Fic: Chipping Down The Walls, pre-Derek/Stiles, PG-13
Title: Chipping Down The Walls
Pairing: pre-Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Additional info: angst, language, mental health issues, this is basically a S2-era shouting match with unexpected feelings, the steering wheel incident and the Miguel incident are both addressed
A/N: After the events of Abomination, Stiles tracks Derek down for a pleasant little chat. It doesn’t exactly go according to plan.
Summary: “What, you gonna break out your big bad werewolf claws and gut me?” And that - finally - gets a response. Gets a slight flare of Derek’s nostrils, and an even worse glare, but it’s better than that blank look, and Stiles can’t stop a smile that he feels is probably more of a snarl. Wonders when, exactly, he reached the point of just not giving a damn about pissing Derek off. When he stopped being afraid of him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. So you can just stand here and listen to me tell you how fucking sad it is that you honestly think that I only didn’t kill you because you’re useful.”
“Derek! I know you can hear me. Now stop lurking and come out and talk to me, you stubborn -” Stiles cuts himself off right there, because there’s no need to make things any worse. He’s standing outside the - well. The frankly awful train car that Derek is apparently calling home now; and he bites down the pang of sympathy, and drops his backpack to the ground, fully expecting an angry werewolf to appear from out of nowhere. “Come on, man. I know you’re hiding somewhere, probably planning exactly how you’re going to kill a thus-far unkillable giant lizard creature, so -”
“You’re annoying.”
Stiles doesn’t quite shriek, but it’s pretty damn close; and he flails around to find Derek glaring at him. Flails so hard he bashes his arm into the side of the train car - and Derek, the bastard, makes no move to help him. Just stares at him with that stupid blank expression of his while Stiles hold on to his elbow, and Stiles glares for all he’s worth. Tries to ignore the tiny part of him that’s getting distracted by the sight of Derek in nothing but a stupid dirty white tank top, because Derek is a jerk, and Stiles really needs to not pay attention to how stupidly attractive he is.
“And you’re a jackass. Like, colossal douchebag. I saved your life. Scaring me to death would be shitty repayment.”
“You kept me alive so that -”
“No. And that’s why I’m here. Like, I really shouldn’t even give a damn, actually -”
“Go home.”
“- but do you honestly think that if I hadn’t needed you for your super werewolf fighting powers, I’d have just let you drown?”
“Why else?”
And Derek - it’s kind of creepy, actually, how he can apparently have entire conversations without emoting beyond that blank face of nothingness. Anger, sure - lots of that, actually - but Stiles has never seen him anything but angry and glaring, or just looking so stoned-faced it’s - a little bit creepy. And Stiles is so busy having this epiphany that he almost misses the words. Scowls even harder when they sink it.
“Um, because you’re a living breathing sentient being and I generally try not to kill those?” It still gets him nothing but that blank look, and Stiles really kind of wants to punch him in his stupid attractive face even more than usual. “Oh my god, Derek. You’re a giant douchebag who’s beaten the shit out of my best friend on more than one occasion, and you’re the dick who apparently thinks that recruiting teenagers to your pack is a sane leadership decision -”
“I told them everything. The hunters, the -”
“Not the point, man.”
“Then talk fast, because -”
“Or, what, you gonna break out your big bad werewolf claws and gut me?” And that - finally - gets a response. Gets a slight flare of Derek’s nostrils, and an even worse glare, but it’s better than that blank look, and Stiles can’t stop a smile that he feels is probably more of a snarl. Wonders when, exactly, he reached the point of just not giving a damn about pissing Derek off. When he stopped being afraid of him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. So you can just stand here and listen to me tell you how fucking sad it is that you honestly think that I only didn’t kill you because you’re useful.”
And that - Derek flinches. Actually full-on flinches, and drops his eyes, and - wow. Stiles apparently hit a nerve with that one. Hadn’t even been trying to. Breathes through the wave of unexpected guilt, and finds himself unable to keep ranting, his voice getting stuck in his throat and his stomach clenching uncomfortably. Tries to remind himself that Derek has hurt Scott, and that he apparently thinks Stiles is a horrible person who’d have let him drown for kicks, and that -
Or maybe it’s nothing to do with Stiles. Maybe it’s everything to do with Derek, and with that world of issues that can probably be seen from space. Maybe people do only keep Derek around for when they need something from him - it’s not like he’s got the kind of personality that would make him a lot of friends, and not like he’d probably ever let anyone in to start digging into the why of him being such a jackass. Realizes, suddenly, that Derek has gotten his angry glaring face back on, while Stiles was thinking, and is now scowling at Stiles so hard it looks almost painful.
“Go home, Stiles.”
“Look, that was - kind of douche-y of me. I should have probably - sugar-coated that one, a bit.”
“Oh my god, stop talking, or I swear -”
“Oh, back to the threats, are we? Gonna throw me against some more walls? Smash my head into something else? Not sure if we’ve got any steering wheels around here, but -”
“You paraded me around like a piece of meat!”
And - oh.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, Derek looking more pissed off than Stiles has seen in a long time - and that’s a definite wave of guilt, right there, because - Stiles hadn’t thought of it like that. Derek’s a solid wall of jackass werewolf muscle and stubble, and he could break Stiles in half with one hand, and - that’s still not an excuse. Maybe Derek isn’t the only douchebag in this situation. And now Derek is doing something with his face that Stiles thinks might be - less anger and more just exhausted? God, though, Stiles has never met someone who was harder to read.
“Forget it. Just - go home.”
“No, I - dammit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have -”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“But you need to stop thinking that - violence, and bodily harm, are the answer to everything.”
“It’s worked for me so far.”
“But it hasn’t. How are you not getting that yet?”
“Oh, yes, because you and Scott make the best decisions.”
It’s damn near close to a snarl - and Stiles knows exactly what that expression looks like on Derek’s face - and Stiles should probably be concerned, here. Should realize that, even if Derek won’t kill him, there’s still a chance of bodily harm if Stiles keeps pushing - they’re in some old train building, for fuck’s sake, and Stiles is antagonizing a giant alpha werewolf who’s spent the last few weeks going mad on alpha power - but he’s not frightened, somehow. Maybe there was something to that therapist who’d asked Stiles if his impulsive behaviour could have been hiding something deeper. Maybe Stiles does have a bit of a death wish. Or at least a deep masochistic streak.
“Why are you still here.”
“Dude, I do that. I zone out while I think. You’ll just have to get used to it.”
“No, I won’t, because you are leaving.”
“You harm a pretty hair on my head and I guarantee Scott’ll leave you for dead the next time you need help.”
“No, he won’t. Because he needs me alive.”
“Oh, great. And we’ve come full circle to your existence hinging on you being useful.”
And that is apparently Derek’s breaking point, because he pushes past Stiles without another word. Damn near shoves him out of the way - enough that Stiles is in danger of making painful contact with the side of the train again - and Stiles - probably does have a death wish. Because his hand is on Derek’s arm, somehow, and Derek’s glaring at him like he’s about to break out the fangs and claws and take a swipe; but he’s still letting Stiles hold him there, and Stiles - has no idea what that means. Knows that Derek has to be able to hear how hard Stiles’ heart is beating.
“Let go of me.”
“Not until -” And, fuck, the words want to get stuck in his throat. If anything, it just makes him hold on a little tighter to Derek’s arm. Derek’s bare arm. His skin soft under Stiles’ fingers. Jesus christ. “Not until y-you get that we don’t actually want you dead, you insane bastard. Not until -”
“I said -”
“Alright, sure, I’ve suggested it to Scott before, but mostly in joking, and you’ve s-saved our asses more than once, and -” He’s still stuttering a bit, fuck, can’t stop the flush he knows is creeping up his face, “- and I kind of hate you sometimes and I definitely don’t trust you, but - can’t we work together?”
“Why, because you don’t want me dead anymore?”
And that - that is definitely close to another snarl. That is Derek being a mean, snarky, snarling bastard, and suddenly grinning at him in a way that looks more like he’s just baring his teeth, and it’s really fucking scary and incredibly sad at the same time, and Stiles is sick of this, and -
“No, you idiot, because you have a wall ten feet fucking high that screams do not touch me¸ and nobody gets like that without being hurt, and maybe I get that, alright? And maybe I want -”
And Stiles cuts himself off. Hadn’t meant to say that. Knows that it’s true - wants, for whatever insane reason, to maybe be someone Derek could talk to, but - hadn’t meant to say that. Really hadn’t meant to. Watches as Derek stares at him, his expression going absolutely blank in that disconcerting way of his - and then Derek’s hand curls around his wrist, over his rabbiting pulse, and yanks his hand away. Drops it between them, and Stiles - can’t speak, suddenly. Swallows hard and looks down. Knows that Derek is still standing there, but doesn’t know what to say - until the silence stretches too long, and Stiles raises his eyes to find Derek still just staring at him, even more unreadable than normal. Like maybe he’s trying very hard to not feel something. Like maybe Stiles has hit another nerve. And no matter how guilty Stiles might feel about that - this is not the time to stop pushing. They have a kanima to kill, and Derek is being an idiot about it.
“Look, Derek, just - if you would just work with us instead of against us, then -”
“I’m not working against you -”
“Sure feels like it.”
“- and you - you need to stop pushing. Leave me alone. Get out of here. I mean it.”
“What, so you can go back to brooding alone in your beat-up old train of repressed emotions?”
It’s not smart, but he doesn’t care, suddenly. Isn’t surprised to end up with his back against the train, and Derek’s hand in his sweater, and Derek right up in his personal space, just like that day in his bedroom, and - Stiles’ heart is slamming, fight or flight kicking in, making him shake all over with it; though there’s a small crazy part of him that’s thinking, fight, flight or fuck. Derek’s mouth is too close, and Stiles’ knees have gone weak, and his dick’s already stirring, and - this is insane. Derek’s all blanked-faced, still creepy and dangerous and power mad - and Stiles isn’t frightened. Really probably should be, but he’s probably too angry to feel anything much beyond that.
“Oh, so we’ve reached the stage of violence, then?”
“You have no idea what I’ve been through. No idea why I am what I am.”
“Well, I've still got the number for a good therapist, if -”
“Stiles -”
“I’m serious. God. And I’ll stop pushing you when your issues stop putting people in danger.”
He can hear how badly his voice is shaking, and when Derek’s face somehow goes even blanker, Stiles obviously has shitty self-preservation instincts, because he wraps his hand around Derek’s wrist. Doesn’t try to push him away - knows he’ll never move Derek unless Derek wants to be moved. Just keeps it there, his fingers tight against Derek’s warm skin, as Derek stares at him. Takes a deep breath and tries to ignore how hot his body is burning from being so close to Derek. Focuses on the anger and pushes away anything else - because this is more important than Stiles’ dick.
“Look, just - Scott was right, okay? We’re going after something that’s stronger than you. And nobody trusts anyone. You, for sure, don’t trust anyone. And that’s going to get people killed.”
“And you think I should trust you.”
“I think you should try. Give me a chance to -”
“Problem, Derek?”
It’s quite possibly the last voice Stiles could have wanted to hear in this situation. Closes his eyes for a second, hating absolutely everything - and then cranes his head to where Erica’s standing with her arms crossed, that stupid cocky smirk on her lips, and Isaac and Boyd standing to either side of her, and - Derek, Stiles can deal with. Boyd, too, maybe. Doesn’t trust either Erica or Isaac, though, to not do something batshit insane that could result in Stiles bleeding on the floor.
“Stiles was just leaving.”
Stiles gets his eyes back to Derek just as Derek steps back, letting him go and leaving him leaning against the train, his legs still not quite working right underneath him, and - Derek is still completely unreadable. Stiles has quite literally no idea what he’s thinking. Stares right back at him for a second - is very, very aware of three other angry werewolves standing far too close by - and then thinks, fuck it. Fumbles for where his backpack is lying on the ground, and yanks out a pen and an old rolled-up cafeteria receipt. Scribbles his new cell number on it and then shoves it at Derek, who - doesn’t take it, of course. Just stares at him until Stiles gets even more pissed and - wants to shove it right into Derek’s chest, but is pretty sure he’ll end up with Isaac’s claws in his back. Settles for placing it on the train steps. Turns back around to find Derek’s face doing something funny. Something that looks almost surprised, maybe - but Stiles isn’t going to wait around to try to figure that one out. Not when he’s pretty sure he still has a bruise from where Erica hit him. Picks up his backpack and then does his best to keep ignoring the other wolves.
“If you decide to actually help us, text anytime. Or call. Or whatever. Just -”
“Best get lost, Stilinski. Nobody wants you here.”
He can almost hear the smirk in Isaac’s voice, and Stiles, desperately, tries to remind himself that every single one of them has been hurt, and that Stiles and Boyd seem to be the only ones who are dealing with that with any kind of sanity. Settles for ignoring Isaac in favour of one last look at Derek - who’s frowning at him, now, in a way that Stiles still can’t decipher - before Stiles turns and walks away, feeling four sets of eyes in his back as he does. Tries to forget how good it had felt to have Derek that close. Knows that he’ll have, You have no idea what I’ve been through, running on a loop in his head for a while. Clutches tighter to his backpack and fumbles for his new phone, dialing Scott’s number with hands that aren’t quite steady, everything inside him hurting and his heart beating too quickly as he gets out of there as fast as his shaky legs can carry him.