Stiles finds him outside the morgue, hunched over, soaking wet from the still-drizzling rain, so Stiles doesn't think much of how he's trembling hard enough that drops of water are sliding off him with every shudder. Stiles is about to say something, his mouth already open, his brain still working, when Derek speaks, low and destroyed, teeth grit, like he's pulling a barb through his skin.
"Everyone around me gets hurt."
Whatever Stiles was expecting, it wasn't that. It wasn't Derek Hale curled in on himself, crying, confessing. But then Stiles thinks of the ashes of Derek's family, and how his old health-hazard of a house was seized by the county; thinks of Peter being absolutely insane, and Laura being half a body Derek buried by hand in his front yard. And he thinks of Erica, so cold and pale and still on that morgue table, and he thinks- he thinks he might understand Derek, suddenly seeing him in a way he's never seen him before. Derek's an alpha, an adult, a source of knowledge, he's impossible to kill and there's not a supernatural thing that won't try anyway, he's two hundred pounds of pure muscle and flat sarcasm and eyebrows and bossy attitude. But underneath he's more or less like the rest of them, like Scott after his dad took off, like Dad after Mom. Like Stiles, actually, maybe most of all, with the sarcasm and the hyper-vigilance and the empty threats, all talk and no action, and underneath he's scared, and powerless, and human.
It kind of blows Stiles' mind.
Almost immediately after this new awareness comes the panic- What is Stiles supposed to say to that? Is he supposed to say something comforting, Chin up, Derek, is he supposed to crack a joke, lighten the mood, is he supposed to share, empathize-
Yeah, okay, maybe that's an idea. Maybe that's something. He steps closer, close enough that he can see the tattoo down the back of Derek's soaked shirt, remember the story of how he got it. He thinks of sharing, rethinks.
He says, too casual, hating how strange his voice sounds, distant, seperate from him, "Dude, this is Beacon Hills. No one's safe, y'know? It's a shitty small town full of monsters and monster hunters. It's like Buffy. People die all the time on that show. It's just what they do."
Derek doesn't say anything and Stiles thinks, Shit, shit, I've made it worse. He backtracks.
"I mean it's still awful, obviously. Losing people sucks," he says awkwardly. "My mom-" But he rethinks that, too. "It just sucks. But I mean it's not, like- I mean what were you supposed to do, right?"
"Not bite her," Derek says, voice horribly raw. "Train them better. Be a better Alpha. Not-" his voice catches, and Stiles' fingers knit together and twist into knots. "I was an idiot," Derek says. "I thought if I just kept looking over my shoulder…" He huffs, like he's laughing at himself, and Stiles licks his lip, nervous. "I thought it could be different this time: Not…"
"The barricade scene of Les Miserables? Yeah, I know," Stiles says, voice more careful than he would've thought possible. "But we all screwed up. I mean what did I bring to the table? The betas scattered, Scott's big master plan didn't even kill Grandpa Evil, Allison went off the rails- None of us have a clue what we're doing."
"You weren't responsible for them," Derek snaps. "They weren't counting on you to know what you were doing."
Stiles caps the back of his head with his palm, fingers in his weirdly long hair, comes a couple inches closer, lowers his voice a little bit lower, like this is important, like this isn't like everything that comes out of his mouth, even though it's just the same words and he's not good at this, at big emotional conversations, when his reflex is to laugh it off and move on. He fakes it, anyway; fakes it with his dad, both of them straining awkwardly to fill a too-empty space in every conversation, fakes it by letting his eyes go wide and his voice go soft and trying to be reasonable and logical and just- honest, even if he's dying to just break the tension already.
"Yeah, well Deaton's been just as useless, and Allison's dad somehow missed the memo that his family is a great big barrel of sociopaths, so-"
"That doesn't change anything," Derek says, and Stiles doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything, nudging the lip of a nearby puddle with the toe of his sneaker. "She's still dead," Derek says, and there's nothing to argue about there. "Erica's still gonna be dead, Stiles, and no matter how many excuses you try to find for me, it's still gonna be my fault."
"Yeah," Stiles hears himself say. Derek's back stiffens, knobs of his spine sharp through his thin damp t-shirt. "Yeah, maybe," Stiles admits, because Derek can tell when he's lying anyway, can't he. So what's the point? "So what are you gonna to do about it?"
Derek bows his head further; it's a disturbing angle. Makes him seem headless if Stiles looks at him wrong. "I don't know," Derek says, low and wrecked, and Stiles wants to shake him, wants to fake a laugh and fix it, but that's not going to help, here.
"C'mon," Stiles says, more determined now. "Someone killed Erica. Your beta. What are you gonna do about it? You gonna just sit there and let them get away with it? She mean that little to you?"
"No," Derek says sharply, like he's shocked by the thought. "Of course not." He unfolds, straightens his spine, shifts into his tallest shape like a Transformer. "I'll kill them," he says, voice hard again, steel, reminding Stiles of that night, outside the pool, Derek snarling murder plans about the kanima. "I'll kill all of them."
Well, maybe Stiles' methods are too bloodthirsty for some, but sometimes revenge is all you have left, y'know? There's a danger out there, and someone needs to fight it, and it's probably gonna be them. So what's the harm in a little cheerleading along the way?
Stiles has his own guilt, shoved down as deep as it can go. Erica in chains above him, Boyd in tears. He's as much responsible as Derek is, whatever he says. And it was obvious Derek was in over his head, it was obvious, they could've done something. Prevented this.
But it's done, she's dead, and something's coming. Something bad. So it really doesn't matter what's whose fault right now. There's like a million other more important things to worry about.
So they'll figure out a plan, and they'll fight, together. And maybe they'll survive it and maybe they won't. But they'll try, okay? They'll pull together and not waste time being paranoid assholes, they won't have a billion stupid agendas, and maybe, if everyone survives, they'll sit down and divvy up the blame. Figure out who owes what to who and how long they have to torture themselves before they're forgiven.
Maybe everything'll go to hell even worse and there won't be a reunion scene. Everyone's probably going to die sooner or later. It'll probably kill the survivors even worse, turn them all into Winchesters. Who fucking knows.
Stiles is tired, okay, but he's not rolling over, he's not just watching the world fall apart around him. If there's still something to save, he's grabbing it and holding on, keeping its head above water as long as it takes. Scott. Dad. Lydia. Boyd and Isaac and even Derek. Which means not letting it bug him when Scott and Isaac bond, and keeping Dad in the dark, and letting Lydia go, learning to know her in a different way. Means playing nice with the betas, and giving Derek a pep talk every now and then, and maybe figuring out what the hell mountain ash is actually good for that doesn't accidentally get Scott murdered. Means standing over Derek's shoulder, maybe, and coming around to his side, while he swipes still-drying tears from his cheeks, tries to look menacing.
"Yeah," Stiles says, and loops his arm around Derek's shoulders, completely ruining the threatening eyebrows-glare-scowl trio on Derek's face. He's only half surprised that Derek doesn't push him away. "Yeah, that's a good starting point, anyway," he says, and then he says, voice casual and steady and almost bright, "So, Alpha pack, huh? How does that work?"
title from i will follow you into the dark by death cab for cutie
tag to 3.01, tattoo