Chapter Two

When Stiles woke up, his face was pressed into a wet cloth, which he pried away with a noise of disgust. Derek had insisted he take an ice pack with him to bed, because of his dislocated shoulder—now much less dislocated, but still sore, he discovered when he pushed himself up—and at some point in the night the ice pack had stopped being ice and was now just uncomfortably damp. Scrubbing at his face, Stiles looked around the room, but could see no sign of Derek. Picking up the cloth, he crawled regretfully out of the giant bed and headed into the bathroom. He'd have liked to sleep for a couple more hours, the digital clock on the nightstand telling him that it was only 8:16 am, but he and Derek needed to talk. He needed to hear Derek say that things were okay, and that he would get over whatever weird funk he was in.

Coming out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Stiles hiked his pajama pants up and grabbed a t-shirt from the drawer, tugging it over his head with a wince. He made his way towards the kitchen. He could smell the hot scent of coffee and made a low, obscene moan of pleasure. Maybe the talk could wait until after Stiles showed Derek how grateful he was for the coffee. "I'm going to have a big sip of that coffee and them I'm going to get on my knees and—Isaac." Stiles rounded the corner and stared blankly at the werewolf perched on one of the kitchen's bar stools, a wicked grin on his face.

"You're going to get on your knees and…?" Isaac prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles felt his cheeks flush bright pink and he gave an awkward cough, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I thought you were Derek."

"Sorry to disappoint." Isaac was still grinning and Stiles scowled, moving into the kitchen to grab a mug from the cupboard and pouring himself a large cup of coffee. He dumped in several spoonfuls of sugar and ducked into the fridge for cream.

"Where is he?" Stiles asked when he settled onto a stool across from Isaac, taking a drink of the coffee. It wasn't as good as when Derek made it. He tried to suppress his annoyance.

"Out with Peter."

Ooookay. "And so you are here, why, exactly?" Apparently he wasn't doing that good a job of hiding said annoyance because he could see that he was getting Isaac's back up.

"Derek asked me to come."

"Derek asked you to come over at," Stiles glanced over to check the clock on the microwave, "Eight twenty-five in the morning to, what, make me coffee?"

"No, he asked me to come over at seven am to make sure you got back home okay. I made coffee because I wanted some coffee." Isaac coolly took a sip from his mug. "You're welcome."

Stiles opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. "I'm sorry—you're here to babysit me?" He could hear the squeak of indignation in his voice but was too outraged to care. "Derek just, what, foisted me off on you?"

Isaac gave an elegant shrug, toying with the handle of his mug. "None of us want you to get hurt again. We agreed last night that one of us would keep an eye on you…"

"Like, 'at all times'?" This was fucking ridiculous. Stiles was going to tear Derek a new one as soon as he got back. Stiles wasn't some princess who needed to be locked away in a tower for his own safety.

"Well," Isaac had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Until we leave for Terrace Bay College."

"That's four days from now!" Stiles spluttered. "No. There is no way. When is Derek back?"

Isaac was looking increasingly uncomfortable and he muttered something under his breath that was too quiet for Stiles to catch.

"When. Is. He. Back."

"I don't know." Isaac looked pained. "I don't think he was planning on coming back… he asked me to get you home."

"I—this is just—" Stiles was choking on his anger and he shoved away from the island, not caring that he slopped coffee all over the counter. "No. This isn't happening."

Isaac carefully stood. "Does that mean you're ready to go home?"

Stiles made an inarticulate noise of rage and stormed back into the bedroom.

When he came out again, fully dressed and fuming, he noticed that Isaac had cleaned up the mess he'd made and put away the mugs in the dishwasher. He felt a flash of guilt that Isaac had had to clean up after him, but he refused to let it distract him from how pissed he was.

It occurred to him, in a small, frightened part of his brain, that the reason he was reacting with such vehemence was because his only other option was to admit that Derek was avoiding him. If Derek had been heading out he could have woken Stiles up and dropped him off at home if he was so worried about Stiles walking back alone. But he hadn't. He'd left, apparently at seven in the morning, without even bothering to let Stiles know he was leaving. Like he was worried Stiles would press the conversation from last night (the one Derek had made sure they didn't have) and Derek thought it best if that didn't happen. If they didn't talk.

His mind skittered away from that thought.

"Come on," he snapped at Isaac, heading towards the front door.

Isaac said nothing, just slipped off the stool and followed Stiles out.

"Are you ready?"

Stiles turned around at the sound of his dad's voice, running a distracted hand through his hair. "Uh, yeah. Yeah I think so."

It was weird thinking that he was leaving in a couple of minutes. That he was going off to college and leaving his room and his house and his dad behind. What was he going to do without his dad?

"You've got everything you need?" The Sheriff stepped around Stiles and into Stiles's bedroom, glancing around at the space that suddenly seemed so empty. Stiles was leaving his bed behind, but he was taking his desk and his dresser and half the posters from the walls and a good chunk of his DVD/video game/book collection with him. They all sat in boxes in the front hall waiting to be loaded up into the jeep.

"Yeah." Stiles stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat.

"Good." His dad turned back and Stiles could see his eyes shining with unabashed tears. "I'm gonna miss you, kiddo."

"I—" Stiles's voice cracked. "I'm not going to be that far away." Just an hour. If traffic was good. He could come back on weekends if he wanted. His dad could come up and visit if work wasn't too busy.

He'd never even gone away to summer camp. He'd never spent more than one night at a time away from home. How was he supposed to spend months? Who was going to make sure there was enough toilet paper, or keep track of where Stiles left his keys, or bitch when Stiles hogged the TV watching a marathon of Veronica Mars but then wind up making Stiles share the couch and his popcorn while they debated the merits of Logan vs. Piz?

Stiles crossed the room and wrapped his dad in a hug, burying his face in his dad's neck and inhaling the familiar scent of Ivory soap. The Sheriff returned the hug with a fierceness that made Stiles's own eyes fill with tears, and they stood there like that for a long moment before the Sheriff gave a gruff cough and stepped back, swiping at his eyes. "They're going to be here soon. We'd better start loading the jeep."

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too." The Sheriff smiled and slung his arm around Stiles's shoulders. "Now, let's go get you off to college. From the sound of it," outside there were three short taps of a horn "Your friends are here."

Stiles blew out a breath. He could do this. He'd faced down death on multiple occasions. He was still sporting a sore shoulder and the faintest traces of a black eye from his last near-death (or near-maiming, at least) encounter. He could leave for college without blubbering like a little kid in front of everyone. "Right. Okay. I'm ready."

His dad gave his arm a squeeze and they headed downstairs.

"Stiles! Come on, let's go! Give me a hand with your crap." Scott's eyes were over-bright and his nose looked a little pink and Stiles was glad to see that he wasn't the only one who'd had a tearful goodbye with his parent.

"Oh my god, do you or do you not have werewolf super strength? I hardly think a box of books is going to kill you." Stiles shouldered past Scott and picked up his own box, grunting at the weight.

"Did you really need to bring an entire library? You know they'll have one at TBC."

"You're just jealous because I can read."

As Stiles headed out into the bright mid-morning sun the Sheriff stopped Scott at the door. "You take care of our boy," it was half a question, half a statement as they watched Stiles bitch at Isaac who was lounging against the jeep until Isaac heaved a sigh and headed towards them to help move boxes.

"Yes, sir." Scott's eyes went grim. "We're gonna keep him safe." The Sheriff nodded, but Scott knew he was still unhappy with Stiles leaving after what had happened earlier in the week. Stiles and his dad had had a huge fight about it when Stiles had come home battered and bruised, and afterwards they hadn't spoken for an entire day—a first for the two of them. Not for the first time, Scott felt a deep stab of guilt for getting Stiles involved in this supernatural crap.

Nodding to the Sheriff, he hefted the box and went to put it in the jeep. Derek was heading up the drive and a handful of minutes later the jeep was loaded and they were ready to go.

Isaac and Scott were taking Scott's mom's car and Derek and Stiles were in the jeep, the plan being for Derek to drive Melissa's car back to Beacon Hills when he returned in the morning. After one last, bruising hug from his father, Stiles clambered into the driver's seat beside Derek and pulled out of the driveway.

"You'll keep an eye on him, right?" Stiles asked Derek as he pointed the jeep in the direction of the highway.

"Yes."

"Thanks."

The silence between them stretched, awkward, and Stiles reached over and turned on the radio. I knew you were trouble when you walked in, Taylor Swift accused from the speakers. So shame on me now. Stiles's hands felt cold where they flexed on the steering wheel. This was the first time he'd seen Derek since the night he'd been beaten up. They'd hardly spoken since, either, Derek responding to Stiles's texts with short, one-word replies. After two days, Stiles had given up. He was at a loss for what to do. He didn't know what had changed and a part of him was afraid to ask.

If someone else had been in Stiles's current shoes, and they'd been asking Stiles's advice, Stiles would have told them (as gently as possible) that they should probably get out now before they got their ass dumped. But this was different. He and Derek weren't some dumb high school relationship that would dissolve painlessly when one of the participants went off to college. They were more than that. They'd been through too much for that.

They would figure this out and everything would go back to the way it was. Derek had never said as much, not in so many words, but Stiles knew Derek loved him. He knew it like he knew Scott would never lie to him, not about anything important. He knew it like he knew Harry couldn't have defeated Voldemort without Hermione. It was just a fact of Stiles's life, and so, whatever Derek's issue was, they'd deal with it. Together. And maybe they'd fight and there would be a couple of shitty days, or a week, even, but in the end they'd be Stiles and Derek and as rock solid as they'd always been.

He let out a slow breath and let himself relax into the rhythm of driving. They'd get through this. They'd gotten through so much worse, and this was nothing in comparison. He was feeling better already, just being in the same car as Derek. One hand moved from the steering wheel to dip into his pocket and he brushed his fingertips over the small silver charm there. It was tiny, barely bigger than his thumbnail, and in the shape of a wolf with its head thrown back in a howl.

Derek had given the charm to him one night after Stiles had attempted to cook dinner in Derek's giant kitchen. Surprising them both, it hadn't been a total disaster. Stiles had made lemon ginger chicken with rice, and except for the fact that he used ground ginger instead of ginger root in the sauce, it had turned out okay. The ground ginger was a little too strong, making the sauce a little too bitter, but Derek had eaten everything on his plate and then gone back for seconds. The chicken had been edible, but it wasn't exactly seconds-worthy. Stiles had said as much, but Derek had protested that it was the best meal he'd had all week—a lie, since Derek had made a roast only days before—and that was when Stiles had been forced to admit to himself that he was completely, helplessly, idiotically in love with a werewolf.

Later, when Stiles lay sprawled and panting on Derek's bed, skin still flushed with the glow of orgasm, Derek had leaned over him and reached for something in the bedside table. Stiles had given a weak laugh and said that if Derek wanted to go for round two he'd be more than happy—just give a guy a minute or two to catch his breath. Derek had raised a skeptical eyebrow and leaned down, kissing Stiles with such languid heat that by the time Derek pulled back Stiles was making soft, needy sounds and was half hard again.

"Still need that minute or two?" Derek had asked, all innocence, save for the wicked gleam in his green eyes. Stiles had huffed out an indignant breath and tried to regain what was left of his dignity by keeping still—though the urge to continue rubbing up into Derek's sweat-slick skin was nearly overwhelming.

Derek had smirked, brushing a thumb over Stiles's kiss-swollen lips. "I got you something."

"What? Why?" Stiles had been so startled that he forgot about his dick for a moment and just stared up at Derek.

"I thought you might like it," Derek had said simply. Stiles had pushed himself up on his elbows and Derek placed the silver charm into the palm of his hand.

"Oh," Stiles had felt something warm and gooey expand in the centre of his chest, "It's a wolf." Despite how tiny the charm was, the detail was exquisite, the small wolf so lifelike that Stiles would hardly have been surprised if it had started to move. "Thank you," he said sincerely, looking back up at Derek. Derek—Mr. I-Can't-Express-My-Feelings, Heart-Of-Stone, Broody, Closed-Off, I-Am-The-Alpha Derek—had seen a little silver wolf charm and thought of Stiles. Stiles grinned, full on, delighted. "You got me a love token."

"I—" Derek had looked suddenly flustered, and Stiles grinned even wider.

"You did. You so did. Oh, my god. You're so into me," Stiles crowed, punching Derek's arm.

"Don't punch me." But despite the scowl on his face his cheeks were pink.

"What should I expect next? Ooh," Stiles had leaned forward eagerly. "Are you going to write me a poem? Or get my name tattooed over your heart? How about—"

"Stiles," Derek had growled, pushing Stiles back onto the bed, "Stop talking."

Stiles had opened his mouth, fully prepared to continue teasing, but Derek leaned down and closed his mouth around Stiles's cock. The flippant remark on the tip of Stiles's tongue died and he arched into the wet heat with a moan, his hand clenching so tightly around the pretty charm that it had left a bruise for days.

He had kept the silver wolf in his pocket since then. Totally dorky, but he liked it. He liked the surprising weight of it in his hand when he got bored or anxious and began to toy with it. He liked the reminder that he was on Derek's mind even when he wasn't with Derek. He liked the way his brain slowed down when he brushed his fingers over the cool metal.

Letting his tension out in a slow breath, Stiles focused on the highway in front of him and the music on the radio, trying to ignore the fact that Derek remained silent for the rest of the drive.

"Any requests?" Scott shouted up from the first floor of the house they were renting.

"Pepperoni with extra cheese," Stiles yelled back, leaning over the railing on the second floor. "And beer. Not that light crap Isaac likes—"

"Excuse me," Isaac objected.

"But real beer," Stiles continued, raising his voice over Isaac's protest. "Derek?" He turned back to look into the bedroom behind him. "Do you want anything?"

"No," Derek didn't look up from where he was assembling an Ikea bookshelf. "I'm fine."

"Don't forget—extra cheese!" Stiles shouted as he heard the front door shut. He supposed, what with werewolf hearing and all, he didn't really need to shout. But that was one thing he never could get used to. Super strength and fangs and glowing eyes, those he took in stride. But the hearing thing was just weird.

"You know you guys are still underage, right?" Derek asked when Stiles came back into the room.

"Well, yeah," Stiles plopped himself down on the carpet across from Derek, toying with the allen key. "But Lydia makes the best fake IDs."

Derek grunted, nailing the backboard of the bookcase in place. Stiles watched him silently, wondering what he was thinking. He could ask, he supposed. But the words felt like lead on his tongue and he realized that it wasn't easy between them anymore. Stiles used to be able to ramble on, stream-of-consciousness all filters between his brain and his mouth gone, and Derek would listen and nod and occasionally ask a question or give his opinion. Or call Stiles an idiot. But with love. Now though… now they sat, like the entire ride here, silent as strangers.

Abruptly Stiles got to his feet, walking to the large window on the other side of the room. He stared out, not really seeing the trees or the quiet street. He should say something. He should talk to Derek, ask what the hell was going on. But he was afraid of knowing the answer.

A noise behind him made him jump, and he turned around to see Derek pushing the bookcase up against the wall. It looked good, the white a nice contrast to the dark grey walls. It would look better once he'd filled it, of course, but he could do that tomorrow. Today was just for getting everything into the house and any of the major stuff—like the (also Ikea) beds for himself and Scott and Isaac set up.

"Thanks," Stiles walked closer. He had to do this. He had to get whatever fight they weren't having over with, so they could get back to how things were. "Derek—"

"I can't do this anymore, Stiles." Derek turned, lifting his eyes up to Stiles's face.

Stiles froze. There was something strange going on in his body. Everything felt numb, a shocky sort of cold creeping out from his stomach. Derek could be talking about anything. About building another bookcase. About having to share another double-cheese pepperoni pizza. It didn't have to mean…

"You can't do what?" Stiles's words sounded hollow even to his own ears. This wasn't happening. This was not happening.

"This. Us."

The breath left Stiles in an uneven rush and his legs had turned to rubber. He licked his lips with a dry tongue and found himself shaking his head in denial. "Derek—"

"I'm sorry." Derek's gaze was steady on Stiles's.

Stiles took an unconscious step back, wrapping his arms around himself, as if that could protect him from the raw hurt that Derek's words were inflicting. As if they were blows he could ward off and deflect and if they didn't touch him they didn't count. This couldn't count. Stiles wouldn't let it. There had to be a reason.

"You're—" Stiles forced himself to swallow, cleared his throat. "You're lying." Yes, there it was. That was it. The relief made him dizzy and he choked back a laugh. Derek was a moron if he thought he could break up with Stiles to keep him safe or something. Because of course that was what this was about. Stiles got beat up and Derek thought it was his fault because Stiles was involved with him. So Derek figured he'd break up with Stiles, and Stiles would be safe. But that was stupid, and Stiles wouldn't let him.

"Stiles," Derek took a step towards him, something new in his eyes, an emotion Stiles couldn't place.

"You're lying," Stiles repeated, forcing the words out, his voice stronger. "Stop. You're not breaking up with me because of Marcus—"

Derek was shaking his head. Why was Derek shaking his head?

"This doesn't have anything to do with that."

"Oh, come on," Stiles scoffed. His heart was slamming in his chest, fast and frantic. Derek could hear that, he knew Derek could, but he ignored it and kept his voice firm. "This is about me getting hurt. Don't pretend it isn't."

"Stiles—"

"Stop saying my name like that!" Saying it like it hurt. Saying it like a mouthful of regret. "You're lying," Stiles insisted. "You're lying and you need to stop, you need to stop right now, I swear to god." For the first time since Peter had first offered Stiles the bite, Stiles wished with every fiber of his being that he was a werewolf. If he was a werewolf he could hear Derek's heartbeat like Derek could hear his. Could hear the lie and know that's all it was—a lie.

"I appreciate that you want to keep me safe," Stiles continued, stepping closer to Derek. "But this isn't going to do that. I'm not going to let you push me away because you think it's the right thing to do." Derek had to see that, had to see that Stiles was his and he was Stiles's and that's just the way it was going to be. Stiles's hand went unconsciously to his pocket and he closed his hand around the wolf charm. It steadied him and he took a slow breath.

Derek looked away and then back at Stiles, and suddenly Stiles recognized the emotion on his face, in his eyes. Pity.

No. No, it couldn't be that. There was no reason for Derek to look at him with pity in his eyes. Stiles could feel the colour drain from his face.

"I'm not lying," Derek said, gently. Softly.

"Yes, you are." Stiles refused to meet Derek's gaze. He couldn't. Derek was lying. Because if he wasn't, then this meant… this meant that Derek was done. Done with this. Done with Stiles. And Stiles couldn't believe that. "You're lying and because I'm a werewolf you know I can't tell and that's not fair Derek. That's not fucking fair. You can't lie to me."

Derek said nothing, just kept watching Stiles with that look of quiet pity.

"Scott will know," Stiles said with sudden resolve, heat flooding his limbs. "You can't lie to Scott." And Scott wouldn't lie to him. So they would wait for Scott to get back and Scott would take one look at Derek and tell him to stop being an idiot and Stiles would be pissed at Derek—pissed at him for a good, long while for scaring the shit out of him like this—but he'd let Derek make it up to him with really good sex and then they'd be fine and in a couple days they'd laugh about this.

"Don't bring Scott into this." Derek reached out a hand, but Stiles jerked back, avoiding it.

"Don't lie to me." He was angry now that the initial panicked terror had receded. Derek must have thought Stiles was an idiot if he thought Stiles would fall for this. "If you stop this now, I won't have to bring Scott into anything."

Derek's jaw clenched, grim, and he said nothing. Stiles balled his shaking hands into fists—why were they shaking?—and sat down on the bed across the room from Derek.

Outside, a car honked, the wind rustled the leaves of the tree outside the window, and the sun sank slowly towards the horizon. Stiles focused on the sunlight dappling over his blue comforter and tried, desperately, to slow the thundering of his pulse. Scott would be back soon, and then this whole goddamn thing would be over.

One way or another.