When I found this beatuiful GIF-Set by @paquim, I thought of this little story to go with it. I hope you guys like it.
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The call ended and Stiles lowered his hand. Melissa had called from the hospital: Scott was injured. Like in a trance, he stuffed the cell phone back into his pocket and grabbed the car keys. His movements felt mechanical. Like he was being controlled by someone else.
As he started the Jeep, he thought about how this night had gone from really good to really bad so quickly.
It had been a great date night with Derek. They had dinner at Derek’s followed by watching A NEW HOPE for the umpteenth time — and then even a little make-out session, which was about to turn into something much steamier. But then they started fighting.
After about an hour of arguing and some shouting, Stiles had enough and left. For the past two or three hours, he had been brooding in his room. Pacing endlessly and throwing himself angrily on his bed every now and then. And now this.
Melissa didn’t say much, but it sounded serious. So of course he was rushing through the rain-soaked streets now, to get to the hospital.
Stiles hit the steering wheel with his fists, as yet another traffic light turned red and forced him to stop. He tried to calm himself, as he waited for the light to turn — which seemed to take forever — but his hands kept shaking. He tightened his grip.
When he finally reached the hospital parking lot, the rain had started again and he ran across the lot to the entrance of the emergency room. Melissa was nowhere to be found, so he asked the nurse at the reception where they had taken Scott. He was on the third floor.
His mind still all over the place, Stiles walked towards the elevator at the end of the hall and pressed the button to go up. He stared blankly at the bright ring of light around the button; thoughts of Derek and Scott chasing through his mind. Only when the elevator bell rang and the doors slid open, he finally raised his head — and froze.
Derek was standing in front of him. Still wearing the grey shirt, Stiles had watched him put back on just a few hours ago, and his usual grim expression on his face. For a moment, Stiles seriously thought about taking the stairs. Then he decided against it, returned Derek’s look just as grim and stepped in.
His chest felt tight like it was about to explode with emotion and he was more than aware of his racing heart. There was not just the worry about Scott or the anger he felt towards Derek. There was also a deep sadness and a fear that he might loose not just one, but two of the most important people in his life tonight.
The doors closed. They both stared straight ahead as the elevator began to rise slowly. Stiles tried very hard to calm his racing heart — unsuccessfully.
Suddenly, just as they passed the first floor, he heard it. Quietly but clearly.
‘I’m sorry.’
Confused, Stiles looked to the side and saw Derek’s reflection in the door. The expression on his face had changed. It was much softer now. He knew it wasn’t pity. It was compassion.
And then he felt it. Derek’s hand reaching for his. As Stiles looked down, his and Derek's fingers entwined and he could feel a gentle pressure. A moment later the tightness in his chest eased and he could breathe more freely again.
Stiles looked up — still a little confused, but with the hint of a smile — and met Derek’s hazel eyes.
‘He’s going to be okay,’ Derek said in a soft voice. ‘We’re going to be okay.’
And while the elevator doors slid apart, he felt Derek’s thumb stroking lovingly over the back of his hand, as if to confirm his words.
Sprawled all over Scott in his sleep, plastered against Erica and Boyd for movie nights, reaching out to fix Lydia’s lipstick or Isaac’s curls with no irritation.
Except for one, glaring exception.
They’ve touched: hands clenched into fists, shoves into shoulders.
But they don’t get touch-y.
Which is fine, how Derek likes it, he thinks with crossed arms and clenched teeth. If his eyes get a little tight as he watches Stiles put his arm around Alison, who could gainsay him. Who would dare?
Until one night, late into a researching session at the loft, Stiles is practically asleep in his chair but still moves to the couch to get away from Derek.
Derek switches off the light, half asleep himself.
“Goodnight, Stiles.”
“G’nite, big guy.”
Shuffling feet, crossed arms, clenched teeth.
“Stiles?”
“M’yeah?”
“Why don’t you touch me?”
It hangs so long in the air, Derek would think Stiles had fallen asleep, if it weren’t for his racing heart.
“Wouldn’t be able to stop, if I started.”
Stiles says it low, almost like Derek couldn’t hear, if he weren’t a werewolf. Things simmer there, in between Stiles’ rapid heart beats.
Derek waits a long moment, and then he turns.
“Uh-“ Stiles moves, sitting up.
“I just have to take my books off the other side of the bed. Come on.” Derek says, louder than he would for a werewolf.
Stiles swallows. “Okay, but-“
“Don’t stop. Ever.” The last word has a bit of a growl behind it. Clenched teeth and all.
It’s been six months since the Nogitsune. Since he was the problem. Since he was the monster.
Everyone keeps saying he looks good now. Healthier. That he's back to himself again.
But the truth is, Stiles hasn't felt like himself in a long time. He wakes up some mornings and stares at the ceiling for an hour, wondering if the feeling in his chest is dread or just emptiness. He jokes, because it’s easier than explaining. He smiles, because they expect him to. He says he’s fine, because what else is he supposed to say?
“I’m fine,” he tells Scott when he checks in.
“I’m fine,” he says to his dad, who comes to his room with home cooked meals more than he used to.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles when Lydia hugs him a little too tight.
But he’s not.
He’s tired. His bones ache in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with the weight of remembering. He can’t sleep without dreaming of bandaged hands and bitter laughter. Of what he did. What it did. Same difference, right?
The worst part is no one blames him. They should. He does. Every time he sees the scar on Derek’s shoulder or the lingering fear in Isaac’s eyes. Every time Allison’s name comes up and the conversation stalls just a second too long.
Stiles is broken in a quiet way. Not like when he lost his mom and fell apart. This time he’s shattered on the inside - a neat, presentable mess. Like a house with the lights on but no one home.
Therapy helps, a little. Talking to someone who wasn’t there, who doesn’t look at him like they’re waiting for the punchline, helps. His therapist tells him healing isn’t linear. That sometimes surviving is the brave part. That sometimes you have to sit in the darkness to see the cracks where the light gets in.
He wants to believe that.
And then, one night, he finds himself sitting on the porch of the rebuilt Hale house. It's quiet. The air smells like pine and the distant promise of rain.
Derek finds him there.
Doesn’t say anything. Just sits.
They don’t talk often, not like they used to. But Stiles always found something safe in Derek's silence. It doesn’t demand anything from him. Doesn’t ask how he’s feeling or if he’s okay.
Derek just is.
After a while, Stiles speaks.
“I’m not fine.”
It hangs between them. Raw. Ugly. True.
Derek doesn’t flinch. He just nods, slow and deliberate.
“You don’t have to be.”
And maybe that’s the first step. Admitting it. Saying it out loud.
Maybe that’s how you start to become something more than a collection of cracks.
Maybe one day, Stiles will be fine.
But tonight, it’s enough that someone finally heard him say he’s not.
Derek: *waking up next to Stiles after endless months of intense flirting and finally spending their first night together*
Derek: What is your face doing so close to mine?
Stiles: *kisses Derek*
Derek: Oh.
