Chapter Twenty-Two
"We have to get out of here," Scott's voice cut through the haze of exhaustion and terror and Derek that was clouding Stiles's head. "Now," Scott repeated when neither Stiles nor Derek reacted.
"Peter?" Derek turned, his hand still cupping the back of Stiles's neck, keeping him pressed close to his side. It was like now that he could touch Stiles again he was never going to let him go. Stiles could still feel tremors running through Derek's body, knew the rigid way Derek held himself meant that he was fighting panic with the fire steadily eating away at the loft surrounding them.
Scott jerked his head grimly towards the other side of the room where, through the flames, Stiles could see Isaac, unsteady on his feet but wielding Stiles's knife with calculated determination as he hacked what remained of Peter's head off of his body.
"He's not coming back. Not this time." Scott waited while the three of them, eerily still as the fire snarled and cracked around them, watched Isaac drop the knife and reach down before throwing Peter's headless body into the epicentre of the flames. "Let's go."
Wordlessly, Stiles tugged at Derek with his unhurt arm and followed Scott as they edged around the fire. Behind him, Stiles could hear the softest noise, a high-pitched whine forced past clenched teeth, over the roar of the fire. "Almost out," he promised Derek, who couldn't seem to help pressing closer against Stiles's back until the three of them met Isaac at the door of the loft.
"Where's Jackson?" Isaac's gaze darted frantically around the loft, the flames hungrily climbing the walls. "He isn't—"
"He's at the bottom of the stairs. He's alive. Or he was. I don't know any more…" Stiles trailed off helplessly as Scott made an angry sound of frustration and forcibly pushed Isaac out of the loft, grabbing Derek's shoulder and hauling both him and Stiles out after him.
"We'll grab him and get out of here. Now stop fucking around and go!" He pushed them towards the stairs and closed the steel door of the loft behind him. As soon as the closed door hid the flames from Derek's sight it was like a switch flicked and he straightened, ushering Stiles down the stairs. Isaac quickly overtook both of them, racing down the stairs towards Jackson as Scott brought up the rear.
Isaac didn't waste any time worrying about the dangers of moving Jackson with his spine still obviously broken. He just scooped the limp werewolf up and hauled ass until they stood outside beside Stiles's jeep.
"He's not healing." Stiles knew that was obvious, but his head felt like it was full of cotton and he couldn't help saying it out loud, obvious or not. "I don't know why but he's not healing and I don't know what—"
"Kanima venom," Derek interrupted. "Peter wasn't taking any chances."
"Yeah, okay, um," Stiles stammered, trying to jam his hand into his pocket to get his keys, "We have to get him to Deaton, right? You guys fixed him there last time so we've got to—" His hand wasn't working properly and every movement made pain roll in his stomach. "I'll drive, I just have to—"
"Stop." Isaac laid his hand over Stiles's arm, stilling him. "It's broken, remember?"
"The jeep?" Stiles frowned. The jeep was fine. He drove it here. He could drive it to Deaton's, he just needed to—
"Sit down." Scott pressed firmly on Stiles's shoulder until he sank down to the curb. "Derek and I can take care of this. You just sit here with Isaac, alright?"
Stiles could do that. He nodded and felt Isaac sit beside him. Isaac's long fingers gently circled his hand, the one that didn't quite work, and then there was that weird, horrible feeling of something being pulled out of him and suddenly the pain abated.
Derek and Scott knelt on the pavement beside Jackson, each of them placing a palm against Jackson's torso. Derek reached out and Scott clasped his arm, both tensing as thick black lines began to crawl up their forearms from the point where their hands met Jackson's chest.
Stiles watched with vague interest, unable to summon up the energy to wonder what exactly the two of them were doing when both of their eyes began to glow red hot and the black lines multiplied, moved faster, until it looked like they were submerged to their elbows in a writhing mass of snakes.
Then there was a gasp, a rattling of breath and underneath them Jackson's body jerked in a way that couldn't have been good for his broken neck but… but Jackson was moving his head and then he was sitting up and the black was gone and both Scott and Derek were sagging back on their heels, breathless and dull-eyed but somehow, both, grinning.
"He always thought we were weaker together." Scott shook his head. "Peter had no idea we could share the power."
Now that the pain was gone, Stiles could feel his mind start to clear. Everything was still a bit fuzzy around the edges and when he stood it was unsteady, but he waved away Isaac's helping hand and got to his feet.
Derek leapt up instantly, reaching out for him but Stiles took a deliberate step back.
"Stiles—"
"No." Stiles closed his eyes briefly and leaned against the side of his Jeep for support before he opened them again. "I'm not… I don't…" he sighed. "We all almost died. I killed someone. I mean, it was Peter, and he was kind of already dead once so it's not like—that's not the point. I'm just saying, I can't, right now. I don't not—" He broke off, frustrated and feeling his eyes begin to sting with tears that were only half due to exhaustion. The only thing he wanted to do was to fall against Derek and wrap himself around the werewolf and just stay there because they were both alive and Derek loved him.
But.
He couldn't trust Derek again. Not right away. Not without knowing Derek wouldn't hurt him like this again. It didn't work like that. Derek and Scott had lied, repeatedly and purposefully, and just because Stiles kind of understood why, kind of understood that they'd acted out of fear for him, that didn't mean that he could forget it had happened.
"I can't do this right now. Not right now," he repeated, not even able to meet Derek's eyes because if he did he might simply say fuck it and reach out for him anyway. "I need to go to the hospital and get my wrist looked at. Isaac can take me." He glanced up to catch Isaac's nod and then awkwardly reached into his left pocket with his right hand and handed Isaac the Jeep's keys.
He waited a second, wondered if Scott or Derek would say something, but the silence held. Even Jackson kept his mouth shut. Letting out a slow breath, Stiles turned and eased himself into the passenger seat of the Jeep as Isaac came around to the driver's side. Stiles leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, counting the beats of his heart as they drove away.
Only hours later, though it felt like days, Stiles let himself in through the front door of his house. Every bone in his body ached. He'd refused the painkillers Melissa had offered, though his father had looked at him askance. Stiles didn't trust himself with them, not after being forced to admit that using them to ease the pain of his heartbreak had probably not been the best idea. He figured it wasn't wise to have them lying around again. Besides, it was only a broken wrist. And several dozen bruises and cuts. And mind-numbing, full-body soreness.
It was nothing Stiles couldn't deal with after a good night's sleep. And god, he needed the sleep. It didn't even matter that it wasn't really evening yet. He'd been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Exhaustion probably accounted for at least half of how terrible he felt.
Turning around, he waved clumsily at his dad who was idling anxiously at the curb, the cast feeling awkward and heavy. Then he closed and locked the front door behind him. His dad had been prepared to take the next few days off work, but Stiles had been adamant that all he was going to do was fall into bed and sleep for hours. He didn't need his dad taking any more time off to look after him when all Stiles would be doing was lying in bed and trying to avoid thinking about anything more serious than whether or not he wanted to watch another episode of White Collar.
He was absolutely determined to stay in his room and do nothing for the next few days. He wasn't going to think about Scott or Derek, or Peter or Marcus, or whether a doctor's note would get him out of the paper he had due on Monday. As he'd left the hospital Stiles had pulled out his phone and texted Derek, We need to talk, and then shut off his phone.
He didn't want to have to worry about what to say to Derek, and figured that by sending the text he could stop himself from obsessing over what to say and when. He'd let Derek know that not everything was back to being like it had been before all the lying, and for now that was good enough for Stiles. When he'd had a chance to sleep, to figure out what the fuck he wanted, then the two of them could sit down and talk.
Stiles had thought about texting Scott, too, but in the end he hadn't. He was still angry with his best friend, and he knew Scott wouldn't push until Stiles was ready. Derek and Scott were two of the most important people in his life but, with things the way they were, he could only handle dealing with one of them at a time.
Rubbing a hand across his face, Stiles made his way up the stairs and pushed open the door to his room, freezing in the doorway when he saw Derek sitting on the edge of his bed.
"Whatare you doing?"
Derek flinched visibly at the accusation in Stiles's voice. "You said you wanted to talk."
"I didn't mean right now."
Derek closed his eyes, fist clenching around something he held in his hand. "Right. Of course. I misunderstood," he said, looking up at Stiles but not meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll go." He stood, already turning towards the window where he'd presumably let himself in.
Stiles sighed. "Wait, where are you going to go?" He asked. "Your place just burned down." Again.
Derek hesitated, like he wasn't sure himself. "Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out."
"Like what? An abandoned train station?" Stiles couldn't help the sarcasm, he was too tired to modulate his tone.
Derek hunched in on himself protectively and Stiles looked away, swearing under his breath. "Look, I'm sorry. That wasn't…. Don't go."
This time Derek did meet his eyes, uncertainty written in every line of his body.
"Stay." Stiles took a step forward, then another, until he could reach out and touch Derek. Lightly, just the press of his fingertips against the bare skin of Derek's forearm. He couldn't remember the last time he'd touched Derek without something hanging heavy over them—without the lead up to sex, or the imminent threat of death.
"But I don't want to talk, I don't want to talk about anything. I just want—" he broke off, frustrated, and the bone-deep weariness he'd felt while trudging up the stairs took a back seat to the sudden, desperate need to do something about the weight he'd been carrying for months.
"You did a really shitty thing. A really, really shitty thing. You broke my heart, Derek. You weren't—you aren't—some stupid crush or crappy high school relationship that I'd get over and forget about in a few weeks. You destroyed me," Stiles's voice broke and his fingers dug into Derek's arm, needing the reassurance that Derek was actually there. That he hadn't meant it every single time he'd told Stiles he didn't love him.
"I know," Derek swallowed and shifted like he wanted to move closer but wasn't sure if Stiles would let him.
"The worst part is that now… I think I get why you did it." Stiles lifted his face. "When Peter had that gun on you, I was so scared. I was so scared he was going to kill you." He was crying now, completely unable to keep it in check as the emotional rollercoaster of the last twenty-four hours crashed down on him. "I would have done anything. Anything. Whatever he wanted, it wouldn't have mattered, I'd have done it—"
Derek reached for Stiles, tentatively. When Stiles didn't pull away, Derek wrapped his arms around him and pressed their bodies together until they both shook with the force of Stiles's sobs.
"Shhh," Derek soothed, stroking his hand down Stiles's back in a steady rhythm. "It's okay, we're okay," he echoed Stiles's earlier words back.
"It's not, though." Stiles pulled back, shaking his head and swiping angrily at the tears on his cheeks. "We're not okay. We can't just go back to normal. You lied to me for months. That's not going to go away just because you had a reason."
"I'm sorry."
"Stop saying that!"
Derek withdrew his hands, helplessly. "I don't know what else to say."
"Nothing. There isn't anything to say. I just need time."
Derek nodded. It looked like he was ready to leave again, but Stiles grabbed his hand, blinking when he felt something small and hard press against his palm. Turning their hands over he looked down and saw the wolf charm. It was smudged with soot, the silver gleam dull, but otherwise unharmed.
"I thought you might want it back," Derek said softly. "I didn't know you kept it."
"Thank you." Stiles took the charm, ran his thumb over the ridges. He knew this meant that Derek had gone back into his loft for it, but he wasn't sure how that made him feel. He wasn't sure what he wanted it to make him feel.
All he knew right now was that it was over. Peter was dead, Derek and Scott were done lying, and everyone Stiles cared about had survived. They'd reached the finish line. They'd made it.
"Come here," he reached out and tugged Derek, leading him towards the bed. "We need to sleep."
"Are you—"
"Yes," Stiles bit off, impatient. "I'm sure. I don't know what we are going to do tomorrow and I don't know how I'm going to feel then, but right now I want to go to bed and fall asleep. And I want to do that with you." Stiles wanted to feel Derek's skin against his own, the weight of his body pressed against Stiles's back, or chest, and the warmth of another pair of legs tangled with his.
Derek let out a breath, nodded, and the two of them silently stripped down to their underwear. Derek tried to leave his t-shirt on, but Stiles shook his head. There'd already been too much distance between them and tonight—today, whatever—he was going to be self-indulgent and not allow any more.
Pulling back the covers, Stiles slid between them. After a beat, Derek eased himself into the bed behind him. He left a few inches of space between himself and Stiles, his body rigid and awkward until Stiles let out a loud sigh and turned around to press himself against Derek's side, tucking in as closely as possible with a leg and an arm flung across Derek's body to hold him in place.
Derek's hand came up, hesitantly, to stroke along Stiles's arm, which was across his chest, and after a moment the tension slid out of his body. His fingers pressed tighter, briefly, Stiles's eyes screwing shut in discomfort as Derek used his Alpha mojo to suck the latent, aching pain from Stiles's wrist and body. When the sensation passed, Stiles's head felt heavy against the pillow. His eyelids refused to stay open.
He could feel Derek's heart beating against his palm, the way Derek's breathing was slowing to match Stiles's, and as Stiles began to slide into sleep he felt Derek turn his head and press a soft, gentle kiss against Stiles's forehead. Stiles's lips curved.
Derek loved him, he loved Derek, and that wouldn't fix everything, but it was a start.