He stopped the scream in mid yell, shoving a balled up corner of blanket into his mouth to drown out the sound so that his father wasn't stumbling of bed, gun drawn. Gerard had let him go only slightly worse for wear -although it felt as though his body was a solid mass of black and blue bruises -but he was still waking up in the middle of the night. He was still watching as Erica and Boyd were killed; some sick twist his head kept putting on the events that had happened, leaving behind a splatter of blood and gore, echoing screams and that psychotic old man's face. That weekend at Derek's had the been the closest he'd gotten to a good night's sleep in weeks.

He hadn't told his father about the dreams. And he hadn't brought it up with Ms. Morrell either. At least, not the specifics. Because he didn't want to be sent to a mental ward and that was a possibility. Werewolves, Kanimas, psychotic murdering uncles, evil grandfathers and kidnapping schemes were not sane person talk. He sighed, his body relaxing, and he sat up slowly, spitting out the balled up corner of blanket. Scott was far too busy to listen; Allison and Lydia were unreachable acquaintances at best like Danny. Talking to anyone of Derek's pack was entirely out of the question. There was no one who was in on Beacon Hills' biggest secret that he could tell.

He ran a hand down his sweaty face and took a deep, calming breath. Everything would work out in the end. He just needed some time for the dust to settle and it would be better. It would have to be. Restlessly he got out of bed only then noticing the cool breeze that assaulted his bare arms and legs, and the open window. A window he distinctly remembered shutting earlier that night. A wave of cold dread settled over him, washing through until his very nerves seemed to be burning with adrenaline.

"It's just me. I'm not here to kill you," the familiar gruff voice stated, although it did little to reassure Stiles.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!" he snapped, sitting back down heavily.

"I thought you were being attacked," he disagreed. "Your heart was beating faster and I heard you shout."

"It-it was nothing," Stiles growled. "Just a dream!" He hadn't even noticed him creep in -how was that possible? Oh, right. Werewolf.

Heavier silence fell over the room, mostly noticeable by the lack of noise coming from the alpha.

"So… you can leave, now," Stiles added testily, sitting back down as if that had been his intention all along. He hadn't just realized that it was Derek Hale, with the abs and the attitude and the smile… He had, however, just remembered their parting terms: silence.

"I-I… sorry," Derek said, almost stumbling over the words as he walked back towards the window.

"Wait," Stiles added reluctantly, trying to peer through the darkness, only able to see the outline of his form from the light outside. "You… you were either outside my house being a creeper, or a stalker, and you knew or you came from who-knows how far because you thought I might have been in danger?"

Derek didn't answer. If it was at all possible, the silent silence was more deafening than before.

Stiles scowled. "So you are just a creeper, aren't you? Hiding out around my house, waiting for the perfect chance to break in -you know, that's not a very good way for you to make up with the sheriff-" or his son, for that matter "for what purpose? Robbery, kidnapping. Something more sinister perhaps-"

"Shut up," Derek growled in the darkness. "I was doing the usual perimeter patrols that I do and I heard -well I thought that I heard that you were in danger, alright?"

"So you still care about my physical well-being?" Stiles snarked. "Because it really didn't seem that way just yesterday. You fucking kidnapped me and-and we did stuff, that I would never have done if it only meant that we were being physical!" he hissed loudly.

Stiles frustrated reached over, slamming his lamp on so that he could see more than the man's outline. Red eyes flared for a brief moment and Stiles realized with surprise that Derek actually looked ashamed. And that had… that was not what he was expected. Derek seemed to pause, tilting his head to the side and listening before closing the window and moving towards Stiles' bed.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, the words sounding not quite forced but awkward. Maybe it had been a long time since he had ever been required to apologize to someone. He definitely wasn't very social so that was definitely a possibility. "I… I handled that very poorly, and I'm sorry. It's…" he exhaled softly, not quite a laugh but not only a sigh either. "I avoid situations like this."

"Situations like this?" Stiles repeated dryly. "Boyfriend situations? Girlfriend situations? People you grind against and kiss and share -"

"Yes," Derek cut him off quickly.

Awkward silence fell between them and Stiles sighed, reminding himself that Derek was Mr. Anti-social Hermit who lived in a freaking burned down house. The resident creepy stalker of Beacon Hills.

"Okay… wanna share why?" he asked, glancing up at Derek.

"Not really," Derek hedged. "But I owe you an explanation."

Stiles didn't have a chance to ask Derek to elaborate before the man was opening up more than he had ever seen him before. He talked about Kate. And while Stiles had known some of what had happened, he hadn't known all of it. Derek didn't state that he was dating Kate, he didn't state that she was using him, but he talked about her nonetheless before trailing off. Kate had used him to get to his family and kill them all. And it wasn't Derek's fault, he hadn't known -he couldn't have known. When things like that happen to someone though, it often made trusting hard again.

Stiles did the math quickly. Derek probably hadn't been in a real relationship since then. It made sense why he mentioned how his sister was pushing him to go out on dates and everything and no doubt obviously explained why they wouldn't have gone over well. Stiles could just picture Derek out at some fancy Italian restaurant in New York with a hot young woman firing question after question at him and only ever getting one word answers. He could even see the wine fly out from the glass and slap Derek in the face and Stiles threw his arms around Derek with a hidden chuckle as he hugged the man.

"It's okay," Stiles mumbled into his shoulder.

Silence fell, and just listening to the soothing and reassuring breaths that Derek was taking, Stiles could feel his exhaustion pulling at him even as his sleep-addled brain kept trying to process a million and one conversation pieces, nothing was coming together the way it was supposed to. Stiles felt the way that he took a breath whenever Derek did, that pesky human thing, and he tried to stop only to struggle and give up when the effort required more effort than wiggling his pinky finger.

"How long?" Derek's voice came suddenly, low and quiet in the dark of night.

"Wha?" he asked sleepily, blinking, trying to summon enough effort to remain awake.

"How long have you been having these nightmares?"

"'Few weeks?" Stiles slurred tiredly, resting his head back on the tender part of Derek's shoulder. Much better than a pillow. Mm, smelled nicer too. Like leather and spruce -and it was almost like a Christmassy delight come a month and a half too early.

"What happens, in the dreams?"

Stiles frowned exhaustedly, "People die and no one comes and there's-there's screams and blood and old men and s'gross."

When he was more coherent, Stiles would later come to the conclusion that Derek had taken advantage of his addled brain that couldn't process this coherently so late in the night. Well, technically, it was early in the morning. And how did Derek manage to stay that good looking the next day if he was up at this time every day? Maybe he slept like dogs did.

Derek set his hand on his back and eased them back until neither of them were sitting and Stiles could swear he heard the older man sigh, the vibe of good energy and fondness washing over him as Stiles cuddled up to his own personal furnace.

Thus, when Stiles awoke, completely alone, he wasn't entirely sure that the events that took place the previous night had not been some weird dream. Until he noticed the way that there was another indentation and rumples in his sheets that could have only been made by another body. Or, by Stiles rolling around in his sleep. In an effort to prove to himself that it was a dream, he rolled onto his stomach and inhaled the familiar scent of his pillow and his own smell and the blankets and -there. There, was the faint scent of leather -a scent that most certainly was not Stiles'. And that was how his father found him, lying face-down and inhaling the leather scent that was clinging just below his pillow.

"I'm not even gonna ask," his father said, shaking his head. "But Scott phoned, he said you wouldn't answer your cell."

Stiles rolled over, hand fumbling along his nightstand until he had his cell in hand. There were two missed calls from Scott and about a half a dozen messages from him too. His father left as he clumsily dialed Scott back. He must have been really out of things that he had managed to sleep through that much racket.

"Scott?" he asked, as he sat up, stretching.

"I'm sorry!" he blurted out. "I never even -Stiles, I am so, so sorry."

"F-for what?"

"For everything! I mean…. I've been such a-a self-obsessed jerk to you lately!"

More like Allison-obsessed… "Scott, Scott," Stiles coaxed gently. "You're still my friend. And I mean, sure… you've been distracted and everything."

"That doesn't mean I-I… I'm just, I'm so sorry, Stiles."

"Scott," Stiles asked worriedly, "is something wrong?"

Sure it was pretty great to have his best friend back, but this wasn't like him. Well the wolfier him, at any rate. He was more concerned with Allison and lacrosse, but there was still room for Stiles there. He just didn't have the same priority standing. But he had accepted it, more or less.

"Nothing!" his best friend insisted with more vehemence than usual. "I just… I-I feel like I haven't spent anytime with you."

Stiles laughed. "Dude, you spend a lot of the time with me. I don't want to be hanging out with you twenty-four seven anyways." And it was true, excluding the fact that although he and Scott spent a lot of time together, Scott didn't listen to most of what he said. "You sound like someone's got a knife to you, man. You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine!" Scott laughed, almost nervously. "Are you?"

"Couldn't be better."

A few quick goodbyes and they ended their call to one another with an agreement to meet up later in the day. Although Stiles was on lockdown, it wouldn't take more than a few hours to drive his father nuts and get him out of the trouble he'd walked into. The Internet privileges would probably still be gone for a few more days before Stiles could drive his father more insane. It was the same as usual, although trouble was a little more serious this time around.

A half an hour later, Stiles was perched at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and his phone in hand as he skimmed through the messages Scott had left him. He read eleven, all of which contained Scott's sincere apologies and genuine worry before he realized there was still an unread message icon blinking at him. He moved back to his inbox, looking at the unknown number and tentatively clicking to read it.

Unknown number: Derek Hale.

Curious, Stiles typed back. Hello?

Unknown Number: This is Derek Hale.

Stiles blinked in shock. Why do you have my number? Why do I have yours?!

Derek: Because.

Seriously? As silent in text as he was in person. Stiles scowled. Because…?

Derek: In case you get in trouble and no one else is available.

Stiles frowned. I don't need your help.

Derek: You do. Or you will.

Stiles shuddered in apprehension and moved his phone away from him before taking a bite of his cereal. Derek could be seriously creepy. And that, right there, was practically screaming "I'm an ominous creeper."

So Derek had been here last night. And what exactly had happened? What had he asked and what had Stiles told him? He could remember the dream, and he could actually remember Derek asking him questions but shortly after when Derek finished talking about Kate, it was fuzzy. And it only got fuzzier from there… He could remember the way his shoulder felt, but he couldn't distinctly recall what Derek had been saying or asking about exactly. The dreams, maybe?

And maybe… Maybe that was why Scott had called. If Stiles had mentioned what Gerard said… then Derek had probably told Scott, or at least threatened Scott or harmed him… Stiles frowned. It wasn't Derek's business. And god, he really needed to work on those dreams and the exhaustion and to make sure that he didn't screw this whole thing up. Like telling Derek things he couldn't even remember.

And probably, in his typical fashion, he probably managed to make the whole situation embarrassing. And awful. He frowned intently into his cereal. Well, he would get the story from Scott soon enough.

Yowch, I thought this chapter was going to be longer. I fought with it the whole way through.

Sorry for the later update, had a bit of a struggle writing this. ^_^;

I hope you like this chapter, anyways. I'm done school, pretty much, so I should have more time to write until May. If you have any scene or anything that you want to see, please let me know. It helps feed my creative process and I just love hearing from you guys. I love your reviews. Thanks for the patience with this chapter.