Derek woke up with a start when the door to his loft opened with a metallic screech. He was a light sleeper, a habit picked up days after Laura left for Beacon Hills, after he found her body in the woods, after his betas left one by one. He was a light sleeper because there was always someone after him: hunters, alphas, ancient kitsune spirits, his own uncle —crazed in the aftermath of the fire, of coming back to life. Derek was a light sleeper because he had no choice, because his life was ridiculous, because the universe had it out for him.
His eyes did a quick scan around the room and stopped on Stiles. He couldn’t see his face, still wrapped in the shadows of the Beacon Hills night, but his heartbeat was as familiar as his own.
Derek flinched when his bare feet touched the cold floor, but he didn’t stop to grab his shoes, concerned with the rapid, panicked breaths Stiles was holding back. He stood in front of him, hands just out of reach. “Are you hurt?”
Stiles shook his head, fidgeting under his gaze. For a moment, the shadows under his eyes brought him back another face, distorted by a sick smile as the creature fed on the city’s grief and strife. But this was Stiles, just Stiles, hands trembling slightly as he played with the hem of his own shirt.
“What happened?”
Stiles shook his head again, harder, a sob making its way past his cracked lips.
A dam broke inside him, his shoulders trembled with the weight of the water rushing in and his knees gave in under him. Derek caught him before he made it far, holding him with one hand on his hip and one on his shoulder. A half-sob, half-scream tore his throat and Stiles wrapped his arms around his waist, crying against his shoulder.
“I’ve got you, Stiles,” he wrapped his arms around Stiles and held him tightly. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, whispered on his hair like a mantra.
Stiles cried so intensely, Derek’s own heart was pounding in his ears. What if something happened to Scott? What if something happened to Stiles’ dad? His mind reeled with possibilities, but all that mattered right now was Stiles: Stiles who was right here and needed someone. Stiles needed him.
Like all the things that involved Stiles, this was easy, instinctual. There was no choice for Derek but to hold him, mumbling reassurances while sobs ravished his body. Derek held Stiles like the world depended on it because right now, it did.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, wrapped around each other, the loudest sound in the apartment was Stiles’ desperate crying leaving a wet spot of tears and snot on his shoulder.
Derek was surrounded by Stiles’ scent, dripping sorrow and loss. He knew that feeling all too well and his chest tensed knowing Stiles was drowning in that. A long time ago, Derek had had Laura to hold him through it, to guide his breathing after one panic attack too many. Did Stiles have anyone to bring him back?
Stiles was his friend. No, Stiles was pack —maybe Stiles was the link between the old Hale pack and Derek’s new pack— and Derek would help him through it. Whatever it was that had him in pieces, no matter the cost, no matter the consequences, he’d fix it. He told him as much. "I'm going to make everything okay, Stiles. I promise."
Stiles relaxed against his body with a deep sigh, his shoulders sagged with relief. I’ll fix it, damn it.
Derek’s chest was full of nebulous feelings he couldn’t name, thoughts that would be better left unsaid but couldn’t be stopped. They stirred in his stomach and his mouth tasted bitter for basking in this moment of vulnerability because it made them closer, because it made them something else entirely. Something more.
Stiles is my friend, he insisted. He’s my friend, he’s my—
Stiles stirred in his arms, burying his face deeper in the crook of his neck, his mouth breathing hot on his neck. In an attempt to level his heartbeat, Derek inhaled deeply, but all he got was a noseful of Stiles; it almost hurt to be this impossibly close, unable to say anything.
Eventually, his sobs softened, the tremors in his body subsided, and all that was left was Stiles’ spent breathing on his shoulder, unaware of the thoughts warring inside his head. Derek’s hands tightened around Stiles, squeezing once before letting his arms fall to his sides.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Derek understood. Some things hurt too much, cut too deep. Sometimes, Derek forgot Stiles’ life hadn’t been filled to the brim with violence until recently. He didn’t have practice in the art of losing everything. If Derek dwelled too long on that, he’d be the one breaking down.
“Come on,” he called, gesturing to his plain kitchen. Derek filled in the kettle and Stiles huffed a soft laugh in the back.
“Man, you gotta give me something stronger than tea.”
With a sigh, he put the kettle away and reached for an open bottle of vodka in the fridge. Derek poured two shots and downed his quickly, pouring a second one. Stiles lifted a questioning eyebrow in his direction. “What?”
Stiles just shook his head and drank. They stayed in silence after that, trapped in a staring contest where no one wanted to give in. Derek wondered whether Stiles would do anything else, if he’d ask something else, if he’d hold Derek’s own words against him. Instead, he walked to Derek’s bed and sat on the edge, chewing his words before speaking.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
Derek knew the smile that formed in his lips was telling, but Stiles didn’t seem to notice. Derek would let him stay forever.
“You can have the bed,” he said instead.
“Derek.” When Stiles said his name, it was a tired whisper, a silent request. Derek didn’t have to think it twice. He walked to his dresser and changed his shirt and by the time he made it back to bed, Stiles was already bundled in the covers, only the top of his head visible. Derek shook his head and got in the bed, keeping his distance from Stiles.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to stop his mind from spiraling at the thought of being in bed with someone else. The last time he had been with someone in bed was a hazy, painful recollection filled with shifting faces and whispered words that could’ve been a spell for all he knew. Derek remembered that night with the same feelings he recalled the feeling of drowning, of wanting to swim away but having your body be paralyzed from the neck down.
“Derek.”
When Stiles said his name, it was a question, it was an offer, it was an anchor, and damn if that wasn’t poetic, huh? Derek’s breathing leveled when he thought of Stiles’ eyes trusting and vulnerable when he came through the door, of Stiles’ arms wrapped around his waist holding on for dear life; he thought of Stiles’ unwavering loyalty, how he’d risk everything for those he loved; he thought of Stiles coming back for him time and time and time again. Stiles would always be there and Derek was hit with the realization that he would never leave him. It would be this for him until the day Stiles decided to leave himself.
Derek’s life was ridiculous.
He held his hand out across the mattress and Stiles took it cautiously, bringing it up to his face, rubbing his cheek against it in a gesture that made the wolf part of his brain roar possessively. Derek stroked his thumb across his cheekbone, his nose, all the way down to his cupid’s bow. Stiles kept his eyes on him the whole time, still under his hand.
Anchor. He savored the word in his mind, turning it around with care. Would it be so bad to let himself be held together by this?
“May I?” Stiles’ hand reached for his face, but hovered an inch from touching his face. Derek hated that Stiles knew to ask.
“Yes.” A whisper, almost a prayer. When Stiles’ hand touched his face, his heart raced, his mouth dried. But Stiles didn’t do anything else but touch his face softly, looking into his eyes with an adoration that hurt.
They stayed like that, silent in the moonlight until the light of dawn bled through the windows. When Derek’s eyes couldn’t stay open any longer, he fell asleep with Stiles’ hand still on his cheek. It was the best sleep he had in years.