need to speak, and he should really try this tactic more often. "What."

"Thank you," Stiles blurts out. He's planned to look straight ahead during this conversation, but nerves and curiosity win out and he steals a glance at Derek's face - which mostly shows confusion. "For when you, for when you didn't kill me."

It's a good thing that Stiles has awesome reflexes now or he'd have hit the windshield. Safety belts, awesome things. Next time he shouldn't forget them. Stiles prises his fingers from the dashboard in front of him as the camaro screeches to a sudden halt because Derek hits the breaks for like no fucking reason at all and turns to stare at Stiles. And gape. Like, true facts, gape.

"Thank...me? You're thanking me?"

Stiles flushes. "I'm sorry; I know it's a little late. I should have done it sooner." He ducks his head slightly. Derek continues to imitate a fish, so Stiles pushes on because now that he's started he may as well get everything out. "And I, I wanted to apologize, too? Like, I know that... I mean, they put that shit in the room and Gerard Argent probably sold us and by the way, I have to tell you about our encounter with him today, don't let me forget, but anyway. I'm sorry. You probably - no, you really didn't want to...with me, but you did anyway, to save my life, so thank you. And sorry."

"Are you...no." Derek's face contorts and he buries it in both his hands.

"Uh, Derek?"

"Just shut up, for one minute, Stiles. Just one." It comes out muffled, but that doesn't really account for the almost tortured tone of voice. Stiles didn't think he said anything to upset Derek, but maybe Derek hadn't wanted to be reminded of that at all? Yeah, Stiles thinks a little guiltily, that's probably it. He opens his mouth to apologize again, then clamps it shut, pressing his lips together to keep the waterfall of words in until Derek looks like he can deal with it.

He's almost vibrating by the time Derek looks at him again. He catches Stiles's gaze and says slowly and clearly, "It is not your fault."

"Dude, I know that." He does. That isn't the point. The point is, hell, he's not exactly sure what the point is, only that he can't stand the thought of Derek feeling violated.

"No, I don't think you do. If anyone takes blame for this, it's me."

"You saved my life!"

"I assaulted you!"

"You had no choice!"

"Neither did you! Stiles, for fuck's sake. I may not have been in control of what I did, but my wolf was. My wolf is a part of me."

"Your wolf," Stiles grits out, "was drugged out of both your skulls. And so was I and so was Scott. I'm not blaming him for trying to eat me; I'm not blaming you for, basically, humping me."

Derek mumbles something under his breath. Stiles catches it only because his hearing is awesome now, fuck yeah. "You wanted to," he repeats while Derek looks anywhere but at Stiles.

Derek flinches. "It wouldn't have worked otherwise. You saw it with Scott."

Damn. Just damn. Stiles feels more stupid now than he's ever done before because he's usually the one to pick up on shit and not miss everything completely. "You're attracted to me," he says, a little wonderingly maybe, because that just doesn't happen to him. People he maybe sorta finds attractive don't usually find him attractive back. It's unheard of.

And Derek still looks like he wants to throw himself off a cliff.

"Derek," Stiles says and reaches for his shoulder when Derek doesn't react. The muscles under his hand freeze, but Derek turns his head to look at Stiles finally, and it's Stiles this time who has a hard time holding his gaze. How can one person feel so much misery? It's so much that even Stiles begins to feel awful, and - "Dude, are your emotions rubbing off on me?"

"I'm your alpha," Derek replies, which Stiles translates into 'yes, of course, you dumbass.' Only maybe without the dumbass part because Derek doesn't look particularly insulting right now.

"Right," Stiles says, "and the only reason you're my alpha and not the guy who freaking ate me is because you find me attractive, which is kinda on the mutual side, by the way, but let's not get distracted by that, though I think you should be made aware. Anyway. Thank you for saving my life, and don't you dare feel guilty about that."

Derek's jaw tightens; he gives a jerky nod, and Stiles is one hundred percent certain that he's still feeling guilty, but he gets the feeling that nothing he says right now will get through to Derek. He'll have to try again in a few days once Derek's had some time to brood.

It's not until they're parked at Werewolf Central and Derek is about to get out of the car that Stiles remembers he actually wanted to talk about a whole lot of shit with Derek, not least of all how Derek totally failed to inform Stiles of knowing what his anchor is.

Stiles opens his mouth to bring it up, but closes it again because his tongue has tied itself into a knot figuratively speaking.

It's...it's Derek being his anchor. Derek who he sorta finds attractive; Derek, who finds him attractive back, and who very definitely did not reveal that he thought that Stiles thinks of him as someone so important that he can anchor Stiles to sanity or whatever constitutes sanity in Stiles's case.

Derek, who blames himself.

Stiles thumps his head against the headrest of the car and closes his eyes. He hears the sound of a car door opening and closing, of Derek walking towards the old railway station and inside.

Can't anything be simple?

Stiles removes his seatbelt, gets out. Wonders for a brief moment why Derek would leave his car unlocked, but he'd probably hear anyone trying to drive off with it. Stiles knows that dogs can recognize their owner's car by the sound of the engine. He thinks werewolves probably can, too.

He should test if he can do that too, come to think of it. Might be useful to have some kind of warning before his dad comes back from work because while he doesn't want to have to, say, hide a fugitive in his room, he also knows that these things will keep happening and he'll need to keep things from his dad.

It would be a terribly depressing thought, if he allowed to let himself dwell on it, which he doesn't.

At all.

The railway station is empty but for Derek and his gloomy disposition; even Isaac's backpack is gone, though there's still a stack of his clothing lying neatly folded in one of the train cars.

Stiles knows this because Derek has decided to start this evening of lessons by offering him a coke, grabbing another for himself and taking several steps away from Stiles once his new pack member has cautiously sat down in one of the seats.

The next part of the lesson seems to involve lots of staring. Not like that's anything new in general, but given that their last conversation was...not good, and that Stiles would actually like to practice a bit now that he knows what his anchor is, and actually, he should really tell Derek about Gerard Argent...

On second thought, it's not like Derek can do anything about him.

And on third thought, there is a lot that Derek could do that would totally result in a blood bath.

Which leaves Stiles with nothing to talk about unless he starts rambling about something totally innocuous and okay. Stiles is pretty good at just talking even if tempers are flying high and tension's at the max, but at the moment, he just can't find it in himself to pretend that Derek doesn't think he raped Stiles.

"Um," Stiles says in a desperate attempt to get out of this stalemate. "Shouldn't we be practicing?"

Derek shakes his head, but not really in negation. He looks down at his coke and Stiles follows his gaze to see Derek's thumb tracing the neck of his coke bottle, round and round. It's hypnotic.

"It's not always pleasant," Derek says somewhat out of the blue. Stiles gives him his best confused face.

"Your anchor might not be pleasant." His eyes flick to the left briefly, towards the pile of Isaac's clothes and his fingers tighten on the bottleneck.

There's no way Derek can't hear his heart beating at a furious pace; his pulse is climbing up his throat, going thump-thump-thump out of Stiles's partially open mouth. "Derek," he stutters. "I - I don't hate you at all."

Derek's head jerks and he stares - again with the staring - at Stiles like he can't believe what Stiles is saying. And no really, they have to have like three billion therapy sessions together now or something because Stiles is really sick of Derek beating himself over the head and he's only known about that for less than an hour.

"I was talking about your anchor, not - not me."

"Dude, you're-" Stiles's mouth snaps abruptly shut because, because no freaking way.

No, seriously, how could he not know?

He almost blurts the question out, but stops himself at the last second. If he tells Derek, that idiot is just going to think he's Stiles's anchor because Stiles hates him.

"I'm what?"

"Too late. I think I've figured it out. Today." He remembers how he found out exactly just in time to omit the details that might end in a massive bloodbath. Instead he tells some story about getting angry at school (true), and Scott actually saying something helpful (also true) about how his anchor was someone he thought about constantly. "So, I got it," Stiles says. "I mean, I'm pretty sure. Can we practice, and maybe you could just give me a few seconds more to come around?"

Derek continues to frown at him the same way he's been frowning all through Stiles's rambling reply.

Probably he's picking up on your tripping heartbeat, doofus.

Not lying outright doesn't mean you don't know you're keeping information from someone.

"Fine," Derek says at last, putting the bottle on the floor and standing up. He's trying for casualty, but Stiles is picking up on the tension anyway, which Derek has to know. Which begs the question why he's doing it. "If it works we can get started on having you shift deliberately."

Stiles tries not to groan as he follows Derek out of the train compartment. He really should have thought to ask Scott how he did it with Allison around because he's not sure how he can do it with Derek around and at one point or another Derek is going to cotton on. "I'm totally fine with not shifting if I don't have to, you know."

He should have expected to be flattened against the nearest flat surface. It's when Derek lets go almost straight away and literally jumps back from him that Stiles realises that Derek has been trying to respect his personal space for the past couple of days. Not because he's getting triggered by Stiles, but because he thinks Stiles might be traumatized.

He's having a day of revelations it seems. Hopefully, the world won't end.

Derek is looking at him guiltily for a moment before arranging his face back to his usual gloominess. "And what will you do when you're attacked then? Run away?"

Stiles nods because, hey, that's what people with common sense do.

Derek's smile is disconcerting. Unhappy, bitter. "What if it's Scott who needs help? Or your father? Will you run then, too?"

Stiles shakes his head mutely, and Derek's expression turns smug, though the bitter smile remains.

"Try to think of that then. Of someone going after your dad. Hurting him. Don't you want to rip them apart for what they did?"

Are we still talking about me? Stiles thinks even as the taste of ash settles on his tongue. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine his dad hurt, burnt. His mind shies away from the image. Too visceral, too real. He forces himself not to gag.

He can't focus on that, needs something else. Gerard Argent's creepy smile jumps to the forefront almost immediately, and Stiles thinks 'to hell with it' and focusses on that. On the words he said; on the fact that he had probably watched.

And there it is, the anger.

Stiles growls deeply even before he's aware of wanting to. There's a kind of pull on his nails and his ears and face feel funny, tingly.

It's the first time he actually notices. Before he's always been distracted by something else or it went too fast or both.

"Good," Derek murmurs, sounding far-off somehow while still incredibly close. "Hold onto that thought, that rage. Take it into yourself and make it yours."

"I want him dead," Stiles whispers, and tries to remember why he shouldn't. But the words are dragged from his mouth nonetheless. "I want them all dead."

Because they hurt him. They hurt Derek and Scott, too, and Derek blames himself and Stiles just wants all of that to go away. He looks up, and his vision is red like blood, and there is Derek standing before him, and Stiles can't really explain how he knows - it's not smell, it's not facial expression - but he can tell Derek is proud (of him) and determined and sad and so, so lonely.

"Pack makes us strong."

Stiles takes a step forward like he's caught in a landslide and pulled along down, down towards Derek, and Derek stands frozen before him. He's maybe an inch from Derek's chest and Derek's breath is harsh and rasping and Stiles doesn't even know what he's going to do, standing at a precipice and things could go either way, any way, he doesn't know.

"Stiles." It sounds broken, and there's still that crushing sense of loneliness now overshadowed by guilt, but still there, still tangible.

"Shut up," Stiles growls and latches onto Derek, arms going around him, clawed hand burying itself in his hair.

As hugs go, this one is on the desperate side even if Derek doesn't move at first, still as a statue. Stiles presses closer, pushes at Derek's head till it comes to rest on Stiles's shoulder, and finally, finally, Derek shudders and untenses against him.

This is not what he wants, but it's what both of them need, and need trumps want any day.