Derek makes a small, broken sound as they take Boyd's body away, shudders when Boyd's head falls too far back, trembling violently under Stiles' steady palm. Stiles' left hand grazes Derek's shoulder, settling whisper-light on the back of his neck. It's the first thing, the only thing Stiles can think of, and his hand stutters, unsure, fingers numb and fumbling before they sink into the thin, damp cotton.
At first, Derek doesn't react, doesn't even seem to register the new points of contact, but after a few moments his rigid spine half-relaxes, and he rocks forward slightly, shoulders slumped, head bowed. Stiles' grip tightens in support.
Stiles doesn't let himself look at B–-at the body. He swallows hard and concentrates on staying in the moment. On the smell of rotting wood, the warmth of Derek's softly-vibrating body in his hands, the water seeping through his socks, numbing his toes. How Derek's claws are still half-retracted, like he wants to shift back but can't bring himself to destroy the evidence.
"Hey," Stiles says, an unmeasurable amount of time later. Everything outside this two-man bubble of inactivity seems distant, unreal. Stiles' sneakers are soaked, but Derek's shirt is almost dry, and there's moonlight spilling through his wall of windows, highlighting the alpha pack's triskele dramatically, which is probably exactly what they were going for.
Murdering Boyd wasn't enough. They had to leave a reminder.
Stiles inhales long and deep. Exhales slowly.
Derek can't live here anymore. Even if the loft weren't flooded, it would destroy him.
"Hey," Stiles says again, low, and kneels beside Derek. The water slops over both of them as he shifts positions, soaking his jeans up to the thighs. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles spots the alpha pack's triskele casting a dark, rippling reflection. He forces his focus back to Derek, running his hand slowly down Derek's arm. The blood on his hands is dry, almost flaky. Stiles' chest is on fire. He swallows hard, says, again, "Hey. Hey, look at me. Listen to me." He takes Derek's wrists, holds them steady.
Derek slumps further forward, like he can't even hold himself up anymore. Arms still outstretched, reaching for nothing.
"Hey, this wasn't–you know this wasn't on you," Stiles says, gripping Derek's shoulder tightly, keeping him upright. He takes Derek's chin lightly in a curled palm and guides it past the empty two inches of water Derek has been staring through to face him, look at him.
Derek lets himself be led. His hair is dry but his cheeks are still wet, and his eyes are eerily empty, unfocused; Stiles wants to shake him, punch him, bring him back from whatever hell he's in, but he settles for keeping his palm against the side of Derek's neck, just under his chin, to keep Derek looking at him.
"You know that, right? They did this. The alpha pack. They used you, okay? He can't blame you for that. He wouldn't blame you for that." His knees slide out from under him then, chafed from the awkward position.
Derek shoots his hand out and grabs Stiles close against his chest, eyes suddenly sharp, breathing long and harsh.
When he finally speaks, Derek's voice is wrecked, raw, just above a whisper.
"He–he didn't," he says, and then he's shaking worse than ever, and Stiles wraps his arms around the shockingly soft-edged shape of him and blinks until his eyes stop burning.
tag to 3x07, currents.
title is a lyric from "pieces," by red.