[Teen Wolf] [Derek/Stiles] more than on the run
Title: more than on the run
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: R
Summary: Derek tells himself he doesn't make Stiles leave because it's dangerous to travel alone when you look like a prime target for raiders and it's nice to have someone watch his back for once.
Warnings: brief sexual harassment. It's nothing major, but skip section iv if it'll trigger you.
Notes: Written for my trope_bingo card, prompt was AU: apocalypse. Much love to Lena for cheering me on through writing this.
While zombie apocalypses are my true love, this is a post-nuclear apocalypse, heavily inspired by the Fallout series, Fallout 3 and New Vegas especially. It's not particularly a fusion, it's not the same verse, but if you're familiar with Fallout, there are things you'll recognize in this fic, the usage of bottle caps as currency in particular. If you haven't played the games you should because they're awesome.
I've taken some liberty with geography, if the names of towns match any real places, it's completely coincidental.
Nuclear weapons are bad, kids. Don't play with them.
i.
Derek finds him crouched over the corpse of a dog, it's face a mess of blood and fractured bone. The guy is poking at it with a stick, a disgusted look on his face, shudders wracking his body.
"It is edible," he offers. The man jerks, his entire body moves with him and he falls back on his ass, leaving him blinking up at Derek. He's younger than Derek had expected, still wide eyed and soft faced, red running high in his cheeks. He can't be more than sixteen. Eighteen would be pushing it. "You looked like you didn't know if you could eat it. It takes some work but it is."
"I don't think I want to." He gets to his feet, kicks at the animal as he does but sticks out his hand to Derek. Derek doesn't take it.
"Good shot," he says instead, gestures at the head. "Lucky?"
"Fuck you." There's no real anger in the kids voice, a slight smile on his lips. He rocks onto his heels, scrubs a hand over his hair and smears dirt and blood and grime across his forehead. "I'm just that good." He sighs as he drops to a crouch again, balances on the ball of his feet and surveys the corpse again, the tight slope of the ribs, the way the veins stand out in the legs. "If you can make it edible, I'll share with you." Usually, Derek would say no. It's already on the tip of his tongue, his sister's words playing in his head - don't trust anyone, Derek, nobody in this life will do you a favour for free - but his stomach is rumbling and he doesn't feel like another night of drinking dirty water to shut it up and taking anti-radiation pills in a half futile attempt to stave off the sickness. Honestly, no matter how good of a shot the kid is, he doesn't look like he could hurt Derek, not really. He's pale around the edges and the bags under his eyes are beating Derek's, dark and heavy, not-quite distracting from the redness of his eyes. He doesn't look like a risk Derek can't afford to take.
"Fine," Derek says. "But we go to my camp."
ii.
It turns out the kid is a) not a kid, just marginally eighteen (which was legally an adult before everything got blown up, man, so there, he says, all haughty arrogance before Derek points out that he wasn't, however, of legal age to drink and takes the whiskey off of him), b) named Stiles and c) looking for his father.
It also transpires, once Derek turns to tell Stiles to leave only to find him curled up around his pack fast asleep, once he wakes up the next morning to a hot breakfast, once Stiles looks at him and says it's not safe to travel alone in a tone that brooks no argument, that he's incredibly difficult to get rid of.
Derek tells himself he doesn't make Stiles leave, doesn't slip away himself, because he's right, because it's dangerous to travel alone and the kid looks like a prime target for raiders and it's nice to have someone watch his back for once. Derek ignores the voice that reminds him that it's been a year since Laura died, reminds him that the constant pitch and lurch and strain in his chest means he's lonely.
iii.
Stiles has never met anyone who didn't come from anywhere before. He doesn't understand Derek not having a home because even though his home sucks, just like anywhere else, it's still somewhere he belongs. Derek doesn't have that. Derek's been a nomad for as long as he remembers, travelling the wasteland one foot fall at a time.
iv.
He should have been paying attention. He knows, he knows raiders will take any chance they can get and yet he'd set his gun down, left it out of arm's reach and now he's got a knife to his throat and the stench of rotting meat surrounding him.
He hasn't slept in days, hasn't eaten properly in longer, gets dizzy if he doesn't stand up slow and careful and this is the way he's going to go out. Dirty, starving, not even enough energy to put up a decent fight. Laura would be ashamed and that, not the metal against his gullet, not the overwhelming sense of you're going to die is what makes Derek's heart stutter, what makes his stomach clench and his eyes burn. Laura would be ashamed. Laura, at least, refused to go down without a fight. Laura took down four raiders before they got her and Derek's going to be killed by just the one.
"Well you are a pretty boy, aren't you?" The raider's left arm is wrapped around his chest, his teeth grazing against the curlicue of his ear as he talks. Derek wants to shove his elbows back, crack some ribs at least, maybe get him to loosen his grip just enough but every time he shifts, every time he even breathes too deeply, the knife bites in, he can feel the slick wetness of his blood against his throat. He's got two ways to die, wait for the raider to kill him himself or push himself onto the knife. Neither is particularly desirable, both make his breath catch and burn in his lungs.
He tenses, blood is dripping below his shirt now, slow traces staining through the thin material but he's ready, he's ready, he's lived longer than some, in a few years he'll be staring down thirty and out in the wasteland, that's practically old age. It's not like he has--
The raider's brains explode. One minute he's snuffling at Derek, licking at the tendons in Derek's neck and the next Derek's covered in blood and gore and Stiles is stepping out from behind a rock, swinging his rifle over his shoulders.
"I told you I was a good shot," he says, hauling Derek's pack onto his shoulder. Derek watches as he scrabbles at the raider's pockets, comes away with some ammo they can use, a handful of bottle caps and thinks, for the first time since he realized how much of a hassle it is to have to share what little food he has, that going with Stiles wasn't just another of his terrible ideas.
v.
There's no word of Stiles' dad in Jefferson, Tulusak or Gentry. Stiles finds people who know of him, who say 'oh, the Sheriff from out west?' and get his hopes up only for them to say they have no clue where he went. In every town, Derek watches the light, the hope, in Stiles' eyes dim a little. In every town, the chattering stutters, locks itself up inside of Stiles. In every town, Stiles becomes less like himself, the version of himself that Derek's getting to know, the version that Derek's learned to tune out unless there's that inflection to his voice, the one that suggests danger even as it debates the limited merits of powdered eggs like nothing's wrong, the one that even talks in his sleep, the one that taps his fingers against the handle of his gun or hums under his breath.
In the Rust Bucket, they get lucky. They hadn't really planned to stop in but Derek's assault rifle stops working three miles out and he doesn't like to be without it, doesn't like the slowness of the shotgun that Stiles prefers. It's Stiles who says they should carry on, they've still got a day or so to the lakes, they don't need to slow themselves down any more than usual. It's Derek who forces them to, who shrugs off Stiles' complaints and heads for the gates. Stiles trips after him, muttering unhappily the whole way, bitching and whining about Derek always slowing them down.
"Go ask around," he says once they've bartered their way inside (it's considerably easier than Derek was expecting, all they lose is a carton of shotgun shells and three bottles of clean water, not like Haven where it'd cost them a hundred caps just to get in). Mostly, he's sick of Stiles pouting. Mostly, he wants him out of his hair for a bit. A part of him though, the little part he's so good at ignoring, worries he's the only one with any hope left for getting the information they need to find Stiles' dad. There's a huff of breath from Stiles, a sneer and a scowl but he's handing over the things he needs repairing and the caps for them. He doesn't say anything to Derek, but Derek wasn't expecting him to. "If you're not back by the time I'm done here, I'll come looking for you." Stiles just shrugs, scuffs his feet against the floor and heads off up the road, dust kicking up behind him.
He's nearly done in the store, the owner's wife just about patching a hole in Stiles' pack when Stiles himselfs barrels through the door, feet skidding against the floor. He's breathing heavily and his face is flushed, eyes bright and mouth wide in a grin.
"Someone knows where he went," he says, grabbing for Derek's sleeve like he might not be paying attention. Derek is, he's staring at Stiles and he's trying to bite back a smile and he's hoping the owner doesn't kick them out for the ruckus. "Derek, he's gone to Fort Defiance."
Derek doesn't point out that that doesn't bode well, that everyone knows how hard it is to get into Fort Defiance. Everyone's heard the stories about women and children dying outside the gates just because someone thought they might be sick or that it might have been a raider trap. Everyone knows how paranoid the people of Fort Defiance are. The last bastion of civilization, they call themselves, like nobody else thought to set up a town inside walls.
It takes all Derek has in him to keep Stiles in the town. It takes forcibly dragging Stiles into the room they're renting for the night and locking the door to keep him from straight up running out through the gates.
"The Fort's at least two weeks away, Stiles," he says when Stiles pouts at him, kicks at his feet like he's a little lost child instead of the adult he keeps maintaining he is. "One good night's sleep won't do any harm." He doesn't look convinced, still looks like he might slip out when Derek's sleeping (and Derek doesn't want to work out why that'd be a problem, why he's apparently so against heading on towards the coast like he'd planned to before this kid got him all curled up and walking in the opposite direction). "I just want one night in a bed, Stiles, and then we'll go and find your dad." The scowl lingers for a moment but Derek can tell the exact moment Stiles gives up on the fight, his shoulders slump and he exhales with a huff before he slumps back on the cot pushed close to the wall.
"One night," he says, kicking his shoes off and pulling his feet up under the covers. If they're anything like the ones on Derek's bed, they're scratchy and uncomfortable, a guarantee of a restless night's sleep, but better than the damp rocks they've been sleeping on. "We leave at dawn."
vi.
"Do you ever think about revenge?" Stiles asks, staring up at the ceiling. He thinks Derek might be asleep, he can't tell because Derek lays completely still when he's awake and completely still when he's asleep. "For your sister."
"Sometimes," Derek says. Always, he means. When he can't sleep, he thinks of slitting the raider's throat, thinks of kicking her until she begs for mercy, thinks of not giving it. He doesn't have a name, just her sneering face stained onto the back of his eyelids.
vii.
"We're going too slow," Stiles snaps. The sun's long set and Derek, Derek has had enough. They're behind schedule - Stiles' schedule, which hadn't been particularly generous in the first place - caught up with rivers bursting at their banks and Derek understands, he does, Stiles forgets he knows what it's like to lose family, but that doesn't mean he's going to push himself or let Stiles push himself further than their limits can take. On full bellies of food, with enough water, decent sleep when they could get it, sure, but they've been living off jerky and sips of water for three days now, sleeping three hours at a time because they're in raider territory.
"Do you want to find your dad or do you want to die of exhaustion before you even get there, Stiles?" His tone's too harsh, too rough, but his feet hurt, his shoulders hurt, his stomach is cramping. He just wants to sleep.
He's not too tired, however, to miss the swish of movement, the thud of his heavy steps as Stiles comes towards him, arms swinging. He twists round, drops into a crouch and catches Stiles around the waist, pushes him down into the dirt and holds him there -- Stiles might be lighter on his feet, quicker, scrappier, but Derek has the weight, the muscle.
"Fuck you, Derek." Stiles bucks his hips, wrenches his arms, punches at Derek's thighs, snaps his teeth at his face when Derek leans in close.
"Shut up, Stiles." Their faces are close, too close, he can feel the angry chuff of Stiles' breath, he'd go cross eyed to focus on the furious set of his mouth. "You've been limping for two miles, don't think I missed you getting dizzy earlier. We need to fucking rest."
"You just--" He twists, tries to get out from under Derek, kicks his heels against Derek's calves and claws at his forearms. "You don't give a fuck about my dad."
"Yeah," Derek says. His hands are hard against the ground either side of Stiles' head, a rock digging into his palm, dirt mingling in the cuts lining his fingers. "That's why I'm coming with you. Because I don't give a shit, Stiles."
He doesn't know who moves first -- it's probably Stiles trying to get him off again, it's probably him trying to keep Stiles against the ground -- but they're kissing, biting at each other's mouths, Stiles scrabbling at his shoulders and fisting his hands in his shirt. It's sloppy and messy and Derek's sure his mouth is going to bruise, sure that this is going to end in someone bleeding, they're panting hard breaths against each other and even as they kiss, Derek can feel Stiles fighting him for that little edge.
"Stay," he says, pushes himself up, gives Stiles just enough space to get away. He doesn't. He doesn't go anywhere, he stays, there in the dirt, one hand fisted in Derek's shirt, his mouth red and his breath coming in gasps.
Derek's not sure what it means, but he'll take it.
viii.
They're nearly shot at approaching the Fort, bullets ricocheting around their ankles, kicking up dust and dirt. Maybe the guards figure out they're not raiders, maybe they just want to be certain of a headshot but they let them approach.
"I'm looking for my dad," Stiles shouts as soon as they get within hearing distance. "Richard. He's a Sheriff--" Derek presses in close behind him and Stiles is shaking, hands quivering where he holds them up in platitude, we come in peace. "I was told he'd be here." One of the guards nods, turns to talk to the other behind him and Stiles doesn't stop shaking. He drops his hands to his side, clenches them by his thighs like holding onto himself tight enough will stop the shuddering.
"He's here," the guard calls back. "But how do we know you're his son?"
"Please." His voice cracks, breaks and Derek stumbles forward with it, puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder like he can help him hold together. "Please."
Richard's in a bad way. They find him in the clinic, hooked to an IV. At first, he doesn't look too bad, his skin is pale and waxy, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room's cool temperature. Derek's still got his hand on Stiles' shoulder, just in case, and he feels Stiles relax, feels weeks worth of tension and terror flood out of him.
Then the Doc pulls the covers back, reveals the wound on Richard's arm. It's swollen and inflamed, leaking pus, the veins dancing away from it stark and dark. The smell is worse, it smells like raiders, it smells like death, and Stiles tenses up again.
"There's not much I can do," he says, already pulling the covers back up to Richard's neck. "He needs antibiotics."
"Is he going to die?" Stiles asks. He sounds small, lost, the most scared Derek has ever heard him be. He should leave, he should go back to the room they've gotten and leave Stiles alone -- he's been here, watching Laura pale and wan on a clinic bed, he's seen the same defeated slump in a doctor's shoulders that tells him everything he needs to know. He lifts his hand, goes to move away and pull back. "Don't," Stiles says, his voice hush and low. "Stay."
ix.
Stiles fucks him hard that night, like if he just holds on tight enough, digs his hands in, bruises Derek just the right amount, everything might change. He fucks Derek like he's desperate, like leaving bite marks along collarbones grounds him and brings him back. Derek's not quite sure what to do, he kisses back and loops his fingers through Stiles' and whispers it's okay like it might actually be.
x.
Richard dies five days after they arrive. Stiles says by his side for twelve hours every day, clings to his hand and rambles. Derek catches him sometimes, overhears stories and remember when's, you can't leave me, dad, I only have you, dad, please, he hears about Stiles' mom and little things Stiles hadn't already told him about his life before. He brings Stiles food, sandwiches and water and stays until he's sure he's eaten it and then he leaves, gives Stiles his time alone because he knows, he knows that Stiles would stop him if he wanted company.
On day five, Derek comes with the sandwich and finds Stiles on the floor, his breath coming in broken gasps, his hands covering his face. One glance at the bed, at the rumpled sheets, at the uncomfortable angle Richard's body's at and Derek knows. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do, he'd punched the first person to offer him platitudes after Laura, had smacked the doctor straight in the face and broken his nose. He'd almost punched him again when the doctor had just looked at him with something akin to pity. He probably would have, if it wasn't for wanting Laura to have a decent burial.
"Stiles," he tries, crouching down low next to Stiles. "I'm not going anywhere." He drops to his knees, leans forward and rests his hand on Stiles' shoulder, his lips against his forehead in a barely there kiss. "You're stuck with me now." Stiles' breath shudders and shakes but he pulls his hands away from his face. He's a mess, a complete mess, worse than he had been when Derek had first found him, months ago now even though it feels like barely days ago. He kisses him again, pushes Stiles' hair where it's getting too long back for his forehead and pulls him in close, holds Stiles tight against him and breathes with him, soothes him through the tremors.
It's not going to be okay, it's really not, but it might just skim the line, it might just be fine.
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: R
Summary: Derek tells himself he doesn't make Stiles leave because it's dangerous to travel alone when you look like a prime target for raiders and it's nice to have someone watch his back for once.
Warnings: brief sexual harassment. It's nothing major, but skip section iv if it'll trigger you.
Notes: Written for my trope_bingo card, prompt was AU: apocalypse. Much love to Lena for cheering me on through writing this.
While zombie apocalypses are my true love, this is a post-nuclear apocalypse, heavily inspired by the Fallout series, Fallout 3 and New Vegas especially. It's not particularly a fusion, it's not the same verse, but if you're familiar with Fallout, there are things you'll recognize in this fic, the usage of bottle caps as currency in particular. If you haven't played the games you should because they're awesome.
I've taken some liberty with geography, if the names of towns match any real places, it's completely coincidental.
Nuclear weapons are bad, kids. Don't play with them.
i.
Derek finds him crouched over the corpse of a dog, it's face a mess of blood and fractured bone. The guy is poking at it with a stick, a disgusted look on his face, shudders wracking his body.
"It is edible," he offers. The man jerks, his entire body moves with him and he falls back on his ass, leaving him blinking up at Derek. He's younger than Derek had expected, still wide eyed and soft faced, red running high in his cheeks. He can't be more than sixteen. Eighteen would be pushing it. "You looked like you didn't know if you could eat it. It takes some work but it is."
"I don't think I want to." He gets to his feet, kicks at the animal as he does but sticks out his hand to Derek. Derek doesn't take it.
"Good shot," he says instead, gestures at the head. "Lucky?"
"Fuck you." There's no real anger in the kids voice, a slight smile on his lips. He rocks onto his heels, scrubs a hand over his hair and smears dirt and blood and grime across his forehead. "I'm just that good." He sighs as he drops to a crouch again, balances on the ball of his feet and surveys the corpse again, the tight slope of the ribs, the way the veins stand out in the legs. "If you can make it edible, I'll share with you." Usually, Derek would say no. It's already on the tip of his tongue, his sister's words playing in his head - don't trust anyone, Derek, nobody in this life will do you a favour for free - but his stomach is rumbling and he doesn't feel like another night of drinking dirty water to shut it up and taking anti-radiation pills in a half futile attempt to stave off the sickness. Honestly, no matter how good of a shot the kid is, he doesn't look like he could hurt Derek, not really. He's pale around the edges and the bags under his eyes are beating Derek's, dark and heavy, not-quite distracting from the redness of his eyes. He doesn't look like a risk Derek can't afford to take.
"Fine," Derek says. "But we go to my camp."
ii.
It turns out the kid is a) not a kid, just marginally eighteen (which was legally an adult before everything got blown up, man, so there, he says, all haughty arrogance before Derek points out that he wasn't, however, of legal age to drink and takes the whiskey off of him), b) named Stiles and c) looking for his father.
It also transpires, once Derek turns to tell Stiles to leave only to find him curled up around his pack fast asleep, once he wakes up the next morning to a hot breakfast, once Stiles looks at him and says it's not safe to travel alone in a tone that brooks no argument, that he's incredibly difficult to get rid of.
Derek tells himself he doesn't make Stiles leave, doesn't slip away himself, because he's right, because it's dangerous to travel alone and the kid looks like a prime target for raiders and it's nice to have someone watch his back for once. Derek ignores the voice that reminds him that it's been a year since Laura died, reminds him that the constant pitch and lurch and strain in his chest means he's lonely.
iii.
Stiles has never met anyone who didn't come from anywhere before. He doesn't understand Derek not having a home because even though his home sucks, just like anywhere else, it's still somewhere he belongs. Derek doesn't have that. Derek's been a nomad for as long as he remembers, travelling the wasteland one foot fall at a time.
iv.
He should have been paying attention. He knows, he knows raiders will take any chance they can get and yet he'd set his gun down, left it out of arm's reach and now he's got a knife to his throat and the stench of rotting meat surrounding him.
He hasn't slept in days, hasn't eaten properly in longer, gets dizzy if he doesn't stand up slow and careful and this is the way he's going to go out. Dirty, starving, not even enough energy to put up a decent fight. Laura would be ashamed and that, not the metal against his gullet, not the overwhelming sense of you're going to die is what makes Derek's heart stutter, what makes his stomach clench and his eyes burn. Laura would be ashamed. Laura, at least, refused to go down without a fight. Laura took down four raiders before they got her and Derek's going to be killed by just the one.
"Well you are a pretty boy, aren't you?" The raider's left arm is wrapped around his chest, his teeth grazing against the curlicue of his ear as he talks. Derek wants to shove his elbows back, crack some ribs at least, maybe get him to loosen his grip just enough but every time he shifts, every time he even breathes too deeply, the knife bites in, he can feel the slick wetness of his blood against his throat. He's got two ways to die, wait for the raider to kill him himself or push himself onto the knife. Neither is particularly desirable, both make his breath catch and burn in his lungs.
He tenses, blood is dripping below his shirt now, slow traces staining through the thin material but he's ready, he's ready, he's lived longer than some, in a few years he'll be staring down thirty and out in the wasteland, that's practically old age. It's not like he has--
The raider's brains explode. One minute he's snuffling at Derek, licking at the tendons in Derek's neck and the next Derek's covered in blood and gore and Stiles is stepping out from behind a rock, swinging his rifle over his shoulders.
"I told you I was a good shot," he says, hauling Derek's pack onto his shoulder. Derek watches as he scrabbles at the raider's pockets, comes away with some ammo they can use, a handful of bottle caps and thinks, for the first time since he realized how much of a hassle it is to have to share what little food he has, that going with Stiles wasn't just another of his terrible ideas.
v.
There's no word of Stiles' dad in Jefferson, Tulusak or Gentry. Stiles finds people who know of him, who say 'oh, the Sheriff from out west?' and get his hopes up only for them to say they have no clue where he went. In every town, Derek watches the light, the hope, in Stiles' eyes dim a little. In every town, the chattering stutters, locks itself up inside of Stiles. In every town, Stiles becomes less like himself, the version of himself that Derek's getting to know, the version that Derek's learned to tune out unless there's that inflection to his voice, the one that suggests danger even as it debates the limited merits of powdered eggs like nothing's wrong, the one that even talks in his sleep, the one that taps his fingers against the handle of his gun or hums under his breath.
In the Rust Bucket, they get lucky. They hadn't really planned to stop in but Derek's assault rifle stops working three miles out and he doesn't like to be without it, doesn't like the slowness of the shotgun that Stiles prefers. It's Stiles who says they should carry on, they've still got a day or so to the lakes, they don't need to slow themselves down any more than usual. It's Derek who forces them to, who shrugs off Stiles' complaints and heads for the gates. Stiles trips after him, muttering unhappily the whole way, bitching and whining about Derek always slowing them down.
"Go ask around," he says once they've bartered their way inside (it's considerably easier than Derek was expecting, all they lose is a carton of shotgun shells and three bottles of clean water, not like Haven where it'd cost them a hundred caps just to get in). Mostly, he's sick of Stiles pouting. Mostly, he wants him out of his hair for a bit. A part of him though, the little part he's so good at ignoring, worries he's the only one with any hope left for getting the information they need to find Stiles' dad. There's a huff of breath from Stiles, a sneer and a scowl but he's handing over the things he needs repairing and the caps for them. He doesn't say anything to Derek, but Derek wasn't expecting him to. "If you're not back by the time I'm done here, I'll come looking for you." Stiles just shrugs, scuffs his feet against the floor and heads off up the road, dust kicking up behind him.
He's nearly done in the store, the owner's wife just about patching a hole in Stiles' pack when Stiles himselfs barrels through the door, feet skidding against the floor. He's breathing heavily and his face is flushed, eyes bright and mouth wide in a grin.
"Someone knows where he went," he says, grabbing for Derek's sleeve like he might not be paying attention. Derek is, he's staring at Stiles and he's trying to bite back a smile and he's hoping the owner doesn't kick them out for the ruckus. "Derek, he's gone to Fort Defiance."
Derek doesn't point out that that doesn't bode well, that everyone knows how hard it is to get into Fort Defiance. Everyone's heard the stories about women and children dying outside the gates just because someone thought they might be sick or that it might have been a raider trap. Everyone knows how paranoid the people of Fort Defiance are. The last bastion of civilization, they call themselves, like nobody else thought to set up a town inside walls.
It takes all Derek has in him to keep Stiles in the town. It takes forcibly dragging Stiles into the room they're renting for the night and locking the door to keep him from straight up running out through the gates.
"The Fort's at least two weeks away, Stiles," he says when Stiles pouts at him, kicks at his feet like he's a little lost child instead of the adult he keeps maintaining he is. "One good night's sleep won't do any harm." He doesn't look convinced, still looks like he might slip out when Derek's sleeping (and Derek doesn't want to work out why that'd be a problem, why he's apparently so against heading on towards the coast like he'd planned to before this kid got him all curled up and walking in the opposite direction). "I just want one night in a bed, Stiles, and then we'll go and find your dad." The scowl lingers for a moment but Derek can tell the exact moment Stiles gives up on the fight, his shoulders slump and he exhales with a huff before he slumps back on the cot pushed close to the wall.
"One night," he says, kicking his shoes off and pulling his feet up under the covers. If they're anything like the ones on Derek's bed, they're scratchy and uncomfortable, a guarantee of a restless night's sleep, but better than the damp rocks they've been sleeping on. "We leave at dawn."
vi.
"Do you ever think about revenge?" Stiles asks, staring up at the ceiling. He thinks Derek might be asleep, he can't tell because Derek lays completely still when he's awake and completely still when he's asleep. "For your sister."
"Sometimes," Derek says. Always, he means. When he can't sleep, he thinks of slitting the raider's throat, thinks of kicking her until she begs for mercy, thinks of not giving it. He doesn't have a name, just her sneering face stained onto the back of his eyelids.
vii.
"We're going too slow," Stiles snaps. The sun's long set and Derek, Derek has had enough. They're behind schedule - Stiles' schedule, which hadn't been particularly generous in the first place - caught up with rivers bursting at their banks and Derek understands, he does, Stiles forgets he knows what it's like to lose family, but that doesn't mean he's going to push himself or let Stiles push himself further than their limits can take. On full bellies of food, with enough water, decent sleep when they could get it, sure, but they've been living off jerky and sips of water for three days now, sleeping three hours at a time because they're in raider territory.
"Do you want to find your dad or do you want to die of exhaustion before you even get there, Stiles?" His tone's too harsh, too rough, but his feet hurt, his shoulders hurt, his stomach is cramping. He just wants to sleep.
He's not too tired, however, to miss the swish of movement, the thud of his heavy steps as Stiles comes towards him, arms swinging. He twists round, drops into a crouch and catches Stiles around the waist, pushes him down into the dirt and holds him there -- Stiles might be lighter on his feet, quicker, scrappier, but Derek has the weight, the muscle.
"Fuck you, Derek." Stiles bucks his hips, wrenches his arms, punches at Derek's thighs, snaps his teeth at his face when Derek leans in close.
"Shut up, Stiles." Their faces are close, too close, he can feel the angry chuff of Stiles' breath, he'd go cross eyed to focus on the furious set of his mouth. "You've been limping for two miles, don't think I missed you getting dizzy earlier. We need to fucking rest."
"You just--" He twists, tries to get out from under Derek, kicks his heels against Derek's calves and claws at his forearms. "You don't give a fuck about my dad."
"Yeah," Derek says. His hands are hard against the ground either side of Stiles' head, a rock digging into his palm, dirt mingling in the cuts lining his fingers. "That's why I'm coming with you. Because I don't give a shit, Stiles."
He doesn't know who moves first -- it's probably Stiles trying to get him off again, it's probably him trying to keep Stiles against the ground -- but they're kissing, biting at each other's mouths, Stiles scrabbling at his shoulders and fisting his hands in his shirt. It's sloppy and messy and Derek's sure his mouth is going to bruise, sure that this is going to end in someone bleeding, they're panting hard breaths against each other and even as they kiss, Derek can feel Stiles fighting him for that little edge.
"Stay," he says, pushes himself up, gives Stiles just enough space to get away. He doesn't. He doesn't go anywhere, he stays, there in the dirt, one hand fisted in Derek's shirt, his mouth red and his breath coming in gasps.
Derek's not sure what it means, but he'll take it.
viii.
They're nearly shot at approaching the Fort, bullets ricocheting around their ankles, kicking up dust and dirt. Maybe the guards figure out they're not raiders, maybe they just want to be certain of a headshot but they let them approach.
"I'm looking for my dad," Stiles shouts as soon as they get within hearing distance. "Richard. He's a Sheriff--" Derek presses in close behind him and Stiles is shaking, hands quivering where he holds them up in platitude, we come in peace. "I was told he'd be here." One of the guards nods, turns to talk to the other behind him and Stiles doesn't stop shaking. He drops his hands to his side, clenches them by his thighs like holding onto himself tight enough will stop the shuddering.
"He's here," the guard calls back. "But how do we know you're his son?"
"Please." His voice cracks, breaks and Derek stumbles forward with it, puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder like he can help him hold together. "Please."
Richard's in a bad way. They find him in the clinic, hooked to an IV. At first, he doesn't look too bad, his skin is pale and waxy, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room's cool temperature. Derek's still got his hand on Stiles' shoulder, just in case, and he feels Stiles relax, feels weeks worth of tension and terror flood out of him.
Then the Doc pulls the covers back, reveals the wound on Richard's arm. It's swollen and inflamed, leaking pus, the veins dancing away from it stark and dark. The smell is worse, it smells like raiders, it smells like death, and Stiles tenses up again.
"There's not much I can do," he says, already pulling the covers back up to Richard's neck. "He needs antibiotics."
"Is he going to die?" Stiles asks. He sounds small, lost, the most scared Derek has ever heard him be. He should leave, he should go back to the room they've gotten and leave Stiles alone -- he's been here, watching Laura pale and wan on a clinic bed, he's seen the same defeated slump in a doctor's shoulders that tells him everything he needs to know. He lifts his hand, goes to move away and pull back. "Don't," Stiles says, his voice hush and low. "Stay."
ix.
Stiles fucks him hard that night, like if he just holds on tight enough, digs his hands in, bruises Derek just the right amount, everything might change. He fucks Derek like he's desperate, like leaving bite marks along collarbones grounds him and brings him back. Derek's not quite sure what to do, he kisses back and loops his fingers through Stiles' and whispers it's okay like it might actually be.
x.
Richard dies five days after they arrive. Stiles says by his side for twelve hours every day, clings to his hand and rambles. Derek catches him sometimes, overhears stories and remember when's, you can't leave me, dad, I only have you, dad, please, he hears about Stiles' mom and little things Stiles hadn't already told him about his life before. He brings Stiles food, sandwiches and water and stays until he's sure he's eaten it and then he leaves, gives Stiles his time alone because he knows, he knows that Stiles would stop him if he wanted company.
On day five, Derek comes with the sandwich and finds Stiles on the floor, his breath coming in broken gasps, his hands covering his face. One glance at the bed, at the rumpled sheets, at the uncomfortable angle Richard's body's at and Derek knows. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do, he'd punched the first person to offer him platitudes after Laura, had smacked the doctor straight in the face and broken his nose. He'd almost punched him again when the doctor had just looked at him with something akin to pity. He probably would have, if it wasn't for wanting Laura to have a decent burial.
"Stiles," he tries, crouching down low next to Stiles. "I'm not going anywhere." He drops to his knees, leans forward and rests his hand on Stiles' shoulder, his lips against his forehead in a barely there kiss. "You're stuck with me now." Stiles' breath shudders and shakes but he pulls his hands away from his face. He's a mess, a complete mess, worse than he had been when Derek had first found him, months ago now even though it feels like barely days ago. He kisses him again, pushes Stiles' hair where it's getting too long back for his forehead and pulls him in close, holds Stiles tight against him and breathes with him, soothes him through the tremors.
It's not going to be okay, it's really not, but it might just skim the line, it might just be fine.