A/N: So I have no idea if you guys liked this or not, because I only got two (2!) reviews (although they were both lovely! 3 ), and reviews are what tell me more than anything else that you like it. And while I'll write what I like no matter what, I want to know if I'm getting at what other people want, too.

Anyway, here's the next chapter (there should be one more after this). It takes a turn for the angsty but also gets fluffy there at the end. Enjoy!

Again, with Feeling

Sometimes, Stiles feels like a bad son when he talks about his mom without his voice shaking. He still misses her, God does he miss her, but time has changed the pain from something oppressing and constant to something that hits him less often but more abruptly, usually at the most inappropriate times. He doesn't feel grief when her birthday rolls around, doesn't feel it on the anniversary of her death, only feels a strange emptiness. Like he should be feeling something, and he's guilty that he doesn't.

But then he'll look out the window on a cold night, full moon (scott/derek/jackson/issac/erica), freshly fallen snow, and the world looks like someone dumped a bucketful of pure white glitter over the dark grey world, and suddenly he's curled on his side on his bedroom floor, body wracked with sobs, crying so hard that the only noise is the dry, scratchy whine of his throat as he screams into the night. Sometimes, after he's worn himself out and shaking, he'll quietly slip into his dad's bedroom. He'll sit in the old wicker-seated chair that his mom used to sit in to put on her nylons, and he'll reach over and lay his hand on the coverlet next to his dad's, not touching but close enough to take some comfort from the lessening of the space between them. Sometimes he falls asleep there, and wakes up to the smell of pancakes and bacon cooking from downstairs, and sometimes he makes it back to his own room and sleeps like you only can when you've cried all of the grief out and there's nothing left to give.

Tonight is one of the nights when he makes it back to his room. He lays on top of the covers, brain overworked, confused, and above all exhausted. That's probably why he thinks of it, thinks of Derek and how he's lost so much more than Stiles, not just his mom but his entire family. His entire world. And not just in one fell swoop, but in a slow, agonizing progression, in which for a time he had his sister to cling to and to share the burden of his grief. His sister who was then torn away from him in violence, blood, and gore. Stiles' can't even begin to comprehend that, imagines that it must have felt like what Stiles imagines losing his dad would be like at this point. He's pretty sure he wouldn't survive it, and he has the thought that maybe he doesn't give Derek enough credit.

Derek, who defended Stiles from the wolf, who didn't punch him, who held him like he never wanted to let go, who kissed him. Because Stiles has conducted a variety of scientific experiments, primarily consisting of heat flushing his body at the memory of Derek pressing his lips so close to Stiles', their bodies slotted perfectly together, the tangible taste of want in the air, and all that evidence points more heavily towards 'kiss' than it does 'platonic bro hug w/ some lips on the face here and there'.

Stiles wants to kiss him again. This time with feeling. Like, the feeling of Derek's lips on his lips.

But, and this has to be the grief and the crying and the fact that he's going to have to hold a cold spoon to his eyes in the morning so no one will see the puffy evidence, but…more than a hot and heavy kiss, more than anything Stiles just wants to hold Derek. Wants him to be here, now, wants to lay him down in bed and curl around him and touch his face with gentle fingers, memorize the exact angle of his nose, the texture of his eyelashes, and that has to be the grief talking because he's had enough daydreams about that almost kiss to know that there's a lot more he wants to do with Derek.

Stiles tries to sleep, he really does, but soon enough the world is starting to glow a little brighter through his window shades. He drags himself up and out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor, and peers outside. The snow is still fresh on the ground, hasn't been trampled or greyed with engine exhaust, but without the moonlight it doesn't sparkle and he's going to be okay.

It's barely even dawn, but Stiles knows he can't go back to sleep. Now that he's up he can barely sit still, he needs to move, needs to get some distance between himself and the memories that come from creaking floorboards and the women's size 9 hiking boots sitting in the back of the closet.

He decides that he'll only walk along the edge of the woods this time. No one's ever told him not to do that. At least not specifically.

So he tugs on some jeans over his pajama pants, throws on a hoodie and a coat for good measure, slips into his boots, leaves a note for his dad about going to Scott's, since that's probably where he'll end up anyway, and heads out. It immediately becomes apparent that he should have worn gloves, but he sticks his hands in his pockets and soldiers on.

He's barely a quarter mile down the street when he looks up and sees a dark figure sitting on one of the benches just outside the park, under a maple tree covered in snow instead of leaves. Stiles knows instantly that it's Derek, and takes a moment to reflect on the fact that he can recognize him just by the way he slouches, long legs splayed out in front of him when he sits. Derek looks up, has to have known he was coming, and they stare at each other for a minute before Stiles snaps out of it and walks over to sit next to him.

The bench is cold even through his layers and Stiles shudders, tries to fold in on himself for warmth.

The sit like that, in the silence just before dawn, and the night starts to become a distant memory.

"I could smell you", Derek says, and although it's quiet, almost a whisper, Stiles is temporarily shocked by the invasion of noise into the stillness. Not just noise, he realizes, but words.

"Can't you always smell me?", he asks, but he knows what Derek means. Knows that he must have been able to smell his grief, his terror at the thought of never seeing his mom again. And since when has Derek been able to smell him from such a distance anyways?

"I could hear you, too, when I got closer".

Stiles blushes. He tries not to let anyone know, tries not to burden them because it's not their fault if sometimes he feels like he's falling apart at the seams. He'll go to Scott, on occasion, but although Scott wants to help him he just doesn't know how, and it often leaves Stiles feeling lonelier than when he started.

He stares at his hands, cold and aching in his lap, and he doesn't want to look at Derek but he can feel Derek looking at him. Not judging, not worried, just accepting. Understanding. So he lifts his head and smiles tentatively at Derek, and Derek smiles back and God but they're close together. Stiles can feel the press of Derek's thigh against his, can feel his heat even through at least three layers.

The smile slowly drops off of Derek's face, and that's bad Stiles thinks, he wants Derek to smile, wants to be the cause of that smile, but Derek's hand is sliding beneath his hood, thumb brushing over his ear as it passes and the only thing Stiles can hear is the sound of his own breath quickening and he knows that Derek can hear it to, which makes his breath come even faster. His pulse is pounding and Derek freaking Hale is cupping the back of his head and pulling him closer, pulling him in so that their noses brush, hit, and come to rest beside each other.

Their mouths are both just a little bit open, and Stiles can feel Derek's breath, breathes him in and breathes into him, and he has to swallow, hard, and then he licks his lips because hey, that's what you do after you swallow, it's not his fault, but his tongue brushes across not only his own lips but Derek's, too, and his hand is pressing down on Derek's thigh so he can feel it when Derek's entire body jumps.

Derek shudders out a breath, collects himself, and then slowly, slowly tilts his head and inches closer, until his lips are brushing over Stiles' and oh shit oh shit oh shit, and then Derek's lips are entirely covering his and it's surprisingly soft, unsurprisingly warm, just a little wet, and the most amazing thing Stiles has ever felt ever in his entire life including that one time Lydia laid on his leg. Derek brushes his tongue over Stiles' lips and Stiles breathes in sharply through his nose, all coherence fleeing and he kisses back, just a bit, testing the waters.

They pull apart, and Derek is smiling again, so close that Stiles can see every little fleck of color in his eyes. He wonders if his eyelashes are as soft as they look. But that can wait, because Stiles still had the night from hell, and his body decides that this is the moment to shut down. This is the moment that he feels safe enough to shut down. He is officially calling his body out on being a traitor, and it's possible that he whispers something about Benedict Arnold because he can feel Derek laugh.

A gigantic yawn steals across his face, and Stiles can hear his jaw crack. He glances back at Derek through eyes that are refusing to focus anymore, and Derek is still smiling. It's softer, gentler, but it's still a smile, so Stiles rests his head on Derek's shoulder, lets Derek wrap and arm around his shoulders, and starts to drift off.

Then suddenly he remembers, his head jerks up an inch, and oh my gosh, "School!", and it comes out pretty garbled, but Derek must understand because he feels him push his head back down and feels Derek's breath ghost over his ear as he whispers, "Stiles, it's Saturday".

And if that isn't the best news he's heard all week, he doesn't know what is. He snuggles closer to Derek and finally lets sleep take him.

A/N: So this chapter actually made me really emotional to write. I'm gonna go make a big pot of chamomile tea and bury myself in Game of Thrones. See you lovelies later! (and let me know if you liked it!)

p.s. the title is something my orchestra director used to tell us constantly, hahaha. Also sometimes in music there'll be a notation under the notes that just says 'with feeling', which I always thought was kind of self-evident.