Stiles didn't fall back asleep. Not much of a surprise really. Insomnia tended to have its way with him on the best of nights, and the fact that he was sleeping in a bed that wasn't his own didn't fucking help, hence him taking his pillow everywhere with him.
Except the pillow only brought with it the comforting scents of home and not a way to get his brain to shut down.
Because it was still going, still buzzing, a thousand thoughts spinning through it like a hurricane, wreaking havoc on any peace he might've actually been able to find in the quiet of the late/early hour. He tried his best to ignore the recent events that had taken place in the kitchen and practically anything involving Derek, which proved harder than he thought, phantom touches still caressing his skin and the memories of his wrecked voice and alluring scent driving Stiles insane. So in order to not think about any of that, he was forced to think about something else. And, of course, the only thing he could think about was his brother and what had happened to him.
His thoughts were a jumbled mess and he knew there was no sense in trying to get any rest so he eventually dragged himself out of bed—or rather, out of couch-bed—and began rooting around for something to write on. He'd kill for his glass board back home, the thin red electrical tape he used on it and the notes he already had stuck on there. But for the time being, he was fine with a legal pad he stumbled upon in Stu's desk and a very fucking handy multi-colored pen.
Sitting back on the bed, he wrote everything out using the secret language he and Stu had created, jotting down notes and thoughts. He wrote about observations he'd made, Laura's seeming suspicion of their relationship in that photo, Erica's statement about how they didn't seem like any other Mated pair she witnessed, his own dubiousness about the body language between the two men. He wrote about what Derek had told him regarding Stu's reasons for leaving Beacon Hills and coming to Oak Creek in the first place, the alpha stalking and threatening him. He wrote his suspicions regarding Derek himself, the email Stu had sent regarding Mates, the comments the alpha had made about omega equality and why Stiles still wasn't one-hundred percent sure Derek was the killer. And finally, he wrote about the pseudo-vision he'd had, making sure to jot down every single detail that he remembered, no matter how small, remembering from class how important eye witness testimony was. Facts were written in black, suspicious behavior in red, questions in blue, the pen with its many inks proving most useful.
Just sucked there was so much damn red and blue.
He read over the black, mainly staring at that damn email from his brother, the words having long since been memorized. "Mates don't always mean happy ever after."
Staring at the closed door, he thought of the wolf sleeping on the other end of the house and hating how very fucking true those words felt.
Rubbing the heel of his palm between his pecs, he focused back on his notes, scribbling out more questions as he went. His frustration mounted as the night wore on and became morning, getting nowhere fast and knowing there was nothing he could do to change that. He'd already searched the office as much as he could and without knowing his brother's password, he couldn't check his laptop for any suspicious behavior or clues.
He glanced at Derek's closed Compaq, quirking an eyebrow. Cops always checked out the Mate first when someone was murdered, checked their browser history in case they'd recently visited sites about poisoning or Googled how to hide a dead body.
Not that Derek would've searched those things, given Stu's throat was slashed with claws and his body was just left in the woods. And considering the immediate events that led up to his murder, it seemed more a crime of convenience than some premeditated thing.
Checking the alpha's laptop was out then.
Assuming it was unlocked and Stiles could actually get away with touching it without leaving his scent everywhere. Which he couldn't.
Yeah, definitely out.
He repeatedly roughed his hands over his face, frustrated groan muffled by the action. He just needed something, he thought as he stared down at what Parrish had told him about his brother, the way he'd been scrubbed down with a scent-neutralizing soap, how the guest bathroom of the house he was currently staying at just happened to have such a thing, how practically every house had such a thing. All Stiles had was a bunch of circumstantial nothing and a gut feeling that he was missing something pretty fucking major.
Other than the killer's damn identity, of course.
It was a little after six when he heard sounds coming from the kitchen and he rose up on stiff legs to paddle over to the office-slash-guest room door, stretching cramped muscles out as he went. Slightly opening it, he focused his hearing across the house, hearing the tell-tale signs of cupboards opening and closing, water being poured into what was hoping a coffee machine of some sort. Figuring it was as good a sign as any, he headed over to his duffel and dressed in the same khakis as the day before, throwing on a plain white tee and topping it with a blue plaid flannel.
Derek was in the kitchen as predicted, Keurig machine rumbling in the background as he depressed the handles on the four-slice toaster. He peeked over at the sound of someone entering, the tips of his ears going red as he caught sight of who it was, quickly hiding himself inside the fridge. At least that's what Stiles figured he was doing, considering how far he was leaning inside of it, probably just reaching for the milk.
The omega took advantage of the lack of eye contact, his own whiskey orbs looking the older man up and down. His hair was already gelled into place and he was fully dressed for work, black tactical pants and button-down on, velcro name tag attached, utility belt on but devoid of any weapons, lethal or otherwise. A small smile tugged up the corner of Stiles' lips in amusement at the sight of the alpha in full uniform, but with only socks on his feet. Something about it was just so humorous and goofy looking and he honestly needed that moment of levity after the day and night he'd had.
Clearing his throat, he stepped further into the kitchen, making sure not to slip in his own socks on the hardwood floor. But when his eyes came across the counter he'd been placed upon the night before, he nearly did. He felt his face heat up in a mixture of arousal and embarrassment, the latter being the more dominant emotion in his mind and scent and he ducked his head as he made his way to the other side of the island, hoping it'd be a safe zone.
"There coffee?" he rasped out as he sank down onto a stool, shoving a hand in his hair.
Derek didn't say a damn word, staying in the fridge and pointing at the Keurig on the opposite end of the counter from him.
Stiles glared at it, hating how far away it was and how Jedi powers weren't a thing so he couldn't use the Force to make himself a cup. Total bullshit.
With a resigned sigh, he dragged himself up off the stool and over to the Keurig machine. Two mugs already sat on the counter next to it, one filled with the hot and yummy, a black "D" in old English font decorating the white ceramic. Picking up the empty one, Stiles noted the way it matched the other, except with a "S" on it.
As in "Stuart".
'Cause they were such a fucking Mated pair that they had fucking matching monogrammed mugs.
He narrowed his eyes at it, glaring like it was personally responsible for Stiles' Mate Claiming someone else and having this fucking wonderful domesticated life with him, with the nice house and the matching mugs and the his and his towels.
At least Stiles was assuming they had his and his towels. Just seemed like something they'd have to go with the rest of their little slice of domestic bliss.
His wolf snarled in his head, making its opinion on the whole thing pretty damn clear. It wasn't all that thrilled that someone else had what was rightfully theirs, their Mate in every way but officially and legally. The Dreams proved it. The jolt they'd felt when they'd first locked eyes. The skyrocketing arousal upon first touch and the way Stiles actually felt like submitting to the alpha rather than telling him to go fuck himself—although he still felt like telling Derek that, but for entirely different reasons. Derek belonged to them in all technicality.
Yet for all intents and purposes—whatever those may be—he was Stuart's.
Just further proved his twin got all the good shit and the charmed life and Stiles was stuck with the rotten leftovers.
Something clenched inside his chest as he rubbed his thumb over the smooth ceramic of Stu's mug, lump forming in his throat. His brother may have had the nice house and the hot as sin Mate and the matching dishware, but Stiles was the one who was still alive. Something about that just felt very fucking wrong.
Swallowing hard, he put the mug under the spout of the Keurig and chose a cup of dark roast from the carousal next to the machine. He managed to figure out where to put it, the machine clicking, the screen telling him it was ready to brew. And then he froze, fingers hovering over the buttons for the cup size. Back home he and his dad had a more traditional coffee maker, one with filters and grinds and a giant carafe that always seemed to be emptied as soon as it was filled. Scott and Allison had an electric kettle and instant coffee. Lydia had a fancy Nescafe thing but refused to let Stiles touch it for fear he'd break it. Which, probably a good idea considering the fate of her last espresso machine.
"The middle button," Derek finally spoke for the first time that morning, causing Stiles' head to snap over to him. The alpha was standing with his back to him, laying slices of bacon on the frying pan as it sat on the stove in the center of the island counter. Every inch of him was taut, jaw ticking where he was clenching it, veins pronounced along his arms where his muscles were tensed up. His lips were pulled into a grim line, brow hard, eyes narrowed, and if Stiles didn't know any better, he'd think the other man was getting ready to fight someone.
Then again, considering how he looked like he was trying to hold himself in place, maybe he really was fighting someone already. His own damn self.
"I'm assuming you take it how Stu did," he went on, shrugging as he wiped his greasy fingers on a dishtowel. Which, unsanitary. "He seemed to like it half coffee, half milk, and that setting worked for him."
Stiles just stared, gaping at the other man, a choked off laugh escaping him. "Stu liked his dark, no milk, tons of sugar."
Derek's eyebrows raised in surprise, but he still didn't turn or even glance over at the younger man. He let out a non-committal "huh" as he closed the lid of the bacon tupperware, turning with his back still to Stiles as he returned to the fridge. "That's how I always made it for him," he commented, shrugging again as he opened the door and ducked back inside.
The omega frowned in confusion at the open fridge door, noting a list of names and numbers on one sheet of paper, another with a grid that he soon realized was a calendar with their work schedules printed on it. He'd have to check that out at some point.
Turning back to the coffee maker, he stared at the "S" mug under its spout and traced the letter with his eyes, a wistful smile tugging up the corner of his lips. The mug was so grown up, so adult, so unlike the Rebel Force one Stu had left behind or the Imperial one Stiles still drank out of—and would continued to drink out of, dammit. Scratching at his forehead, he hit the middle button as suggested, curious as to why Stu had suddenly seen the light and realized that coffee shouldn't taste like licking the inside of an old boot.
Derek stepped over, taking hold of his own mug, taking a large gulp before staring down at it without seeming to actually see it. The corner of his own lips pulled up, a barely there dimple forming under dark whiskers, one Stiles recognized from dozens of Dreams, one that caused his breath to catch in his throat at the sight of it in real life.
"I nearly bought an 'M' one," the alpha confessed lowly, small hint of amusement. "After our Mating, Laura dragged us to a mall in another town, insisted we needed more than red solo cups and disposable plates for dishes. I found these mugs in some department store, thought they were pretty cool, were something an actual grown-up Mated pair should have. But instead of grabbing an 'S', I grabbed an 'M'." He let out a small chuckle at that, shaking his head as he lowered his mug onto the counter. "Never could explain it."
Stiles stared wide eyed at his borrowed cup as the stream of coffee cut off with a hiss. His mind flashed to Lydia always having been drawn to her dad's old Marines mug and how Parrish was formerly in the armed forces, had to be in order to become an S-Dub. He thought of Danny seemingly knowing all the rules and positions in soccer despite hating the sport, only to fall in love with a guy who'd played the sport his whole life and was an enthusiastic fan. He thought of Scott always gravitating towards the Nerf bow and arrow set when they played as kids and Allison being a competitive archer. It was like their subconscious had been giving them hints about who their Mate was, their interests, ensuring commonalities between them.
And there was Derek, unknowingly confessing that he'd been drawn towards the first initial of Stiles' birthname.
"Mieczyslaw," he choked out, causing the alpha to stop where he'd been stepping back towards the stove.
With a cocked eyebrow, Derek stared at him, confusion coloring his scent. "Excuse me?"
"My birth name. Mieczyslaw." He turned to face the older man, sheepish grin on his face. "'Stiles' is a nickname, since no one can pronounce that monstrosity."
"Mieczyslaw?"
"Okay, no one with the exception of you," he amended, before seesawing his head and adding "And my dad. And my mom."
Derek nodded, small smile on his face. "I like Stiles. Rolls off the tongue better."
The omega immediately thought of tongues rolling on certain parts of his anatomy, cock twitching in his pants. "Sounds sexier to moan out in the heat of the moment, too," he blurted out, a flash of Derek moaning it out during their Dream last night hitting him and causing his face to grow hotter.
Green eyes turned red, Derek immediately slamming them shut and turning away from Stiles as he rubbed at his eyelids. "Goddammit," he muttered out, standing in front of the stove and grabbing hold of the edge of the counter.
A small wave of guilt hit Stiles and he turned away himself, reaching for a glass container full of sweetener packets and sliding it closer. Although really, why the hell should he feel bad? Okay, yeah, he pissed the guy off, but it wasn't like he'd done anything wrong per se. They were Mates. They'd had Dreams about one another. They'd fooled around last night. Derek'd had his finger in Stiles' ass and their cocks had rubbed together and goddammit, he should be allowed to make inferences like that.
"So," he began, pursing his lips as he counted out sweetener packets, listening to the sizzle as Derek flipped the bacon over. He tore them open and poured in the sugar substitute as he spoke. "We gonna talk about what happened last night?"
"Nothing to talk about," the alpha grumbled, body tense all over once again.
Stiles slammed his hand on the counter, shaking his head as he let out a humorless laugh under his breath. Should've fucking seen that one coming and he felt like an idiot for thinking that maybe, since the door had been opened, Derek might actually at least be willing to stick his head inside. But no, he'd slammed it right back shut again, locking it up and throwing away the key.
Turning his head, Stiles glared at the side of the other man's, clenching his jaw and letting the aggravation he was feeling seep into his scent. It was typical douchebag alpha behavior. Guy didn't wanna talk about it, so he dismissed the whole thing, expecting the little omega to just go along with it. Well, fuck that! Stiles wasn't some pissant little bitch who would do anything and everything his alpha told him to, especially when he didn't agree with it, especially when it was something they seriously fucking needed to talk about. He refused to spend his time in Oak Creek circling around Derek, constantly questioning where he stood, wondering what exactly was so wrong with him that his fucking Mate wouldn't even talk to him. He had other, way more important shit to think about and figure out.
His brother had been murdered and all he could think about was this asshole's behavior. And it was solely because the guy was...well, an asshole.
"Fuck you, Derek," he stated, turning bodily towards him, crossing his arms over his chest. "You don't get to do that, you don't get to tell me there's nothing to talk about when there very fucking much is." His voice was rising with each word, anger fueling it as he spat it all out, dropping his arms to point at the counter he'd been placed on last night. "You don't get to fool around with a guy and stick your tongue in his mouth and your finger in his ass and then not acknowledge that it happened or pretend that it meant nothing, especially not when it happened with your Mate, your True Mate!" He ended it with a huff, refolding his arms and glaring at the other man, jaw working and leg shaking.
"And I told you that doesn't matter!" Derek snapped back at him, slamming the tongs on the counter before turning to face him. "Stiles, regardless of what exactly you and I are to one another, nothing like that—" He pointed to the same spot Stiles previously had then dropped his arm to his side. "Can ever happen again."
Warning signs flashed in his head, a chill breaking out over his skin, his heart thudding in a hollow chest, all alerting him to the fact that he was encroaching on dangerous territory. There was a sick feeling in his stomach, a sense of dread and anxiety, mind preparing itself for an upcoming blow. Because it was gonna happen, his feelings were about to get hurt, and it wasn't gonna be pretty.
But he wasn't gonna back down. He had Derek talking about it—more or less—and he'd be a major dumbass to drop it and lose this opportunity.
Determination had him licking his lips, resolve had him balling his fists as they were tucked between his arms and his torso, and mentally, he knew he was about to get an emotional bitch slapping.
"Because I'm not Stu," he stated thickly, corners of his eyes pricking as his tear ducts got set to go to work.
Derek actually managed to look apologetic, eyes turning down at the sides, brow furrowing in a sorrowful way. "Yes," he answered lowly, heartbeat steady with the truth.
Stiles turned to stare out the side window, unable to keep looking at the alpha know that his deepest worries had been confirmed. Derek didn't want him because he wasn't Stu, wasn't as smart or skilled or attractive as Stu, wasn't as confident or put-together or mature as Stu.
Toaster Pastries versus Pop Tarts. Pop Tarts always win.
His self-esteem took a huge blow, insides feeling empty and devoid of anything important or of value. His wolf cradled its head in its paws as it whimpered, feeling its human counterpart's upset and reflecting it right back. Stu might've been dead, but he'd had a damn sweet life before it ended and it included the one guy Stiles had wanted more than anyone.
"Do you have any idea what people would say if you walked around smelling like me, or me smelling like you?" Derek asked, fixing Stiles with a hard look, his own arms folding over his chest.
The omega shifted his so he was holding himself together more than trying to look intimidating or determined. He still couldn't face the other man, leg shaking, bottom teeth scraping against his top lip to hold back tears. Because he wasn't about to prove stereotypes right, wasn't about to be the weak omega who couldn't handle rejection from an alpha and broke down like a baby. He was fine. He was okay. He was hurt like hell, but really, it wasn't the first time he'd been turned down or turned away and it wasn't likely to be the last.
Toaster Pastries.
Swallowing, he turned his head to the alpha but stared at the ground between his own sock covered feet, finding the grains in the dark wood incredibly fascinating. "They'd say I'm some needy omega slut who hopped into bed with the first alpha to show me any sign of comfort or politeness," he muttered acidly, wanting nothing more than to punch every person who believed that in the face. Total. Bullshit.
Derek frowned, tilting his head to the side slightly. "Nooo," he drew out the word. "No one here believes that about omegas."
Stiles snorted, head bobbing with the action. If that was true then Oak Creek belonged in some black and white TV show from the fifties where every town was a small town and neighbors always smiled and waved and you had conversations with the mailman, the milkman, every delivery man. But even back then, omegas were always portrayed as the ones who stayed home and raised the kids, the ones who always said "now, dear" in that soft voice when they believed the bread-winning alpha was being too harsh on Junior for accidentally smashing Mr Johnson's window with a baseball.
The slutty omega stereotype came along in the sixties when the free love movement was happening and women were burning their bras, omegas taking charge of their sexuality in much the same way by spreading the love—and their legs—with friends and strangers alike, all out of wedlock. It led to a whole lot of pissed of alphas who weren't too pleased with their omega Mates having been with someone before them, that they'd been touched and marked and carnally claimed by someone else, that their property and territory had been encroached upon and tainted. For all the work omegas were doing and the statements they were making about equality of the dynamics and taking charge of their sexuality, it seemed like alphas were still stuck in the dark ages.
Not that much had changed there in recent times.
So really, it was hard to believe when Derek said that no one in Oak Creek shared the point of view of pretty much the rest of the world when it came to omegas and their behavior. Just wasn't possible.
The alpha scratched the back of his neck, grimace on his face before refolding his arms. "I was referring to the fact that it would seem as though I was replacing Stu with his twin brother, that you were just a filler to warm my bed and take his place as my Mate."
Stiles' eyebrows shot up, eyes going wide. He honestly hadn't thought of that. Or had he? He'd definitely repeatedly mentally mused over the fact that he was second best when compared to Stu and that being with Stiles would be like settling for the consolation prize.
Okay, so he had thought of that. He just hadn't realized that Derek had thought of it, too, or that the entire town would believe it.
Then again, considering the gossip that swirled around his family back in Beacon Hills, it shouldn't have been much of a shock that Oak Creek wouldn't be different, that people would fall victim to jumping to terrible conclusions and making horrible assumptions regarding something they knew nothing about. It was what people did, especially in a small town where not much happened and the only real entertainment one could get was through spreading rumors. Oak Creek being significantly smaller and lacking anything to actually do just meant that gossip was it as far as a pastime.
But still, it stung deep inside to realize that people were already aware that Stiles was the cheap knock-off you settled for when you couldn't get the real thing, all without even knowing Stiles himself.
"Right," he muttered, wringing the back of his neck and staring at the floor as though he could open it up with his mind and make it swallow him whole. Maybe a sarlaac pit would open up under his feet. Being digested for a thousand years sounded way better than the blows his barely there self-esteem was currently suffering. "Because I'm the cheap knock-off and Stu's the better twin in every way, shape, and form."
He was being hard on himself, but it couldn't be helped. Old habits he figured. And he knew if his dad was there, he'd say both his kids were brilliant and special in their own ways. Lydia would smack him upside the head and call him an "idiot" while rolling her eyes and making him feel bad for dogging himself. Scott would be genuinely upset that Stiles couldn't see how awesome he was and start listing the reasons why. Allison would smile and rub his arm and tell him he had a lot of good qualities Stu didn't have, adding on to Scott's list. Danny would pretend he hadn't heard. Jackson would agree with Stiles. Melissa would give him a stern talking to and a hug.
But no matter what anyone did or said to try and change his mind—Danny and Jackson obviously not included—he knew the truth when it smacked him in the face. And the truth was that Stu was better, had it better, deserved better.
He heard the scrape of the frying pan being moved to another ring, the padded footsteps of socks on hardwood, before black cotton covered toes entered his eye line. A single finger cupped his chin and he shivered, the contact like an electrical current on his skin. His head was tilted up until he met serious green eyes, Derek's brow pulled in determination, scent agitated, upset, caring, protective, confused. All of it led to a puzzled Stiles, who just stared right back at him with a curious frown.
"As far as I'm concerned," Derek began, voice firm but low, brokering no argument, his hand moving so that it was cupping Stiles' cheek. "Stuart was a cheap knock-off of you. I settled for him. And if it weren't for the entire town believing that he and I were fated and True Mates, I'd proudly show you off to everyone and do all that annoying obnoxious PDA bullshit I'm constantly being subjected to at work."
Stiles' skin tingled all over, heart racing inside his chest, body warming at those words. It was strangely the sweetest thing anyone had ever said and he got lost in the fantasy of doing just what Derek described: walking around town holding hands and smiling wide, oblivious to the world around them; doors being held open on date night with shared milkshakes as they fed one another bites from their own plates; showing up late with rumpled clothes and messy hair, new hickeys adorning both their necks and people giving them knowing smirks; being caught in various states of undress and in compromising positions by damn near everyone; making people gag and roll their eyes when they spoke of or to one another. He wanted it, wanted all of it, wanted it with such a passion it damn near ached. He felt cold inside, empty, hollow, like a huge vital piece of him was missing. And it wasn't just the missing twin or feeling like half his soul was gone; it was all the cliché bullshit everyone always told him about finding one's Mate, how you never really realized how incomplete you were until you found the missing piece.
Stiles had found his. Only it had been trying to finish another puzzle.
He leaned in to the hand on his cheek, peering up at his alpha through his eyelashes, eyes pleading with him. "Why can't we?" he asked quietly, a small whine in his words that he ignored. "We can just tell the truth, tell everyone what really happened. It'll be easy, people will understand, it'll be okay."
Derek let out a whimper, features screwing up into an expression of pain and heartache, something Stiles figured would be reserved for being told that your Mate had been killed. Eyes shut tight, the alpha leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, breathing deeply as his hand slipped around to cup the back of the younger man's neck. A slight tremor was racing through his body, Stiles feeling it through their two points of contact, his hands moving to grip onto Derek's sleeves, a finger slipping into a small pocket on one of them.
"We can't," Derek breathed out like the words had been punched out of him, rasp in his voice that spoke more of sorrow and remorse than words could. "I can't. My family, they'd know I lied and I've lied to them too much. And I can't." He paused, swallowing. "I can't be with you. You deserve better."
Stiles opened his mouth to argue that it didn't get better than Derek, that he was his Mate and therefore the ultimate in Stiles' eyes. But there was still so much he didn't know about Derek himself and his words would be empty and meaningless and potentially even a lie. He thought of Tracy once again, wondered if she ever thought that Donovan was the epitome of everything in her point of view, if she stayed with him because she knew that that was as good as it got because who could be better for her than her True Mate. But he was an abusive asshole who nearly tore her throat out and sent her to the hospital.
"Mates don't always mean happy ever after."
His eyes closed and he swallowed hard, hating how fucking true those words were proving to be once more.
"I'm sorry, Stiles," Derek whispered, his words breathed against Stiles' lips and the omega took a shaky inhale, body trembling all over at the knowledge that he was officially losing what he wanted but never fully ever had. "I'm so sorry, but we can't. No one can know. So we can't."
Stiles nodded, friction burning between their rubbing foreheads, licking his lips then pressing them into a hard line. His brother's email kept repeating in his head, Stu's voice loud and clear as he reminded him over and over again that "Mates don't always mean happy ever after". Stuart hadn't gotten his fairy tale ending, and neither would Stiles.
It was with that thought in mind that a single tear finally broke through the barrier and rolled down his cheek.
Breakfast was silent, the food barely registering with Stiles as he ate on automatic. It wasn't that the bacon wasn't done right—crisped to perfection—or the eggs undercooked—fluffy and moist without being runny—or the toast burned—perfectly browned multi-grain bread that Stiles loved and his dad tolerated because it prevented arguments between the two of them—he just couldn't taste anything. He was numb all over once more, his appetite dead. He ate solely because he was supposed to, because he'd skipped dinner and Lydia's voice was screaming at him in his head like she had in real life so many times after Stu's initial disappearance. Chances were he'd be seeing her at some point during the day and despite the recent loss he'd suffered, she wasn't gonna tolerate him missing two meals in a row and/or him lying to her about it.
He and Derek cleaned up together, the pan scrubbed, dishes rinsed and put in the washer, napkins trashed and counters wiped down. They both made a second cup of coffee, standing up as they drank in the continued silence, only the refrigerator's whirring and the AC's hum making any sounds.
After checking the time on the microwave, Derek smeared a hand down his face and stared down at his coffee, swirling it around in his mug. "I gotta go to work," he muttered, leaning back against the sink, free arm folded over his torso.
Stiles nodded absently from his spot across from him, lips twisting in thought, brow pulled. He'd honestly kind of forgotten that Derek had a job to go to, that he'd be stuck in the house by himself all day. He had no clue what Lydia was gonna get up to or where she was even staying, except for the non-specific fact of "at Jordan's", so he wasn't sure if he'd be able to just hang out with her. He could always shoot her a text and find out.
He needed to text her anyway. Shit, he'd promised. Fuck it, he'd do it when his coffee was done. Caffeine first, technology second. Even Stuart had agreed with that sentiment.
The thought of his brother switched his train of thought to his own personal mission to find his killer, registering the fact that Derek being at work gave him ample snooping time. But he'd already searched through the office-slash-guest room and he knew there was no way he could mess around in Derek's room, not with an alpha nose being able to easily pick his Mate's scent out. But he couldn't just sit around all day bored out of his mind and hoping a clue would just magically fall onto his lap. He had to actually do something in order to find the right trail—if any even existed.
Peering at the other man, he took note of his all black tactical uniform, remembering what Erica had said about S-Dubs essentially being Oak Creek's version of law enforcement. An idea sparked in his mind and he put a wondering expression on his face, hoping to just seem a little bit curious so as to not arouse any suspicions.
"You investigating Stu's death?" he asked, hating that he didn't have to fake the heavy emotions in his voice or the lump in his throat.
Derek nodded as he put his cup to his lips, scent turning sad and guilty once more. "Yeah. I gotta stop by the ME's office, see if he's got anything new."
Stiles drummed his fingers on the outside of the mug, chewing his bottom lip as he pretended to think things over. Tagging along would give him a better chance of gaining some info for himself, a surefire way to gather evidence without having to pester someone and raise questions about why he was sticking his snout where it didn't belong.
Putting his mug on the island counter, he scratched at his forehead with one finger, wincing slightly. His heart was pounding in his chest as he fully realized what he was about to ask, where he was hoping to go. Visiting the medical examiner meant seeing Stuart's dead body, meant seeing the wounds that'd been inflicted upon him, meant seeing his brother as a torn open and mutilated corpse. Fuck, his stomach was rolling just thinking about it, hands clammy and skin too tight. But it needed to be done, would be done. Stiles could and would do this, for Stu.
Resolved in his choice, he wrapped his arms around himself, fingers tangling in blue plaid to ground him and keep him steady. "Mind if I come with?" he rasped out, swallowing unsuccessfully against the lump in his throat that seemed a permanent fixture at that point. "I just." He paused, taking a shaky breath as he tried to figure it out, figure out why he'd want to see his brother. Because it was more than just clue gathering, more than just snooping or searching. It was...
It would be making it real.
"I need the closure in a sense," he admitted lowly, wrapping his arms tighter. "I need for it to be totally real."
And it was the truth, his steady heartbeat saying as much. Yes, he felt it when his brother had died, had seen it through some pseudo-vision, had been told it by someone who knew Stuart. But there was still some small part of him that wasn't entirely sure, a still lingering doubt that was nagging at the back of his head. Maybe they'd gotten it wrong. Maybe he was misidentified. Maybe he wasn't entirely dead, just mostly dead, and they needed a pill from Miracle Max to bring him back to life.
Maybe he needed to face fucking reality and realize this wasn't the Princess Bride and there was no such thing as miracles.
But maybe that little doubtful voice was right and Stuart wasn't dead and...
He just needed to see.
Derek seemed to understand, judging by the solemn nod he gave and the way his scent grew more melancholic and understanding. "Sure," he murmured, drowning the rest of his coffee then pushing away from the counter. "I gotta grab my stuff. We'll leave in about five, all right?"
The younger man made a noise of assent, not watching the alpha leave as he finished his own coffee. He washed both the mugs and put them back in the cabinet before heading back to the office-slash-guest room. Snatching his phone up from where he'd left it on Stu's desk, he pulled up his message thread with Lydia and typed up a quick message.
'Am alive. Heading to ME's with Derek. Need to see Stu.'
He hesitated over the last part before hitting send. Lydia would get it. She was an only child, yeah, but she wasn't a bitch and was capable of feeling empathy for others.
His phone beeped with a reply as he gathered up his wallet, Lydia telling him she was heading to HQ with Parrish and would see him later, a second message popping up right when he finished reading the first.
'I'm so very sorry, sweetie. Good luck.'
A sad smile formed on his face, a quick 'thx' sent her way before he locked the device and slipped it in his pocket. He used the rest of his time to do something with his hair, settling for his usual haphazard method of styling, and giving himself a mental pep talk in the mirror. Not that he believed himself when he said it was okay and that he'd make it through this, because there was no fucking way. He was about to see his twin's corpse while standing with a Mate he couldn't have. He wasn't entirely sure shit got any worse than that.