Chapter Five

A Saturday in November, Stiles stumbled downstairs, pulling a t-shirt on over his pajama bottoms and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The kitchen was deserted, with a note scrawled in Scott's writing across the whiteboard Isaac had stuck on the wall, gone for a run. Once a week or so Scott and Isaac picked up Jackson and the three of them drove to the edge of town. They couldn't run like they wanted to at the track at the college, or around the block like Stiles could. Initially Stiles had been kind of bummed at being left behind, but now he just enjoyed having the house to himself for a couple hours.

Humming under his breath, he opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of orange juice and a carton of eggs. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard he filled it with juice, tipping it back and finishing it in one long swallow. There was nothing as refreshing as a cold glass of O.J. first thing in the morning. Still humming, he refilled the glass before sticking the juice back in the fridge and turning to pull out a frying pan. Stiles Stilinski had a mind for eggs, sunny side up.

Wondering if they still had bacon, Stiles opened the door and stuck his head back in the fridge. After a second he made a low, pleased noise in his throat and pulled out half a pack. He'd fry the bacon up first and then fry the eggs up in the bacon grease. What a beautiful way to start a Saturday.

Pushing the frying pan onto the stove, Stiles reached up to grab a plate for the bacon and then had the sudden, dizzying sensation that he wasn't alone in the kitchen. Freezing mid-reach, he sucked in a breath, his fingers closing over the rim of a plate as he slowly lowered himself back to his feet. He laid the plate carefully on the countertop, set the bacon on top of it, and reached for the drawer on his right. Sliding it open, he selected a steak knife and gripped the handle tight in the palm of his hand.

"If Marcus sent you, you can fuck right off," Stiles commented as he turned around, knife steady in his hand.

But it wasn't a strange werewolf standing in the doorway of the kitchen. It was a werewolf he knew all too well. Stiles's heart gave a stuttering, painful leap.

"Derek?"

"Stiles."

Stiles was finding it difficult to hear past the ringing in his ears. He hadn't seen Derek since Derek had told him he didn't love him. Stiles had gone out of his way not to see Derek. He'd avoided pack meetings and even going back home to Beacon Hills on weekends. And, despite all that, here Derek was. Standing in Stiles's kitchen.

"Scott and Isaac aren't here," Stiles managed, finally. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Derek's face, drinking in the details of it like a drowning man. He knew it would kill him but his body was insisting it was air.

"I know." Derek stepped forward and Stiles tried to move back but bumped into the edge of the counter.

Derek's eyes were an impossible green in the midmorning sunlight that streamed through the windows. He'd let his stubble grow out some, until it was no longer just a suggestion of a beard but thick and black so that his framed lips looked even softer in comparison. Stiles's fingers clenched around the handle of the steak knife to stop himself from reaching out.

"Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"You—" Stiles broke off, shaking his head. He finally realized that he was still holding the knife and put it down on the counter with a clatter. "Why?"

"I just…" Derek looked away, body posture suddenly uncertain. "I wanted to see how you were doing," he finished softly, moving across the kitchen until he was standing in front of Stiles. "How are you doing?"

Derek was close enough that Stiles could smell the warm leather of his jacket, the spice of the body wash he used. Stiles's heart was a hot, unmovable lump in his throat and before he knew what he was doing he closed the distance between them, sliding a hand past Derek's open jacket and flattening his palm against Derek's chest. He could feel the heat of Derek's skin through the fabric of the grey v-neck, feel the solid muscle rise and fall with Derek's breath.

Stiles's eyes moved up from where they'd been fixed on his hand, lying firm against Derek, to linger on Derek's lips that parted under the scrutiny. Stiles licked his own lips, felt Derek's sudden, indrawn breath, and then Derek's mouth was hot and wet and open against his, their tongues sliding together and Derek's hands fisted in Stiles's t-shirt.

Stiles didn't know which of them had moved first. He didn't care. He wanted nothing more than the feel of Derek's skin naked against his. He was pressed against the counter, the edge digging hard into his back. As Derek sunk his teeth into Stiles's bottom lip, Stiles dragged Derek closer, arching shamelessly into him.

"Bedroom," Stiles gasped, as Derek broke their kiss to fix his mouth over the pulse in Stiles's neck.

"Right." Derek bit down and Stiles nearly slid to the floor, the feeling of Derek's teeth leaving bruises as his tongue swirled over Stiles's skin, making Stiles lightheaded.

"Now." Stiles pushed Derek back, yanking his shirt over his head as he stumbled out of the kitchen. He could hear Derek growl low in his throat, the sound sending a thrill up Stiles's spine as Derek wrestled out of his jacket and followed Stiles up the stairs.

They barely made it into Stiles's room before Derek was on him again. Stiles shuddered as Derek wrapped a hand around his throat and dragged him back until he was held flush against Derek. Derek had managed to lose his shirt, as well as his jacket, and Stiles's skin burned where it pressed against the naked panes of Derek's chest. Stiles opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't sure—but Derek's hand on his throat tightened and all that escaped Stiles was an embarrassingly needy whimper. He could feel Derek smirk against his skin as the werewolf pulled Stiles's head back further and sucked a kiss onto the exposed line of his neck.

The hand that wasn't tight on his throat spanned across Stiles's chest, fingers reaching to brush lightly over one of Stiles's nipples, tweaking it gently until it hardened under the touch and then twisting suddenly so that pain shot straight to Stiles's cock and he couldn't help the useless jerk of his hips into empty air. Stiles's hands came up to grip Derek's arm—not to pull him away, but just to have something to hold on to when Derek twisted his fingers again and the sharp pleasure-pain made Stiles's eyes roll back into his head and his knees weaken.

Derek closed his teeth around the delicate lobe of Stiles's ear as his hand slid down Stiles's chest to palm Stiles's cock through the thin material of his pajama bottoms. Stiles fought not to move, not to push into the delicious friction, as Derek's fingers began to stroke, because he knew the hand hard on his throat meant that Derek wanted him to be still. He could feel Derek's own erection pressed against him through the fabric of his jeans and when Derek's hips gave a slow roll, grinding himself into Stiles's ass, Stiles had to bite into his lip to stop himself moving.

"Do you want this?" Derek breathed against Stiles's ear, breath hot and moist and causing Stiles to shiver despite himself.

"Yes," Stiles begged. God, he wanted this. Wanted Derek back, like this. He knew Derek had been lying, knew there was no way Derek could just—but coherent thought made an abrupt departure when Derek's hand slid Stiles's pajama pants down so they fell in a pool at Stiles's feet and then Derek's fingers wrapped firmly around Stiles's cock.

Stiles's head fell back against Derek's shoulder, breath hitching before sliding out in a rush as Derek's hand began to move. Stiles couldn't help the thrust of his hips forward and then back so his ass rubbed against Derek's cock. Derek gave a sharp hiss of indrawn breath and then his hands were gone, as was the press of his body against Stiles's.

Stiles swayed, unmoored by the sudden loss of contact. It took a moment for him to re-orient himself, to catch his balance, and a protest was forming on the tip of his tongue when he turned around and realized Derek had stepped back to pull off his jeans and was now just as naked as Stiles.

His protest died, mouth gone dry even as he felt the wetness of precome bead on the head of his dick. Derek's own cock lay flush against his body, thick and heavy and Stiles knew how it would feel in his hands, in his mouth. How the velvet softness of it would be such a thrilling contrast to the coarse hair that trailed down from Derek's stomach. His fingers flexed at his sides and he stepped out of his tangled pants, reaching for Derek before he was even conscious of his movement.

Derek stopped him before he could touch, pressing a firm hand against Stiles's chest and pushing him back, nodding towards the bed with eyes that had gone dark, green irises swallowed up by black.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Stiles swallowed, turning back and making his way to his bed on knees that felt like they might give out at any second. He could hardly believe this was happening, that Derek had come back. He sunk down onto the mattress, fisting his hands in the sheets so Derek wouldn't see the tremble in his fingers.

"What do you want, Stiles?" Derek asked with his voice rough and edged with a growl that might not be entirely human. "Tell me what you want." He pressed Stiles back against the bed, large body crowding up against Stiles and mouth hot as he leaned down and fixed it over the jut of Stiles's collarbone.

It took Stiles a second to find his voice, to focus past the feel of Derek's tongue and the rasp of his beard against his skin. "I want to fuck you," I want to have you. He arched up, rubbing himself against Derek's hip and feeling Derek's cock press urgently against him.

Teeth closed around his flesh and Stiles made a strangled noise, rising off the bed and pushing Derek back, knowing he wouldn't last if Derek kept that up. Derek let himself be moved, let Stiles twist them so now it was Derek with his back against the mattress and Stiles rising above him, settling down over Derek's thighs with a knee on either side. Stiles reached past Derek, fingers clumsy as he dragged open the bottom drawer of his bedside table and pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom.

Derek's eyes shuttered for a second, icy blankness settling like snow, but they closed when Stiles's fingers stroked over him, long and familiar. Stiles ripped open the condom package, slid the condom down over Derek's cock before grabbing the bottle and popping it open, slicking his own fingers till they glistened in the morning sunlight. Stiles rose up, moving over Derek and pressing a finger into himself. He bit back a low groan at the burn, hips jerking forward and another bead of precome sliding wetly down his cock as he pushed a second finger past the ring of muscle and into the heat of his own body.

Under him, Derek's eyes had opened and his lips were pulled back from his teeth in something that was almost a snarl. The sight of Stiles on top of him, two fingers buried in his ass and his cheeks flushed red, mouth open and slack as he fucked himself, was too much. He grabbed Stiles's hips, fingers digging in hard. "Now," Derek growled.

Stiles wasn't quite ready, could have used another finger, more lube on Derek's cock, but he wanted to feel this. He pulled his fingers out, braced his hands on Derek's chest and lowered himself down onto Derek. The sensation of Derek's blunt cockhead shoving past the resistance of Stiles's body had Stiles gasping, nails digging into Derek hard enough that he could feel them break skin.

Derek's hands flexed on Stiles's hips, but he let Stiles control the pace, let Stiles continue to push himself down onto Derek's dick until he'd taken Derek into himself as far as he could. Then, Stiles began to move.

He set a brutal pace, hips rising and slamming down, fucking himself onto Derek's cock with an urgency that bordered on desperation. His breath came out in short, jerky pants and his skin was slick with sweat; Derek's fingers needing to dig in even harder to find purchase which only spurred Stiles on until he was crying out, frustrated and frantic. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, drowned out the sound of Stiles's heartbeat thundering in his own ears.

He was close, so close but he needed something more. The initial pain of taking Derek's cock before he'd been ready had abated. His body had adjusted to the intrusion and the lube from his fingers ensured the glide was smooth. But Stiles didn't want smooth. He didn't want this to be easy. He wanted it to hurt, to leave marks. He wanted to feel this moment in every movement of his body for days to come. He wanted to know this was real.

"Come on, Derek," he growled, lifting his hands from Derek's chest to where Derek's hands held his hips, pressing them more firmly into him. Derek's eyes flicked up to Stiles's and whatever he saw there had his jaw tightening, fingers clenching and the sudden bite of claws piercing Stiles's skin as Derek took over control.

Stiles's mouth fell open and slack as Derek used his grip to fuck Stiles onto him. He didn't bother to thrust up and meet Stiles, just drove him down over and over again until Stiles cried out, entire body clenching around Derek as he came, spilling hot and wet over the both of them. Derek kept fucking him through it, shoving Stiles down onto his cock until Stiles swayed bonelessly, having to hold himself up with a hand on Derek's chest. Derek shuddered and then he was coming, buried deep and pulsing in Stiles's ass.

Stiles took a minute to catch his breath, body still shuddering slightly with the aftershocks, before dropping down to sprawl across Derek, heedless of the fact that they were both sticky with sweat and Stiles's come.

Oh, he'd missed that. And he'd missed this, too. His cheek was pressed close to Derek's chest and he could hear Derek's heartbeat start to slow and even out. Stiles didn't want to move, would have been happy to stay there forever, but Derek got cranky if he couldn't clean up right away—god, he was such a neat freak. Not that Stiles particularly liked come dried against his skin, but he would have been willing to make the sacrifice if it meant more time draped naked over Derek.

He pushed himself up slightly, turning to press a soft kiss to Derek's collarbone, but Derek tensed suddenly beneath him. He was probably getting ready to bitch about the come already. With a little huff Stiles peeled himself completely off the werewolf and rolled off the bed. "Hang on, I'll get a washcloth."

Stiles's legs still felt more like rubber than bone, but he didn't collapse on his way to the bathroom, so he was taking that as a plus. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—grinning and flushed—and bit his lip as a warm curl of happiness wrapped itself around his heart. He grabbed a cloth and turned on the tap, waiting for the water to heat up.

"I guess it'll be my turn to empty out a drawer for you," he said, running the cloth under the water. Derek did have a point, Stiles's skin was starting to feel itchy and he'd be glad to wash it off. "Do you want to be on the top, or bottom?" He asked cheekily as he walked out of the bathroom, cupping a hand under the one carrying the cloth so he didn't drip all over the carpet.

He stopped abruptly though because Derek wasn't lying naked in his bed anymore. Derek was standing near the door and fastening the buttons on his jeans. "Derek, what…?"

"I'm sorry," Derek was shaking his head. "This was a mistake."

"A mistake?" Stiles blinked, uncomprehending. "What do you mean? Where are you going?" His voice rose alarmingly as Derek opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Stiles was clenching the cloth tightly in his fist, water running down his hand to drip steadily onto the carpet. "Derek!"

Derek paused, reaching down and picking up the shirt he had discarded earlier. "I'm not… I'm not staying, Stiles. We're not back together. This was a—a lapse in judgment. And I'm sorry. It's my fault. I should never have come over when I knew Scott and Isaac wouldn't be here."

"What are you saying?" Stiles could hear how thick and choked his voice sounded, could feel the hot string of tears. "This was just a fuck to you? It didn't mean anything?"

"Yes."

Disbelief was a cold, hard wall thrown up in front of his heart. "No."

"Stiles—"

"No," the violence in his denial came as a shock even to Stiles. "You know that's not what this was."

"I'm sorry." Derek turned and jogged down the stairs, and a second later the front door closed behind him.

Stiles stood in the middle of his room, naked and shocky with a creeping sensation of déjà vu. This was happening again. How was this happening again? His hand holding the washcloth moved absently, wiping down his front and erasing all evidence of what had just occurred between him and Derek. Gone, dissolved with a swipe or two of a wet towel.

Not all gone, though, he realized dully as he bent down to retrieve his pajama bottoms. There were ten throbbing bruises forming on his hips and, in the centre of each, the smallest pinprick of blood.

So he hadn't imagined it. Hadn't dreamed Derek back into his bed, his body. It had happened. But it hadn't changed anything. Derek still left. Derek still didn't love him.

Stiles's stomach twisted, a sudden swooping sensation of falling and he turned, stumbling blindly back into the bathroom, knocking his shoulder against the doorjamb before he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He just managed to lift up the lid and the seat before he vomited, retching violently with his fingers clinging to the cold porcelain as though it could ground him.

He was shaking, his whole body covered in a thin sheen of sweat that immediately began to cool as the heaving stopped and he slumped down to the bathmat. His mouth tasted sour, eyes stinging with either sweat or tears—he didn't know, didn't care. Stiles lifted an unsteady hand to wipe his mouth, flushing the toilet before closing his eyes and resting his head back against the side of the bathtub.

There was a dead weight in his chest that felt like it might pull him down through the floor. Drag him under until the slightest movement felt like pushing against two tones of dirt. He needed to get up, needed to stand because if he didn't do something to combat it, didn't block it off, wall it up, hide it away, he might never be able to function again. And that was a revolting thought. It was a sad, pathetic, broken kind of thought and Stiles wasn't a sad, pathetic, broken kind of person. He was better than that. He was more than that, right?

Using the side of the tub he pushed himself to his feet. Once again, his own face stared at him from the medicine cabinet mirror. This time, though the pleased flush had vanished, the grin was nowhere to be seen. His skin was pale, almost gaunt, and the eyes that had only minutes ago—minutes, how could it have been only minutes when it felt like his entire world had once again spun off course?—been lit up with happiness were now dull and hollow. Stiles looked away as he swung the cabinet door open, unable to bear the sight of himself. He reached for the orange bottle on the top shelf, a part of him already loosening, easing with the knowledge that in a moment or two he wouldn't be feeling much of anything at all.

Twisting off the cap he dumped two pills into his hand. And then, after a moment's thought, dumped out two more. He didn't want to take any chances. Didn't want to take the risk that the raging howls of pain and bewilderment and hurt might push past the thin surface of his control. He wanted to feel nothing.

"Stiles, what are you doing?"

Stiles jerked his head around, hand clenching around the pills he held as he surreptitiously placed the bottle back onto the shelf. "Hey, Scott."

"No," Scott took a step into the bathroom, his gaze moving to where the orange bottle sat inside the cabinet. "Don't 'hey Scott' me. What the fuck happened? Why does it smell like—"

"Like Derek was here? Like we fucked?" Stiles felt his lips curl up in a way that felt unfamiliar, cruel. "Because he was. And we did. Now fuck off."

"No. What are you doing? What are you taking?" Scott reached past Stiles and grabbed the bottle off the shelf. "Painkillers? What the fuck?" He looked at Stiles with disbelief. "Stop."

"You're not my Alpha, or whatever. You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do." Stiles lifted his hand, bringing the pills up to his mouth but Scott moved quicker than Stiles could see, his hand a blur of motion until his fingers closed around Stiles's wrist, halting its progress.

"Let me go," Stiles's voice was hard and unforgiving as he tried to pull his arm back. "Let me go, now."

"No." Scott repeated, again. His eyes met Stiles's and they were furious. "Drop them."

"I'm not going to—" But Scott's hand tightened, iron grip squeezing until Stiles could feel the bones in his wrist grind together and, with a muffled cry, he was forced to open his hand, the pills falling to the floor. Scott released him and Stiles made to bend down and retrieve them but Scott pushed him back, scooping up the pills and tossing them into the toilet.

"Hey!" Stiles protested, lunging forward as Scott reached for the bottle. "Scott, don't—"

Scott turned to him, disgust written in every line in his body. "Don't? Don't, what? Don't let you take pills because you can't deal with your shit? Don't let you destroy yourself because of Derek? No. Fuck you, Stiles, if you think I'm going to let you self-medicate with prescription pills. I thought you were better than this." Scott twisted off the cap and emptied the bottle into the toilet and before Stiles could react he'd flushed it, the pills disappearing with the rush of water. "I don't care how hurt you are, I don't care how sad and alone and sorry for yourself you're feeling. If I catch you taking this kind of shit again, I'm going to call your dad."

"Scott—"

"I'm going to call your dad and then I'm going to call my mom. And if you think they're going to do anything other than send you to rehab until you can get over Derek fucking Hale without some kind of crutch, you're wrong."

"You wouldn't—"

"Don't push me, Stiles." Scott's voice was low, dangerous, and there was an undercurrent of barely contained violence. "If I'm not your Alpha, fine. But I am your brother and that means I don't give a shit if you hate me, as long as you're alive."

"Seriously?" Stiles folded his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. "I think you're blowing things a bit out of proportion."

"Really? Because from where I'm standing you're dangerously close to becoming a drug addict."

"Oh, come on. I'm not. I'm not addicted."

"Good, then this should be the last conversation we have about this." Scott turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Stiles gave an inarticulate snarl of fury and slammed the cabinet door closed. The mirror cracked under the force, but didn't shatter.

Somehow, it all felt terribly anticlimactic.