The house was alight with red and blue and swarmed with white police cruisers. On the broken down, charred porch was Sheriff Stilinski, Isaac, and Scott. Several other officers surveyed the area—but most were in the back portion of the house, checking out something in the frosted earth.

Stiles blew out a breath. "So is it too late to run and hide?"

Derek ignored him and stepped out.

"Hale."

"Sheriff."

"Stiles, get out of the car."

Stiles grimaced and slunk out, nervously slamming the door behind him. "Dad."

The Sheriff glanced between Stiles and Derek. "Don't move. We're going to talk in a minute." He took Derek by the shoulder and steered him toward the front porch.

"Shiiiiiiiittttttt," Stiles breathed. He leaned back against the passenger door, shuffling his feet through the dirt and fallen leaves. He stared at the ground for several minutes before chancing a glance up at the porch. There was some argument going on between Isaac, Scott, Derek and his father. Derek pointed to Stiles once. Sheriff Stilinski kept glancing over. Breathe, Stiles, breathe. There's nothing going on. You were just hanging out with good 'ole Derek Hale. We're buddies! He's nice. Okay, that's a stretch. He's almost halfway decent. He didn't actually kill any of the people they accused him of killing, so the suspicion of murder thing won't hold. Stiles took a few more calming breaths, arguing with himself that hanging out with Derek Hale was nothing weird or worth worrying over. Dad would be cool.

After a minute, his dad walked over. Derek stayed with his pups.

"Stiles—"

"There's nothing going on I swear," Stiles blurted before his father could utter another word.

Sheriff Stilinski narrowed his eyes. "Okay. If you'll let me finish."

Stiles chewed his lip, fingers clenching nervously at his sides.

"I need you to be honest with me, okay?"

Stiles swallowed and nodded.

"Was Derek with you this morning around seven?"

Stiles could feel a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins. "Um, yes, he was."

The sheriff's shoulders sagged. "And he was with you just before you arrived?"

Stiles nodded. "But he just ate breakfast with me, I swear. And we were just going to watch Iron Man. I swear to God and all the feathery white angels in heaven."

His father just narrowed his eyes again. "Okay. How long was Derek with you this morning?"

Stiles bit his lip. "Maybe an hour—two tops. He came by around 6:30 and stayed for breakfast." Jesus H. Christ that sounded way too much like a breakfast date. Jesus H. Christ, why am I jumping to breakfast date? It was innocent time between sort of, maybe, friends. Jesus H. Christ. Stiles just wanted to slap himself. His mind was short-circuiting based on a completely ridiculous fear of what his father could be thinking but probably wasn't—at all.

His answer didn't seem to make his father any happier. He just put his hat back on and sighed. "Go home, Stiles. And we'll talk about your questionable judge of character later."

"Er, well, I would but I came here with Derek."

That didn't make his father any happier. "Fine. Go wait in the cruiser. I'll take you back when we're done here."

Stiles grumbled something and went to stand against his father's police cruiser. Sheriff Stilinski glared, but went back to Derek and Co. They were too far away for Stiles to hear anything, but it seemed like Derek was off the hook. For now. Scott and Isaac were dismissed with a tried roll of the eyes and then his father was trudging around out back, shooting Stiles a look that said, "stay put."

As soon as the Sheriff was out of sight, Scott shot straight for Stiles. "Why are you here? And what are you doing with him?" he demanded.

Isaac nervously flitted several paces behind, glancing at Derek who was leaning against his car across the way.

Stiles felt a twitch in his eye as he pulled his gaze from Isaac and onto Scott. "We were just hanging out," he replied with deathly calm.

Scott was taken aback. Stiles wasn't flailing. Stiles wasn't making wild gesticulations and shooting back with scathing sarcasm. The only signs of the Stiles Scott knew were the nervous tapping of his fingers on his arms and the trace twitches in his expression.

"Dude," Scott started, calming quickly, "are you okay?"

Stiles raised a brow and internally chastised himself for adopting Derek's go-to method of communication. "I'm perfectly fine."

Scott shook his head. "You don't look okay, dude. You've got…like dark circles under your eyes."

Stiles gritted his teeth. He felt the heat rising inside his chest. It was getting harder to restrain himself. "And—what exactly—do you care?" He blew out a breath. "I'm not up for conversation, dude." He turned his head away to glare at a tree. It was an annoying tree. With its…bare limbs.

Isaac slunk behind Scott and touched his shoulder. Scott nodded and followed Isaac away. When they disappeared into the trees, Stiles glanced away from the tree. His eyes rested on Derek across the lawn. He half-expected the guy to be staring at him, but Derek wasn't doing that. Derek was looking at the house—the charred and blackened building with rotted wood falling away from the sides that stretched upward like a black monolith in the darkness.

In the light of the half-moon, Derek looked paler than before. And the ghoulish red and blue police lights only accentuated the shadows and dips in his face, turning him almost skeletal. Stiles didn't know if he himself was okay, but he was about ninety-six percent certain that Derek wasn't. And it was that moment that Stiles began to really wonder about something he refused to wonder about before—why was Derek there? Why was Derek being so nice? He hated Stiles. Couldn't stand him. Smashed his head into his steering wheel for the slightest embarrassment (okay maybe it wasn't exactly the slightest). Stiles had made jabs at him nearly every chance he got—so why was Derek there?

Was it just the loneliness? Was he tired of being by himself—or was he just tired? And while Stiles knew part of Derek's tiredness and deflation were due to the five out-of-sync teenagers he called a pack of which half were either not around or sick, it still didn't explain why Derek was there. He could understand the feeling of brokenness in the world around him, but what didn't add up was how that brokenness and loneliness translated to hanging out with the most insufferable teenager of them all.

"All your soulful brooding is starting to make you look like you're preparing for a role in an indie film," Stiles said quietly, knowing full-well Derek could hear him across the void with his sonic hearing.

Derek's mouth twitched, but he continued to gaze at what was once his home.

"And in that moment, I swear we were—"

Derek gave him a sharp look. A look that very clearly said. "Stiles."

"—busted."

Stiles saw Derek snort and turn his eyes to the sky like he was praying for God to deliver him from this creature.

"But seriously," Stiles continued, "we're so busted. If you're ever going to come over again, I swear to God you're going to have to ring the fucking doorbell and introduce yourself like you're my date." It was out before he could stop it. Cue internal screams. "Not that you're my date," he scrambled, flailing his arms in front of him, "just. Like. Dad is probably going to want the ex-murder suspect to, like, redeem himself or something. Make him think you're not going to murder me in my sleep—notthatsleepingisgoingon." Goddammit. If he didn't believe in Freudian slips before, he believed in them now.

Derek was trying not to grin. It took him a few pained moments of biting his lip and digging fingernails into his arm to pull his face back together. He raised his brows with a face that said, "Really?"

Stiles pulled a hand over his face. "You should just forget everything I just said."

Derek shook his head.

Stiles glared.

Derek returned the look, a small smile creeping on his face.

Stiles stuck out his tongue.

Derek raised a brow.

They made more faces at each other until Stiles' father appeared around the corner. They both coughed and looked away, fragile stoicism masking twitching lips. Sheriff Stilinski paused, feet scrapping the cold dirt. He looked at Derek, sighed, shook his head, and walked over to Stiles.

"In."

Stiles scrambled to the passenger side and climbed in. His father shifted into reverse and peeled away from the house. They passed Derek on their way to the road, and Stiles gave him one last funny face through the window before settling into the leather.

"Look, Dad—"

"Stiles if you were lying to me—"

"—there's nothing goin—wait, what? Lying to you about what?"

His father glanced over. "Lying to me about Derek being at the house this morning. And why do you keep saying nothing is going on?"

Stile's waved his arms. "I'm not lying to about Derek being at the house. He was at the house. He ate our bacon."

His father tightened his grip on the wheel. "Dammit," he grumbled. They sat in silence for a few horrendously long and torturous minutes. "So why are you hanging out with Derek Hale all of the sudden? I thought you said you were too busy with projects and homework to hang out with people, which is why, I believed, I haven't seen Scott around lately."

"That's…right." No, it was a lie. It was all a lie. Jesus Christ, I'm so pathetic I can't even tell my own father about how ridiculously alone I am all the time.

"So why am I getting the impression that you're lying to me about something?"

Stiles cringed in his seat. "That depends on how you define impression."

"Stiles."

"What? I'm not lying, okay? I do have a lot of work and stuff—and Derek doesn't interfere. He just shows up and sort of lurks. He's more like a table lamp than anything else."

"He lurks."

"Okay, not the best choice of words, but… yeah, essentially he lurks. I mean, if it were Scott—" Stiles' breath hitched for just a millisecond, "—if it were Scott, I'd never get anything done. He'd just pull me into a game of Call of Duty and you would never see me again. But Derek is so culturally stunted, and I'm pretty sure he's been living under a rock for the last five years, that he's probably never even heard of Call of Duty."

"So let me just get this straight," his father said after a moment of deliberation, "Derek Hale, murder sus—"

"EX-murder suspect—"

"—Ex-murder suspect, but still a person of interest, is just coming over, while I'm gone, and hanging out? Somehow, that doesn't seem quite right."

"Man's gotta have friends."

"Not that Hale kid."

"Which is why he especially has to have friends."

His father sighed. "And why do these friends have to include you?"

Stiles shrugged. "It's not a problem. I'm a great friend to have. The hugs are free."

They turned off the main road and into the residential's. "All I'm saying," his father continued, "is that Derek Hale isn't exactly the best friend to have. That boy has some demons to work out, to say the least. And he's five years older than you. I'd much rather see you being distracted by Scott."

Stiles chewed his lip. Hamlet had it wrong—to lie or not to lie, that was the true question. "Derek's not as bad as you think, Dad. Don't be distracted by his leather jackets or his vampire romance novel good looks. He's actually more…well-adjusted than I initially gave him credit for."

His father just gave him a look.

"Not that I'm comparing anyone or anything to a vampire romance novel. Because there's nothing going on."

"And there it is again. What exactly do you think I think is going on?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Sounds like nothing."

They turned into the driveway and Stiles nearly tripped over his own leg trying to get out. "Yes, it's nothing. We're just friends hanging out."

"Should I be worried?" His father called as Stiles opened the front door.

"Nope!" he heard his son yell. "Lots of work to do!"

The sheriff sighed and shook his head. He glanced up at the sky. "He thinks I'm blind."