Strange Days
Title: Strange Days
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Vampire!Stiles
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 3700
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "I don't want to talk to Deaton. I don't want to be another supernatural problem to be dealt with."
AN: Written for miya_tenaka's birthday. Happy Birthday!
Stiles would be more angry about it all, but it turns out that Scott's really sorry about the whole burying him in a shallow grave thing. Also, in his defence, Stiles had been dead at the time.
It's been a really long day.
It wasn't like he'd showed up floating outside Scott's bedroom window. Not that Stiles knows how to float now. Or even would, because that's exactly the sort of tacky, movie rip-off bullshit that he would have mocked himself for mercilessly. Before he was dead. No he'd just walked in the back door, which hadn't been locked, tracking muddy footprints across Mrs McCall's floor. Which she would probably have Stiles's ass for later.
There had been shock, when Scott had seen him, and crying, messy crying. Scott just doesn't do that. Scott doesn't cry like that, and Stiles had felt like crap, even though he was the one who was dead. You never get to see how your death leaves everyone you know. You never get to see the messy aftermath, the you-shaped hole smashed through everyone's life. Only Stiles does get to see that now, and it's horrible.
Stiles had dropped onto Scott's bed, limbs still sluggish and covered in dirt, wincing, hands pulled over his head. Until Scott had drawn the curtains over the weak, early light. Which is when it had sunk in, properly, that this was really happening.
"What are you going to do?" Scott had asked, over and over, like he still thought Stiles had the answer to everything.
-
Stiles goes home as soon as it gets dark.
He's not stupid, his dad isn't due home until six in the morning. Stiles has all night to work out how to be gone before he gets back. How to be gone afterwards - maybe for good.
He sits against the end of his bed, and stares at the dirt still smeared over his shoes, the dirt under his fingernails. When he runs a hand through his hair there's still a shower of fine dirt that covers the floor. He should shower at least. He should make some attempt to not look like he'd pulled himself out of the ground. But the last time he was in the bathroom he was forced to look in the mirror - to look at his reflection. Which he still has, so that's one thing to tick off the list. He doesn't look all that different to what he did before, only his skin is exhaustion pale now, eyes bruised like he'd been up all night. He looks more like a prisoner of war than a vampire.
But he should be happy that he can fake human. Not like Scott can fake it, but good enough - good enough not to scare the crap out of people.
He stops staring into space when he registers that the room is warmer than before, suddenly full of breath and pennies and life - he can hear/feel the rush of it, in a way he's not sure how to explain yet. He doesn't like it though, it feels...instinctive in a way he can't control. Something he's supposed to do, something he's supposed to feel.
Stiles swallows, swallows again, and waits for Derek to finish slinking in through the window.
"Scott texted you then," he says simply. Because of course he did, when they found something Stiles couldn't fix, then Scott called Derek. Derek is Scott's back-up plan, and that's funnier than it should be, probably.
"Scott texted me," Derek confirms, and he says it slowly, stalks closer until he can round the bed and face him, and maybe Stiles isn't passing as well as he thought, because Derek flinches, he actually fucking flinches, when he gets a good look at him.
Stiles pretends he doesn't notice, leans his head back against the mattress and waits.
Derek takes two more steps, until he can sit on Stiles's bed. He doesn't say anything at all, so it looks like Stiles is still carrying the conversation here.
"I've had a day to sort out what's true and what isn't," he says with a sigh, and it seems pretty ironic that he's researching himself this time. "Crucifixes don't do anything, and I can still see myself in a mirror. The invitation thing is probably bullshit, because I got into Scott's house and my house just fine. People don't really leave holy water just lying around, so I don't know about that. Sunlight is, unfortunately not bullshit. Though I don't catch on fire or anything. It feels more like radiation sickness. Y'know, dizziness, nausea, burning sensation, firm belief that your skin is going to slide off your bones. I can't hypnotise anyone, no matter what Scott seems to think. As for the whole being dead thing -"
Stiles holds his arm out.
"Check for yourself."
He's not expecting Derek to actually reach down and lay two fingers against the inside of his wrist. Because he must have been able to tell that his heart isn't beating from all the way across the room. Derek's skin where it touches him is burning hot. It always used to be warm, but never this warm. Stiles is the one who's cold now. He's the one who's room temperature, like a fucking corpse. He can feel Derek's pulse through his fingers, the drumbeat of it against his skin, and it disturbs him enough that he tugs his hand away. That's something Derek doesn't miss, fingers left to hang, left to curl in mid-air.
"Stiles, it doesn't mean anything," Derek says. But it sounds uncertain, as if he doesn't really know what it means, and Stiles doesn't know which of them he's trying to convince.
He barks out a laugh, or what's supposed to be a laugh. It doesn't sound amused at all.
"Doesn't mean anything. You did see me, right? I can't go out in the daylight any more because - oh yeah, that's right, I'm dead." There's no gesture that'll really get that over, so he just lets Derek look at him - and that seems to be enough. He's making his own point just by existing. His shoes grate against the floor when he pushes, lets his legs fall straight. "I'm dead, Derek."
"That's funny, because you talk exactly as much as when you were alive." Derek's trying for something flat, but Stiles can hear the strain under the words. He thinks Scott must have said something to him, because Derek never tries this hard.
"This is really the worst time for you to decide you have a sense of humour. Just so you know. The worst time." Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair again, and there's a fine spray of tiny bits of dirt onto his jeans. He's pretty sure there's some in his ear too, because it itches.
"We'll deal with this," Derek says quietly. "The same way we do everything else."
"How exactly are we going to deal with this? I died tonight, Derek, a proper, gruesome, horrible death. You were there." He stops, clenches his hands into fists and then carries on. "I spent the last five minutes of my life screaming, terrified, and choking on someone else's blood, and I remember that. So could you please shut the fuck up, and just let me -" Stiles lets his head drop into his hands and breathes deep, raspy breaths that he isn't even sure if he needs any more. His mouth is paper-dry, and his throat hurts. He thinks he might still be in shock, a little bit. Can a vampire go into shock? What exactly was happening with his blood pressure right now? Did his blood even have pressure any more, or was it just there, sitting there inside him, like water in a balloon?
Stiles wants to be sick, but he's not sure if he can be sick any more either. The world is just full of shit he can't do any more.
Derek moves a little closer, boots just nudging Stiles's jeans, clothes shifting like he's trying to work out how to touch Stiles, or if he even should.
"I'm sorry, I don't know more about this. I don't know how to be a vampire. Because Scott tore the head off the one who - whatever the hell he did to me." Stiles stares at his hands. "Though I can't really blame Scott for not asking questions, since he was understandably pretty fucking distressed at the time."
Derek does touch him then, which surprises Stiles. It's a stiff, awkward press of a hand over the curve of his shoulder, close and warm even through two layers of fabric. He's scared of it, but he can't quite shrug it off.
"We could talk to Deaton?" Derek says. "He'd know something about this. He'd be able to help. He'd be able to tell us what happens. What you need."
What he needs.
Jesus.
Stiles does shrug him off then, pulls his shoulder out from under Derek's hand, and he regrets straight away.
"I don't want to talk to Deaton. I don't want to be another supernatural problem to be dealt with."
"I never said you were a problem," Derek grinds out, in that frustrated way of his, which probably shouldn't be comforting, but there's something about Derek just being Derek. Sitting there on Stiles's bed, with his complete inability to relate to other people. Desperately trying to think of something reassuring to say. Derek Hale is attempting to comfort him. The whole world might as well just turn inside out while it was at it.
"Yeah, I won't be a problem until I get hungry and start eating people." Stiles tips his head back, until he can see Derek's face, see his unhappy frown of disbelief.
"Scott learnt how to control himself," Derek says, and he makes it sound so easy. "It's the same thing for you. You've seen people go through it, you know how it works."
Stiles grits his teeth until his jaw hurts, and it doesn't feel the same at all, doesn't help. Almost make it worse.
"That's not even a straight comparison and you know it," he chokes out. "Being a werewolf is about not accidentally hurting people. I'm pretty much designed to hurt people, on purpose. Hurting people is kind of the point of eating them."
"You're not going to eat anyone." Derek makes it sound ridiculous. Which just proves Derek is an idiot, because there's a itch in Stiles's upper jaw, and the air tastes like tin and caramel. It's like a promise of what he could have, and Stiles is pretty sure that if Derek came too close right now, Stiles would try his best to rip his throat open. And not in a sexy vampire way, but in a messy, bright red, hold you down until your bones break, way. He's really - he's really hungry right now.
He shakes his head, and chokes it back.
"So yeah, there's that. Not to mention the fact that I'm apparently going to be seventeen forever."
Derek doesn't say a word, but Stiles can hear the sigh, can feel the rush of warmth above him.
"Yeah, that occurred to me pretty quickly. Looks like I'm going to be shit out of luck on that last growth spurt."
"Stiles." Derek looks like he's trying really hard to think of something reassuring to say, but doesn't have much experience with it. What is there to say, really? Everything Stiles is saying is true. He's dead, and he's probably going to really want to eat people at some point. There are very few upsides to this.
"Maybe you should start sharpening your pointed sticks," he says numbly. "Just in case you need them."
"Animals bleed," Derek says, stressing the point, almost angrily. Which is a whole conversation that Stiles really doesn't want to have.
"And if I can't eat animals? What then? What are you going to do? Are you going to personally open a vein?"
"If I have to," Derek says tightly. "Until we work out how to deal with this. Until you can control it."
Stiles fucking hates Derek then, hates his self-sacrificing bullshit, hates his need to take on responsibility for everything, to take on the guilt for everything. He's angry, and it's the first time he's been angry, the first time he's felt the burn of anything other than a thick, smothering shock, since he dragged himself out of the ground. He's moving before he realises it. Surging to his feet. Until he has the smooth column of Derek's throat under his hand, and he's pushing him back, harder and faster than he means to. The crack when he hits the wall is an accident. Derek winces, teeth clacking together, throat flexing on a groan. Stiles squeezes until Derek's eyes go red. His teeth ache inside his mouth, a sharp need that feels like pain, in a way he won't give in to.
"I am not your problem. You didn't do this to me. I am not something else you have to feel guilty about. So don't you dare act like this is your fault."
Derek's all slow motion, and warm, soft muscles where Stiles had always thought he'd be heavy, thought he'd be strong and unbendable. Stiles could twist him until he breaks. Which is a tangled-up mixture of fascinating and horrible. He doesn't want this, any of it. He never wanted anything like this.
"Stiles, let go." Derek's hand is clamped round his wrist, forearm at full tension, muscles straining. He doesn't sound afraid, but his eyes are fixed on Stiles's mouth, on whatever Stiles's mouth has become. He should let go, he should, he needs to let Derek go. He can feel the rush of blood under his palm, the thump of his pulse. This isn't something he wants to push, this is too close, too hot. He doesn't want to do this.
No, that's wrong. That's a lie.
He's afraid of wanting this.
"You're better than me," Derek says, voice strangled and hoarse.
Stiles's hand opens stiffly, and Derek slips down a little, Stiles had dragged him up on his toes without even realising it. Derek reaches out and eases Stiles's arm down, and Stiles doesn't miss the way he does it slowly, carefully.
He steps back out of Derek's space on wobbly legs.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I don't want to - fuck - I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't mean to. I just got angry - guess I should avoid doing that in future, huh." Stiles slides down the wall, pulls his knees up, and lets the back of his head rest against the plaster. It should be cold, but it's not, or it doesn't feel like it is. Not any more. "Well, looks like we answered the question of which is stronger, vampires or werewolves," Stiles says faintly. "I guess I win." He thinks this is the part where he's supposed to laugh, but he doesn't feel like it. His hands are still shaking, and that would be more comforting if it was a horrified, frightened shaking. But it's not, it's more...excited, and there are no words for how horrible that is. He doesn't want to be the sort of person who gets off on that.
"Stiles," Derek says quietly. It's soft, patient, and that's something else he isn't used to. He doesn't understand why Derek's doing this. He doesn't understand why Derek isn't fighting this. Why he's not - why for some insane reason they're still on the same side. Derek very slowly lowers himself to the floor, leans back against the wall beside him.
"I am sorry, about - about using it against you, you didn't deserve that." Stiles thumps his head gently - he thinks it's gently - against the wall.
Derek's watching him with an expression Stiles can't read, not one of the usual ones, something new.
"No, maybe I did. I wasn't always - I didn't always go easy on you when I came to town. You weren't a werewolf, and you'd done nothing but try and help." Derek grits his teeth. "I wasn't very good at being helped. I was out of line, sometimes."
"Did Scott tell you to say that?" Stiles is genuinely surprised.
Derek glares.
"No." He's so obviously offended. "I am capable of apologising without prompting you know."
When the situation calls for it, Stiles thinks. Or when you really need to defuse some serious tension. Or when one of your friends has been turned into the undead. At least he thinks they were friends, antagonistic friends. Chaotic neutral friends?
"I don't want to be the kind of person that does that," Stiles says quietly. "That uses this against people, treats people like that, just because I can." He doesn't like the fact that he can - he'd always thought that would be the best bit of having...something, being more. But he doesn't feel like himself any more.
"I know, but you let go," Derek says firmly. "Once you realised what you were doing you let go. This is still new and you're doing better than could be expected of you. Having this thrown at you, learning how to control it."
"That's just it. I don't feel like I'm controlling it," Stiles admits, to himself as much as to Derek. "I feel like I'm waiting. I feel like there's something inside me that's...asleep and hungry right now. That this whole part where we think I'm in control of my new -" He bites his lip and clenches his fist. "Of my new thing is all a lie. And the moment I get really hungry none of it's going to matter, I'm just going to -"
He makes himself say it.
"Kill everything."
"You won't," Derek says, with conviction. He really doesn't know Stiles well enough to be certain what he will and won't do. But he sounds so sure that for a second Stiles wonders if he knows something that he doesn't.
"We're mortal enemies now right," he says, for a distraction more than anything else. "Vampires and werewolves. Don't we have to, like, declare war on each other's families or something? Vow to fight every time we meet."
"I don't have any family any more," Derek says, tone some obscene mixture of joking and tragic.
Stiles does huff laughter then, it cracks a little but it sounds right.
"My God, you're awful at this. Is this what happens when I die? You have to take over making all the flippant remarks and deadpan asides. Because, I have to tell you, if I'd known that was going to happen I wouldn't have died and subjected everyone to that."
Derek frowns, and Stiles thinks anyone else would have offered something then, some sort of condolence, or attempt at human contact, maybe an apology for all the dickish things they'd done. Derek isn't the type to do that though, so Stiles doesn't expect anything.
But Derek surprises him again. He takes a breath, then shifts and leans on Stiles, just a fraction. Stiles thinks it's supposed to be the world's most awkward shoulder nudge.
"You know we need you," Derek says. "We're better when you're around."
Which is kind of huge. Even if Derek does still makes it sound grudging. As if he can't bring himself to admit to needing anything, not even when he's admitting it for someone else.
"And what if I'm not me any more?" Stiles asks, because that's the thing he's been holding back, the thing that frightens him the most. He doesn't even want to admit it out loud.
Derek pulls a face at him, and this one Stiles is very familiar with. It's the one that's always calling him an idiot.
"I've been listening to you talk for the last fifteen minutes and you've yet to convince me that you're anything else."
Stiles thinks about admitting to the way he's afraid of looking in the mirror now too, afraid of looking for something that's wrong, something that isn't him, even more afraid of finding it.
"I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't know where I'm going to go," he says instead. "I can't stay here." He wants to, because isn't that what everyone wants when something terrible happens to them? To go home. But he can't. "I can't let my dad see me like this."
"You can stay at the house," Derek says. "If you need to. In the basement during the day. We'll work something out."
Stiles feels kind of shitty about every awful thing he'd ever said about Derek's house. Because he knows how much Derek still feels it all. Stiles knows it's complicated. But for Derek to offer - he doesn't expect it.
"You don't have to do that. I told you I'm not a problem, you can't fix me. I can't be fixed any more than you can."
"I'm not fixing," Derek says, and he sounds angry at the suggestion. "I'm offering to help."
Stiles thinks that's what makes it so painful. That this is bad enough that Derek is offering to help.
"You don't do that though, you just deal with things. You're not really about the compromising and the messy afterwards parts. You kind of suck at it actually. I always have a better plan. And then you don't listen to me and you hare off with your sucky plan, and I always have to pull you out of a jam with my much better plan."
"Stiles."
"What, it's true, at least give me credit for having all the awesome plans while I was alive." When Stiles cuts his eyes sideways he finds Derek glaring at him. It's familiar and strangely comforting. He can't help the way the corner of his mouth hikes up, because it's true. Derek has the worst plans. The worst. Stiles has vetoed a bunch of them just on principle - though he's part of Scott's pack, so he doesn't technically have to do what Derek tells him.
He doesn't know whether he's still part of Scott's pack, whether Scott still wants him.
"This isn't your fault," Stiles says, because he's been meaning to say that. He meant to say that sooner. "You know that, right? I don't blame you."
Derek looks away, but Stiles can still tell he's glaring at the wall.
"What I did - I did what I always do, and it's not on you that I'm - that I'm dead. Because technically I am, technically, mostly. I don't even know how it works. But, I totally understand if people don't trust me, and if you don't want me around the pack." He understands it - he's pretty sure it will kill him all over again, but he understands it.
"They're not just the pack, they're your friends. They're your friends, and some of them - some of them were gutted when you died." Derek takes a breath and exhales it, hard. "I don't want to have to bury you again." Derek won't look at him any more, and Stiles lets him have his silence for a minute, because he thinks that's a lot for Derek to admit.
"You might want to keep Peter away from me for a while though," Stiles says eventually. "Because I think I actually do genuinely want to hurt him, and I'm not sure what will happen if he pisses me off."
Derek pretends to think it over.
"I'll try not to be too broken up about it."
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Vampire!Stiles
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 3700
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "I don't want to talk to Deaton. I don't want to be another supernatural problem to be dealt with."
AN: Written for miya_tenaka's birthday. Happy Birthday!
Stiles would be more angry about it all, but it turns out that Scott's really sorry about the whole burying him in a shallow grave thing. Also, in his defence, Stiles had been dead at the time.
It's been a really long day.
It wasn't like he'd showed up floating outside Scott's bedroom window. Not that Stiles knows how to float now. Or even would, because that's exactly the sort of tacky, movie rip-off bullshit that he would have mocked himself for mercilessly. Before he was dead. No he'd just walked in the back door, which hadn't been locked, tracking muddy footprints across Mrs McCall's floor. Which she would probably have Stiles's ass for later.
There had been shock, when Scott had seen him, and crying, messy crying. Scott just doesn't do that. Scott doesn't cry like that, and Stiles had felt like crap, even though he was the one who was dead. You never get to see how your death leaves everyone you know. You never get to see the messy aftermath, the you-shaped hole smashed through everyone's life. Only Stiles does get to see that now, and it's horrible.
Stiles had dropped onto Scott's bed, limbs still sluggish and covered in dirt, wincing, hands pulled over his head. Until Scott had drawn the curtains over the weak, early light. Which is when it had sunk in, properly, that this was really happening.
"What are you going to do?" Scott had asked, over and over, like he still thought Stiles had the answer to everything.
-
Stiles goes home as soon as it gets dark.
He's not stupid, his dad isn't due home until six in the morning. Stiles has all night to work out how to be gone before he gets back. How to be gone afterwards - maybe for good.
He sits against the end of his bed, and stares at the dirt still smeared over his shoes, the dirt under his fingernails. When he runs a hand through his hair there's still a shower of fine dirt that covers the floor. He should shower at least. He should make some attempt to not look like he'd pulled himself out of the ground. But the last time he was in the bathroom he was forced to look in the mirror - to look at his reflection. Which he still has, so that's one thing to tick off the list. He doesn't look all that different to what he did before, only his skin is exhaustion pale now, eyes bruised like he'd been up all night. He looks more like a prisoner of war than a vampire.
But he should be happy that he can fake human. Not like Scott can fake it, but good enough - good enough not to scare the crap out of people.
He stops staring into space when he registers that the room is warmer than before, suddenly full of breath and pennies and life - he can hear/feel the rush of it, in a way he's not sure how to explain yet. He doesn't like it though, it feels...instinctive in a way he can't control. Something he's supposed to do, something he's supposed to feel.
Stiles swallows, swallows again, and waits for Derek to finish slinking in through the window.
"Scott texted you then," he says simply. Because of course he did, when they found something Stiles couldn't fix, then Scott called Derek. Derek is Scott's back-up plan, and that's funnier than it should be, probably.
"Scott texted me," Derek confirms, and he says it slowly, stalks closer until he can round the bed and face him, and maybe Stiles isn't passing as well as he thought, because Derek flinches, he actually fucking flinches, when he gets a good look at him.
Stiles pretends he doesn't notice, leans his head back against the mattress and waits.
Derek takes two more steps, until he can sit on Stiles's bed. He doesn't say anything at all, so it looks like Stiles is still carrying the conversation here.
"I've had a day to sort out what's true and what isn't," he says with a sigh, and it seems pretty ironic that he's researching himself this time. "Crucifixes don't do anything, and I can still see myself in a mirror. The invitation thing is probably bullshit, because I got into Scott's house and my house just fine. People don't really leave holy water just lying around, so I don't know about that. Sunlight is, unfortunately not bullshit. Though I don't catch on fire or anything. It feels more like radiation sickness. Y'know, dizziness, nausea, burning sensation, firm belief that your skin is going to slide off your bones. I can't hypnotise anyone, no matter what Scott seems to think. As for the whole being dead thing -"
Stiles holds his arm out.
"Check for yourself."
He's not expecting Derek to actually reach down and lay two fingers against the inside of his wrist. Because he must have been able to tell that his heart isn't beating from all the way across the room. Derek's skin where it touches him is burning hot. It always used to be warm, but never this warm. Stiles is the one who's cold now. He's the one who's room temperature, like a fucking corpse. He can feel Derek's pulse through his fingers, the drumbeat of it against his skin, and it disturbs him enough that he tugs his hand away. That's something Derek doesn't miss, fingers left to hang, left to curl in mid-air.
"Stiles, it doesn't mean anything," Derek says. But it sounds uncertain, as if he doesn't really know what it means, and Stiles doesn't know which of them he's trying to convince.
He barks out a laugh, or what's supposed to be a laugh. It doesn't sound amused at all.
"Doesn't mean anything. You did see me, right? I can't go out in the daylight any more because - oh yeah, that's right, I'm dead." There's no gesture that'll really get that over, so he just lets Derek look at him - and that seems to be enough. He's making his own point just by existing. His shoes grate against the floor when he pushes, lets his legs fall straight. "I'm dead, Derek."
"That's funny, because you talk exactly as much as when you were alive." Derek's trying for something flat, but Stiles can hear the strain under the words. He thinks Scott must have said something to him, because Derek never tries this hard.
"This is really the worst time for you to decide you have a sense of humour. Just so you know. The worst time." Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair again, and there's a fine spray of tiny bits of dirt onto his jeans. He's pretty sure there's some in his ear too, because it itches.
"We'll deal with this," Derek says quietly. "The same way we do everything else."
"How exactly are we going to deal with this? I died tonight, Derek, a proper, gruesome, horrible death. You were there." He stops, clenches his hands into fists and then carries on. "I spent the last five minutes of my life screaming, terrified, and choking on someone else's blood, and I remember that. So could you please shut the fuck up, and just let me -" Stiles lets his head drop into his hands and breathes deep, raspy breaths that he isn't even sure if he needs any more. His mouth is paper-dry, and his throat hurts. He thinks he might still be in shock, a little bit. Can a vampire go into shock? What exactly was happening with his blood pressure right now? Did his blood even have pressure any more, or was it just there, sitting there inside him, like water in a balloon?
Stiles wants to be sick, but he's not sure if he can be sick any more either. The world is just full of shit he can't do any more.
Derek moves a little closer, boots just nudging Stiles's jeans, clothes shifting like he's trying to work out how to touch Stiles, or if he even should.
"I'm sorry, I don't know more about this. I don't know how to be a vampire. Because Scott tore the head off the one who - whatever the hell he did to me." Stiles stares at his hands. "Though I can't really blame Scott for not asking questions, since he was understandably pretty fucking distressed at the time."
Derek does touch him then, which surprises Stiles. It's a stiff, awkward press of a hand over the curve of his shoulder, close and warm even through two layers of fabric. He's scared of it, but he can't quite shrug it off.
"We could talk to Deaton?" Derek says. "He'd know something about this. He'd be able to help. He'd be able to tell us what happens. What you need."
What he needs.
Jesus.
Stiles does shrug him off then, pulls his shoulder out from under Derek's hand, and he regrets straight away.
"I don't want to talk to Deaton. I don't want to be another supernatural problem to be dealt with."
"I never said you were a problem," Derek grinds out, in that frustrated way of his, which probably shouldn't be comforting, but there's something about Derek just being Derek. Sitting there on Stiles's bed, with his complete inability to relate to other people. Desperately trying to think of something reassuring to say. Derek Hale is attempting to comfort him. The whole world might as well just turn inside out while it was at it.
"Yeah, I won't be a problem until I get hungry and start eating people." Stiles tips his head back, until he can see Derek's face, see his unhappy frown of disbelief.
"Scott learnt how to control himself," Derek says, and he makes it sound so easy. "It's the same thing for you. You've seen people go through it, you know how it works."
Stiles grits his teeth until his jaw hurts, and it doesn't feel the same at all, doesn't help. Almost make it worse.
"That's not even a straight comparison and you know it," he chokes out. "Being a werewolf is about not accidentally hurting people. I'm pretty much designed to hurt people, on purpose. Hurting people is kind of the point of eating them."
"You're not going to eat anyone." Derek makes it sound ridiculous. Which just proves Derek is an idiot, because there's a itch in Stiles's upper jaw, and the air tastes like tin and caramel. It's like a promise of what he could have, and Stiles is pretty sure that if Derek came too close right now, Stiles would try his best to rip his throat open. And not in a sexy vampire way, but in a messy, bright red, hold you down until your bones break, way. He's really - he's really hungry right now.
He shakes his head, and chokes it back.
"So yeah, there's that. Not to mention the fact that I'm apparently going to be seventeen forever."
Derek doesn't say a word, but Stiles can hear the sigh, can feel the rush of warmth above him.
"Yeah, that occurred to me pretty quickly. Looks like I'm going to be shit out of luck on that last growth spurt."
"Stiles." Derek looks like he's trying really hard to think of something reassuring to say, but doesn't have much experience with it. What is there to say, really? Everything Stiles is saying is true. He's dead, and he's probably going to really want to eat people at some point. There are very few upsides to this.
"Maybe you should start sharpening your pointed sticks," he says numbly. "Just in case you need them."
"Animals bleed," Derek says, stressing the point, almost angrily. Which is a whole conversation that Stiles really doesn't want to have.
"And if I can't eat animals? What then? What are you going to do? Are you going to personally open a vein?"
"If I have to," Derek says tightly. "Until we work out how to deal with this. Until you can control it."
Stiles fucking hates Derek then, hates his self-sacrificing bullshit, hates his need to take on responsibility for everything, to take on the guilt for everything. He's angry, and it's the first time he's been angry, the first time he's felt the burn of anything other than a thick, smothering shock, since he dragged himself out of the ground. He's moving before he realises it. Surging to his feet. Until he has the smooth column of Derek's throat under his hand, and he's pushing him back, harder and faster than he means to. The crack when he hits the wall is an accident. Derek winces, teeth clacking together, throat flexing on a groan. Stiles squeezes until Derek's eyes go red. His teeth ache inside his mouth, a sharp need that feels like pain, in a way he won't give in to.
"I am not your problem. You didn't do this to me. I am not something else you have to feel guilty about. So don't you dare act like this is your fault."
Derek's all slow motion, and warm, soft muscles where Stiles had always thought he'd be heavy, thought he'd be strong and unbendable. Stiles could twist him until he breaks. Which is a tangled-up mixture of fascinating and horrible. He doesn't want this, any of it. He never wanted anything like this.
"Stiles, let go." Derek's hand is clamped round his wrist, forearm at full tension, muscles straining. He doesn't sound afraid, but his eyes are fixed on Stiles's mouth, on whatever Stiles's mouth has become. He should let go, he should, he needs to let Derek go. He can feel the rush of blood under his palm, the thump of his pulse. This isn't something he wants to push, this is too close, too hot. He doesn't want to do this.
No, that's wrong. That's a lie.
He's afraid of wanting this.
"You're better than me," Derek says, voice strangled and hoarse.
Stiles's hand opens stiffly, and Derek slips down a little, Stiles had dragged him up on his toes without even realising it. Derek reaches out and eases Stiles's arm down, and Stiles doesn't miss the way he does it slowly, carefully.
He steps back out of Derek's space on wobbly legs.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I don't want to - fuck - I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't mean to. I just got angry - guess I should avoid doing that in future, huh." Stiles slides down the wall, pulls his knees up, and lets the back of his head rest against the plaster. It should be cold, but it's not, or it doesn't feel like it is. Not any more. "Well, looks like we answered the question of which is stronger, vampires or werewolves," Stiles says faintly. "I guess I win." He thinks this is the part where he's supposed to laugh, but he doesn't feel like it. His hands are still shaking, and that would be more comforting if it was a horrified, frightened shaking. But it's not, it's more...excited, and there are no words for how horrible that is. He doesn't want to be the sort of person who gets off on that.
"Stiles," Derek says quietly. It's soft, patient, and that's something else he isn't used to. He doesn't understand why Derek's doing this. He doesn't understand why Derek isn't fighting this. Why he's not - why for some insane reason they're still on the same side. Derek very slowly lowers himself to the floor, leans back against the wall beside him.
"I am sorry, about - about using it against you, you didn't deserve that." Stiles thumps his head gently - he thinks it's gently - against the wall.
Derek's watching him with an expression Stiles can't read, not one of the usual ones, something new.
"No, maybe I did. I wasn't always - I didn't always go easy on you when I came to town. You weren't a werewolf, and you'd done nothing but try and help." Derek grits his teeth. "I wasn't very good at being helped. I was out of line, sometimes."
"Did Scott tell you to say that?" Stiles is genuinely surprised.
Derek glares.
"No." He's so obviously offended. "I am capable of apologising without prompting you know."
When the situation calls for it, Stiles thinks. Or when you really need to defuse some serious tension. Or when one of your friends has been turned into the undead. At least he thinks they were friends, antagonistic friends. Chaotic neutral friends?
"I don't want to be the kind of person that does that," Stiles says quietly. "That uses this against people, treats people like that, just because I can." He doesn't like the fact that he can - he'd always thought that would be the best bit of having...something, being more. But he doesn't feel like himself any more.
"I know, but you let go," Derek says firmly. "Once you realised what you were doing you let go. This is still new and you're doing better than could be expected of you. Having this thrown at you, learning how to control it."
"That's just it. I don't feel like I'm controlling it," Stiles admits, to himself as much as to Derek. "I feel like I'm waiting. I feel like there's something inside me that's...asleep and hungry right now. That this whole part where we think I'm in control of my new -" He bites his lip and clenches his fist. "Of my new thing is all a lie. And the moment I get really hungry none of it's going to matter, I'm just going to -"
He makes himself say it.
"Kill everything."
"You won't," Derek says, with conviction. He really doesn't know Stiles well enough to be certain what he will and won't do. But he sounds so sure that for a second Stiles wonders if he knows something that he doesn't.
"We're mortal enemies now right," he says, for a distraction more than anything else. "Vampires and werewolves. Don't we have to, like, declare war on each other's families or something? Vow to fight every time we meet."
"I don't have any family any more," Derek says, tone some obscene mixture of joking and tragic.
Stiles does huff laughter then, it cracks a little but it sounds right.
"My God, you're awful at this. Is this what happens when I die? You have to take over making all the flippant remarks and deadpan asides. Because, I have to tell you, if I'd known that was going to happen I wouldn't have died and subjected everyone to that."
Derek frowns, and Stiles thinks anyone else would have offered something then, some sort of condolence, or attempt at human contact, maybe an apology for all the dickish things they'd done. Derek isn't the type to do that though, so Stiles doesn't expect anything.
But Derek surprises him again. He takes a breath, then shifts and leans on Stiles, just a fraction. Stiles thinks it's supposed to be the world's most awkward shoulder nudge.
"You know we need you," Derek says. "We're better when you're around."
Which is kind of huge. Even if Derek does still makes it sound grudging. As if he can't bring himself to admit to needing anything, not even when he's admitting it for someone else.
"And what if I'm not me any more?" Stiles asks, because that's the thing he's been holding back, the thing that frightens him the most. He doesn't even want to admit it out loud.
Derek pulls a face at him, and this one Stiles is very familiar with. It's the one that's always calling him an idiot.
"I've been listening to you talk for the last fifteen minutes and you've yet to convince me that you're anything else."
Stiles thinks about admitting to the way he's afraid of looking in the mirror now too, afraid of looking for something that's wrong, something that isn't him, even more afraid of finding it.
"I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't know where I'm going to go," he says instead. "I can't stay here." He wants to, because isn't that what everyone wants when something terrible happens to them? To go home. But he can't. "I can't let my dad see me like this."
"You can stay at the house," Derek says. "If you need to. In the basement during the day. We'll work something out."
Stiles feels kind of shitty about every awful thing he'd ever said about Derek's house. Because he knows how much Derek still feels it all. Stiles knows it's complicated. But for Derek to offer - he doesn't expect it.
"You don't have to do that. I told you I'm not a problem, you can't fix me. I can't be fixed any more than you can."
"I'm not fixing," Derek says, and he sounds angry at the suggestion. "I'm offering to help."
Stiles thinks that's what makes it so painful. That this is bad enough that Derek is offering to help.
"You don't do that though, you just deal with things. You're not really about the compromising and the messy afterwards parts. You kind of suck at it actually. I always have a better plan. And then you don't listen to me and you hare off with your sucky plan, and I always have to pull you out of a jam with my much better plan."
"Stiles."
"What, it's true, at least give me credit for having all the awesome plans while I was alive." When Stiles cuts his eyes sideways he finds Derek glaring at him. It's familiar and strangely comforting. He can't help the way the corner of his mouth hikes up, because it's true. Derek has the worst plans. The worst. Stiles has vetoed a bunch of them just on principle - though he's part of Scott's pack, so he doesn't technically have to do what Derek tells him.
He doesn't know whether he's still part of Scott's pack, whether Scott still wants him.
"This isn't your fault," Stiles says, because he's been meaning to say that. He meant to say that sooner. "You know that, right? I don't blame you."
Derek looks away, but Stiles can still tell he's glaring at the wall.
"What I did - I did what I always do, and it's not on you that I'm - that I'm dead. Because technically I am, technically, mostly. I don't even know how it works. But, I totally understand if people don't trust me, and if you don't want me around the pack." He understands it - he's pretty sure it will kill him all over again, but he understands it.
"They're not just the pack, they're your friends. They're your friends, and some of them - some of them were gutted when you died." Derek takes a breath and exhales it, hard. "I don't want to have to bury you again." Derek won't look at him any more, and Stiles lets him have his silence for a minute, because he thinks that's a lot for Derek to admit.
"You might want to keep Peter away from me for a while though," Stiles says eventually. "Because I think I actually do genuinely want to hurt him, and I'm not sure what will happen if he pisses me off."
Derek pretends to think it over.
"I'll try not to be too broken up about it."