Stiles's fingers slide over the back of Derek's neck, sweat making his path across Derek's skin smooth and easy. Derek shudders, breath hot against Stiles's ear.

"Fuck," it could be either one of them, Stiles was thinking it, but it's Derek's voice that spills out. There's a tongue against Stiles's ear, followed by warm breath and a pause, as if words were waiting, wanting to be said but then the moment broke and the heat and weight of Derek gone, pushing himself up with a flex of his muscles and pulling out of Stiles's body. Stiles winces and there's a flicker of concern across Derek's face before its gone, replaced with the usual blankness. Stiles swallows down the lump of self disgust in his throat as Derek stretches, scratches at his belly and yawns. He looks so lupine in that moment, teeth clamped over his bottom lip and stubble dark against his jaw line that Stiles has to stifle the hysterical giggle that threatens to bubble up his throat. Derek glances at him. "You should get home."

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, scratching at the rapidly drying come on his stomach that is starting to itch, "I should." He doesn't move and Derek seems to have an internal debate about whether to throw Stiles out or to lie back down next to him. The latter wins out and the bed shifts as Derek crawls in to it. His fingers trace up the trail of hair on Stiles's stomach.

"We should probably stop this," he mutters and Stiles clamps his hand around Derek's.

"Yeah, we probably should," Stiles replies as Derek slides his hand out from Stiles's grip.

"I could hurt you," Derek frowns, his eyebrows drawing together and a line forming between them. Stiles scoffs and reaches out to smooth the line. Derek ducks out of reach.

It's the same old argument, the one that happens every time they give in and allow themselves to touch each other. Derek's all mature and "we can't do this" and Stiles just lets him say it. It's a one sided argument and sometimes Stiles feels that he should argue back, should tell Derek that what they have, whatever the hell it is, is worth the risk. Because no one's ever fitted with Stiles the way Derek does.

"It'll upset the Pack dynamic," Derek tries a different angle and Stiles raises an eyebrow as Derek runs his hands over his face.

"Who are you trying to convince?" Stiles ask and Derek's shoulders tense even more than normal.

"Stiles," Derek sighs and sits up; turning his back on Stiles and Stiles feels his stomach drop. He's lost this time, these arguments invariably go one of two ways, Derek giving in, leading to several mind blowing orgasms, or Derek what he's doing now, shutting down, closing himself off from Stiles. It used to hurt, oh who is he kidding? It still hurts but it is also starting to piss Stiles off.

"Fine," Stiles pushes himself up and grabs his pants, discarded in haste earlier. Derek makes an aborted move to stop him; his fingers extending, as he reaches out, then curling back in on themselves as he stops himself.

"I just…"

"It's fine," Stiles grits out as he pulls his pants on then grabs his t-shirt. The materials soft and he wrings it in his hands, "Just…call me when you grow a pair ok?"

Derek may try to stop him, may call him name but Stiles doesn't hear over the sound of his own blood coursing through his veins. He's furious, he always is and he doesn't even know why he keeps coming back to Derek if this happens every. Single. Time.

Remember the mind blowing orgasms, his mind helpfully supplies and he curses himself as he starts his jeep. His baby starts first time, bursting into life under his hands and he peels out of Derek's drive and manages to get halfway home before his hands start shaking.

…

"Idiot," Derek mutters to himself as he watches Stiles's tail lights disappear through the trees.

Stiles is…well Stiles is Stiles and there's no other way to describe him. And he's gotten so far under Derek's skin that Derek doesn't even remember what it felt like to not have Stiles in his life. He's become part of the Pack. Whether intentionally or not. All members equally respect and adore him. Even Jackson, although he would die under torture before admitting it. And Derek's no exception. Stiles has proved himself again and again and even if they did stop this, whatever it is, Derek knows that Stiles will still be pack.

He's not even sure he wants to stop this; he knows he should but his wolf wants Stiles. And it's winning. That's what scares him most of the time, that clawing, crawling feeling under his skin whenever Stiles is near, how badly the wolf wants out to feel Stiles's skin under claws instead of fingernails. He means it when he says he could hurt Stiles, he really could. Or worse he could turn him, make him into one of them when Stiles has never given any indication that he wants that. Derek would never ask, he just knows Stiles.

And that's what it boils down to. Derek knows Stiles. Knows the way he uses sarcasm as a defence, the way he jokes when he's hurting, the hitch in his breath when he's about to come. He knows that Stiles would protect his father with his life. He would protect the Pack too. Derek's seen that happen, seen the cheeky gleam in Stiles's eyes turn dangerous, seen the way Stiles can flick from amused to dark in an instant when someone he loves is in danger. Stiles has that darkness in him and Derek hates that more often than not it's him that brings it out. Hates the he had to watch Stiles gut a Succubus, watch blood spill over Stiles's hands as Stiles drove the knife into the woman's chest. Derek hates that Stiles had to do that for them. For him.

Stiles is the best of them and Derek doesn't want to soil that.

…

"You didn't?" Lydia wrinkles her nose at Stiles as she drops onto the couch next to him. Stiles shifts closer and a slim arm comes around his waist, lipglossed lips press to his cheek briefly before she pulls away.

"Didn't what?"

"Again Stiles? Really? Your self esteem is that bad?" Lydia leans back and crosses her arms, looking formidable if not tiny and elegant. Lydia's good at that.

"Lyds," Stiles presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, he's tired, his eyes gritty and lids heavy. Lydia pulls his hand down and glares at him.

"No don't 'Lyds' me, Derek doesn't deserve you Stiles I have told you this, if he can't come out and say how much he cares about you," Stiles opens his mouth and Lydia pokes him in the chest, "shut up and listen to me, I know he cares for you because I have eyes, if he cant come out and say it then he needs to grow a pair, grow up, or fuck off." She nods once to make her point and Stiles's lips curl at one corner.

"You're so sexy when you're being pushy about my love life," he grins, halfheartedly; he can feel the lack of realness for himself.

"Or lack there of," Lydia mutters, picking a flake of nail varnish off her nail and flicking it at Stiles.

"Ouch Lyds," Stiles clutches at his chest and Lydia shrugs.

"Truth Stiles, there's not much love is there?"

Stiles sighs and Lydia hooks her arm into the curve of Stiles's and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Sometimes," Stiles says, his lips pressing against Lydia's hair. Lydia shifts but doesn't lift her head, just clutches her fingers around his wrist. "Sometimes I just think it would be better if I wasn't here…like at all."

Lydia lifts her head and punches his shoulder.

"Don't you fucking dare say something like that, ever," she glares at him and Stiles shakes his head as suddenly clarity of what she thinks he meant hits him like a sledgehammer.

"No…no that's not what I meant. I wouldn't do that Lydia you know that. I meant, if I just…I dunno, never existed." He trails off with a shrug and Lydia punches him again.

"What is wrong with you?" she practically shouts, pushing herself off the couch and Stiles has only seen her this angry and handful of times. "Do you have no idea how special you are? I mean for fucks sake Stiles…do you have any idea what that would do to your dad? To me?"

"I never would have existed, so you wouldn't know," Stiles counters, stupidly, like he's poking an angry bear. Lydia practically growls.

"Urgh, I am so angry with you right now I…can't…" Lydia runs her tiny hands through her hair and glares at him again. "Is this because of Derek?"

"No…" Stiles shrugs and looks up at her, "not entirely. I mean think about it. Scott wouldn't be hiding his relationship from his girlfriends dad if I hadn't been here to drag him out into the woods that night. You would never had gotten hurt, my dad? My dad wouldn't have been fired," Stiles can hear the exhaustion in his voice, the bone deep ache of tiredness at their lot in life. Lydia crosses her arms over his chest.

"He got his job back Stiles," she reasons and Stiles pushes himself to his feet.

"That's not the point Lydia and you know it. All this crap that's happened…it's all on me," he sounds young, even to his own ears, small and young and scared and Lydia touches his arm gently.

"Stiles…"

"I killed a woman Lydia," he all but whispers and Lydia's hand curls around his wrist.

"She wasn't human," Lydia whispers back, her thumb stroking over the top of his wrist.

"I know but…I can still see the way her pupils went wide as I stabbed her…Lydia…I can still feel her blood on my hands," he uncurls his arms from his chest and looks at her. Lydia bites on her bottom lip.

"Stiles I hate that you had to do that for us, I do, but…"

"But nothing," Stiles interrupts, and for some reason anger bubbles under his skin. He grits his teeth together and Lydia shakes her head.

"No…but this…you are the best of us Stiles, ok? You once talked me out of going on a suicide mission…" she says and looks pointedly at him.

"That was different," he practically sulks, crossing his arms over his chest again. Lydia cocks her head to the side and raises on perfect eyebrow over an eye.

"Was it?" Was it different? Was stopping Lydia racing into help Jackson when she had no idea what she was dealing the same as stopping Stiles from talking about never existing? "You said you'd be devastated if anything happened to me…well guess what Stiles? I would be too," Lydia's bottom lip wobbles and her eyes brim with unshed tears. He can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Lydia cry. She's always so strong, so sure of herself. So stupidly in control but she's looking at Stiles now like she has no idea what to do.

"I'm not talking about killing myself Lydia," Stiles starts and Lydia narrows her eyes and pokes a manicured finger into his chest.

"I don't care what you're talking about, Stiles Stilinski, if you disappear I will hunt you down and kill you myself…you got that?" There's a hint of humour in her eyes, like she's trying to lighten the mood and Stiles wants to kiss her for it. There's still a lingering tinge of 'what if' that skitters across his skin though and Stiles looks down to where her hand's flat against his chest.

"…I got it." He says, looking up at her. She smiles and it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Good."

…

It's not that Stiles hates his life. He really doesn't. Just sometimes he wishes it would all…just stop.

The guilt at lying to his dad for so long, the ever present hole where his mom used to be. The fact that because of him his best friend turned into something that no-one should know exists.

Since the whole mountain ash thing, Deaton's been teaching Stiles more and more. Stiles wouldn't describe himself as anything other than normal (apart from obviously his best friend and sometimes fuck buddy being werewolves) but on more than one occasion the things he can do (he would hesitate to call it magic) have managed to save the day. Deaton's calm and easy to learn from and Stiles has looked forward to their lessonsas a way to escape from everything else going on in his life. Here, with Deaton, Stiles doesn't think about Derek or the way he pushes inside Stiles's body or the way he tries to push Stiles away afterwards. He doesn't think about how his dad must be feeling, with Stiles keeping everything from him. Sometimes he wonders how his dad doesn't know what the hell is going on, the whole group of them turning down college to stay in Beacon Hills with some older grouchy guy who keeps them all on a tight leash. It must seem weird to other people but to Stiles…somehow…it's become perfectly normal.

"You just need to relax," Deaton says, blowing out the candle that stands between them on the metal table. Stiles sighs, he's tried, but the usual calm he feels here in the veterinary clinic just isn't happening. "Are you sleeping?" Deaton asks suddenly and Stiles looks up from the ring of red power around the white candle to Deaton's face.

"What?"

"Are you sleeping?" Deaton asks again and Stiles sighs once more.

"Most of the time," Stiles replies, "sometimes though I…"

"Still see her face?" Deaton cocks his head to the side like a curious animal and Stiles blinks slowly before nodding his head. "It's expected," Deaton says, brushing the powder with the side of his hand into a small pile. "You can't do the things you did and not see her face. If you didn't, you wouldn't be human. Our remorse, our guilt makes us human Stiles." He sweeps the powder back into the bottle and screws the lid shut. There's an old faded lable peeling slightly at one corner and Deaton absently runs his fingers over it, like he can stick it back together.

"I killed someone," Stiles says and looks down at his hands like he can still see the blood on them.

"You killed something, to protect your pack," Deaton counters, his voice firm. "We all have that ability Stiles, the trick is not to let the darkness get the better of you."

Stiles blinks again because he can't figure out what else to do, because he can feel darkness seeping into his veins. What scares him the most about killing the succubus, is not the horror at seeing life seep out of seemingly human eyes, it's the rush he felt as the life drained, the adrenaline, the way his hands didn't shake at all as he slide the knife between the things ribs. The fact that he would do it again in an instant if it meant protecting those he loves.

"Stiles, there comes a time when we all wonder how far we would go to protect our loved ones, it doesn't make us bad people," Deaton says, as if reading Stiles's mind. Stiles drags his teeth over his tender bottom lip where Derek's teeth bit in last night and sighs.

"I suppose," he agrees eventually. "I just sometimes wish I never knew I had the ability to do that…to kill someone," he shrugs again helplessly and Deaton places a warm, firm hand on his shoulder.

"If it helps, I wish that for you too."

It doesn't help.

…

It's just getting dark as Stiles pulls his jeep outside the front of his house. Warm lights spill from the kitchen window and Stiles smiles fondly at the shadow that moves across it. His dad is the one constant in all this, the one thing that's always been there, dependable, even though he has no idea what goes on, he's still there. Stiles pushes away the lingering guilt of his father losing his job over Stiles. That was a long time ago, it's over and done with now and The Sheriff is well and truly the Sheriff again.

Stiles slides out of his jeep and trudges up to the front door. He's tired, a bone deep tiredness that makes his eyes ache. But there's a book under his bed that he needs to read through, and Deaton's latest lesson is still swimming through his head. He hitches his backpack higher as he pushes the front door open and heads towards the stairs.

"Hi dad," he calls as he passes the kitchen and freezes at the foot of the stairs, hand clenched around the rail when no answer comes his way. "Dad?"

His dad's got his head in his hands, elbows braced against the table and there's a half bottle of Scotch in front of him, the dregs in a glass next to him. His hands shake slightly as he lifts his head and stares at Stiles.

"Stiles," it's like a sigh, like disappointment, like pleading and Stiles feels his blood turn to ice in his veins.

"Dad…what's going on?" John looks down at his hands like he expects to find the answer in the deep lines across his palm. Stiles feels his backpack slip from his shoulder but doesn't hear the thump as it hits the floor over the roaring of blood in his ears. "Come on dad…you're scaring me."

John takes a deep breath, shaky and ragged and palms his hands on the kitchen table, pushes himself up right. There's something resolute in his eyes and stance now, like a man on a death row and Stiles takes half a step towards the kitchen table, his palms itching as sweat prickles across the skin.

"Son…" John sounds like he's choking on the word. "Empty your pockets." It's so out of left field, and the determination in John's eyes, the way he steels himself, shoulders squared as he draws himself up and looks at Stiles makes Stiles's blood freeze.

"What? Dad I…" Stiles starts, words tripping out of his mouth and John shakes his head.

"Stiles…please, just…" he breaks off with a sigh and Stiles frowns, shoves his hands into his pockets, because this is his dad, his dad who has been through more than anyone should, who's kept this family together by sheer will power alone. The keys to the jeep and his wallet clatter to the kitchen table, a half packet of gum follows, a few bits of lint and a mangled tissue. John stares at the meagre pile and Stiles sees his throat bob as he swallows. Stiles feels nerves tiptoe up his spine as John lifts his gaze to Stiles. "And your backpack."

"No Dad…come on, what…"

"Just do it Stiles," John snaps and Stiles blinks, bends and lifts his backpack to the table without taking his eyes off his father. He upends it and the contents spill out over the table. John rakes his eyes over it as Stiles stares straight back at him and looking back Stiles would be able to pinpoint the exact moment John spied the silver flick knife that Deaton had given him. Long, curved, with an intricately carved ivory handle. John sighs and closes his eyes.

"Dad I can explain…" Don't think about it Stiles, Deaton had said, pushing the knife into his hands, straight through the ribs and into the heart, twist left…don't think. The woman's face floats to his mind as John snaps his gaze up to Stiles's.

"Don't," one word, softly said, but Stiles can hear the determination in it, the bone deep ache of betrayal as John shakes his head. "I didn't want to believe it…I couldn't…Stiles, what did you do?"

"Dad…I…"

"Skinny, red hoodie, 5'10, buzz cut. Stiles that was you," John runs his hands through his hair. "My own kid…but you're not a kid anymore are you? A kid doesn't gut a woman for no reason," John's face has gone blank, his voice betraying only a little of the emotion Stiles knows he must feel, a slight tremor as he talks and Stiles feels his knees shakes as his stomach twists.

"Dad…just let me…"

"Shut up Stiles," John drops into a chair, "I…I cant look at you right now. Go to your room…please Stiles," John adds as Stiles opens his mouth to protest. It's the please that does it, broken and so hurt and Stiles can practically taste betrayal. "We'll go to the station tomorrow, I'll hand over my badge and we'll…" John trails off and Stiles wants to say something, anything, but nothing will makes this ok, nothing will fix the pain he's seeing on his dad's face, not even the whole truth.

Stiles manages to get to his room before he realises what this means for him. His life, as he knows it, is over. No one can get him out of this, not even Derek and Deaton. Normal world laws apply even when the victim is a succubus. Stiles rakes his hands over his hair, panic settling in his blood as it pounds in his ears.

"Shit."

Stiles paces twice across the room. His dad thinks he killed someone. The Sheriff, the fucking town Sheriff is sitting downstairs with a half bottle of whiskey thinking his son murdered a woman in cold blood. His mom died and left John with Stiles who now repays him by killing someone. Stiles feels hot tears roll down his cheeks and he swipes them away angrily. He can't do this, he can't put his father through this. Not this, not after everything he's already been through because of Stiles.

The bookcase at the back of Stiles's closet is covered by clothes and Stiles pulls them all down, pulls books to the floor before he finds the small, leather bound book that Deaton gave him to study. It's insignificant to look at, but Stiles can almost feel the power as he pulls it from the shelf and opens it. The thin pages crackle as he flicks through it with enough force to break them, finds the page he wants, the illustration a colourful break in the black words. He runs his finger down the page, mentally collating ingredients in his head. He has a box stored at the back of his closet that mercifully still there. And he spares a prayer of thanks to whoever's listening that his dad, despite think his son is a murdering psychopath, still respects his privacy. The ingredients are easy enough, a touch of Wolfsbane, some Thyme, some Rosemary, something Silver and a drop of his blood. It mixes well enough, the thick, dark semi liquid coating the bottom of the silver bowl. Stiles hopes that will be enough Silver as he grabs the book again to check the incantation. He always felt stupid saying the foreign words, his mouth tripping over them, tongue feeling thick and useless as he tries to make sense of the strange syllables. His phone rings nosily beside him and Stiles doesn't even look at it as he says the Latin, and sets a match to the contents of the Silver bowl.

He doesn't see Derek's name flashing on his screen.

…

Derek stretches awake. The remnants of the dream lingering in his head as his skin prickles along the backs of his thighs and his stomach. It's only as his hand travels downwards, almost on its own volition that he realises he's hard, almost painfully so and the hazy image of large, golden brown eyes staring up at him hits him like a punch to the gut.

He dreams all the time, wakes up hard without remembering why, but this, this is new. The eyes are so real, still so vivid in his mind that he curls his hand around himself and strokes himself quickly. He can practically feel warm, wet heat around his cock and comes embarrassingly quickly.

"Derek, you alright?" Isaac asks over breakfast as Derek stares into the bottom of his coffee cup. The dregs of the rejuvenating caffeine the same colour as the eyes from his dream. Derek shakes himself and looks up at his beta.

"Yeah, fine, just…strange dream," Isaac nods sagely and shovels another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

It's strange sometimes, watching his pack move around him. It's small but it's tight and Derek wonders when the hell he got so lucky. Sure he hand picked them from the High School, picking up teens that needed help. But he picked well, he thinks. In his darker moments he lets himself think how wrong it was to prey on teenagers, but now, looking at Erica laugh and look fondly at Isaac and Boyd clap Derek on the shoulder as he walks passed, dropping a kiss to Erica's head, its easy to forget that.

Erica looks up from her newspaper and frowns at Derek.

"Sure you're alright?" She puts her hand to her shoulder where Boyd's rests against her leather jacket, thumb brushing over the side of her neck and Derek can hear her heart rate pick up. He nods then decides he needs to be an adult and throws the rest of his coffee down his throat.

"School…" they collectively groan like children and Derek ignores the desire to smile at them.

The front door slams and Derek runs a hand through his hair.

His dream floats back to his mind, wide brown eyes, sparkling with mischief and Derek sighs, presses his hand to the front door and leans his forehead against the wood.

…

It gets worse after that, the constant feeling that something, someone, is missing from his life. Some vital part of his life has been taken away. The Pack try to make him feel better, Erica using soft words and Isaac using his solid presence to make Derek feel calmer. It used to but it doesn't any more.

"What's going on?" Boyd leans back against the counter and presses a bottle into Derek's hand. Derek curls his fingers around the glass and uses his thumbnail to score a line in the damp label.

"Nothing," Derek shrugs and steals a look at Boyd. One eyebrow's raised over the other and Derek rolls his eyes. "Seriously…nothing…just…"

"Erica's worried," Boyd says, bottle half way to his lips before taking a long pull. "I mean, she's usually always worried about something, but this time I think she has a point. Is something coming again?" There's his own worry in Boyd's voice and Derek shakes his head.

"No, I promise. We've dealt with a lot Boyd, but we've fought them off. They know we're strong, no matter how small we are," Derek represses a shudder as he thinks of the way he nearly lost two thirds of his pack to the Alpha's. How he was forced to use the combined strength of a bunch of teenagers to rid the town of Peter, how they've all had their own demons to fight. Boyd nods and mirrors Derek's action with the label.

"Well what then? You in love?" Boyd snorts out a laugh and Derek lets a low growl escape from his throat.

"I miss him," he hears himself sigh.

"Who?"

"I don't know," he shrugs and ignores the confused look from Boyd. "I just…there's mean to be someone here and I can't figure out who, or why he's not here, or how the hell I know that, I just do."

"You should speak to Deaton," Boyd says, dropping his bottle onto the counter with a quiet clatter. He crosses his arms over his chest.

"Why? Because you think I'm going crazy?" Derek raises an eyebrow and Boyd shrugs.

"I don't think that, but if you think you are maybe you should talk to him. He at least could maybe shed some light on it," Boyd claps him on the shoulder and like that the conversations done.

Boyd's right, of course he is, he nearly always is. His calm sense of authority would make him the perfect Alpha should anything ever happen to Derek. But it also serves to calm the whole pack down when Isaac gets too emotional or Erica too angry. Or Derek to stoic and standoffish. In his more sentimental moments Derek thinks he's the glue that holds this pack together. Boyd was the one who talked Erica out of leaving to join another pack. Boyd was the one who nursed Isaac back to health after the Alpha pack nearly gutted him alive. Who bought Derek back after he had to kill his own uncle.

These kids deserve more than an Alpha who thinks he's going crazy.

…

Things get worse after that, Derek still dreams of the big brown eyes, the soft mouth, the warm willing body. But the dreams don't always make Derek wake up with his cock straining against his boxers. Sometimes he wakes up irritated, ready to punch the first thing that crosses his path, but there's something else under the irritation, something…domestic and fond. Sometimes he wakes up worried as hell like he can practically feel blood under his hands and see the brown eyes dimming.

The dreams filter into the day now, and more than once Derek's had to blink and shake his head to clear it as images appear in windows, mirrors and he swears he hears voices sometimes, echoes of what could have been, what is…hell he doesn't even know the right tense to use. But there's voices, and sometimes his own answers back the lilting voice in his head. Like a far off home video of a time that Derek shouldn't remember but does.

He drops a jar of peanut butter on the floor in the grocery store when he catches sight of the face he knows so well but shouldn't. The jar crashes to the floor and Erica gasps, jumping out of the way as Derek strides off down the aisle.

"Hey," his fingers curls around the arm in front of him, red hoodie soft between his fingers and the guy turns, irritation and fear mixed on his face.

"What's your problem jackass?" The guy wrenches his arm out of Derek's grasp.

"Sorry," Derek shoves his hands in his pockets, "thought you were someone else."

Disappointment floods his veins, it's not the same eyes glaring back at him, not the wide, generous mouth.

He doesn't even wait for Erica before he's out of the shop and storming down the road.

…

"You're not meant to remember me," a cock of the head and the eyes blink up at him. "I don't know why you do."

"I miss you," Derek reaches out, fingers closing around the face in front of him, thumbs brushing over cheekbones, the tips of his fingers finding patterns that don't exist in the moles on his skin.

"You shouldn't," breath against Derek's lips, "I don't understand." He pulls away and shakes his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"Who are you?" Derek breathes against his lips and he shakes his head sadly, pulling away.

"I'm nobody."

…

Derek wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright as sweat trickles down his chest. The ghost of the young man's touch still lingers on his skin and Derek rubs at the top of one arm to rid himself of the feeling. There's a deep ache in his chest when he breathes and Derek sighs, runs his hand through his hair as a clatter from the kitchen tells him Erica's awake and cooking.

She had been worried when he got back to the house last night. Isaac had been pacing the kitchen after her, chewing on his lip as Erica chewed on her thumb nail. Only Boyd had been normal, glancing up from his essay as Derek walked back into the kitchen to find himself with an armful of Erica. She's then punched him on the arm and told him never to make her worry like that again. Derek had thought of disciplining her to pushing the boundaries between Alpha and Beta but those days were gone. They were all more or less equal now and Derek preferred it that way.

I'm nobody.

Derek sighs heavily again, a headache building between his eyes as he makes his way down to the kitchen.

"Pancakes?" Erica nods at the frying pan on the stove and Derek shakes his head, reaching for the coffee instead.

"Where is everyone?" Erica slides a couple of pancakes onto a plate and slips into the chair next to him. She takes a mouthful before she answers.

"They've got Lacrosse practice, Boyd's helping Isaac with Lacrosse and Isaac's helping Boyd with Chem. They both have to keep their grades up if they want to graduate." Erica shrugs and reaches for her text books.

One of the disadvantages of having three High School seniors in the house is the sheer volume of books and mess they produce. Practically every surface in the kitchen is covered with scrappy bits of paper, Erica's pens and Isaac's chewed pencils, Post-It notes in every single colour imaginable and text books.

"Graduation…right," Derek rests his head on his hand and looks at Erica. She's grown up so much in the past two years. Elegant now when she was first a little trashy, there's something about her that calls for respect. She flicks a lock of hair over her shoulder and puts her knife and fork on the edge of her plate. She steeples her fingers under her chin thoughtfully before looking back at him.

"You will be there right?" She asks and Derek blinks at the hint of pleading in her voice.

"Erica I…"

"Only I know Isaac would want you there," she finishes, tucking her hair behind her ear. "And…"

"I'll be there," Derek interrupts and Erica bites on her bottom lip as she smiles gently.

"Good…" she takes another mouthful of pancakes. "Want to tell me what that was all about in the store yesterday?"

"Not really," Derek shrugs and Erica nods.

"Ok." It's what he loves about Erica, she doesn't push it. When she knows that Derek doesn't want to talk. She reaches out and covers Derek's hand with her own, squeezing gently before going back to her pancakes. "Sure you don't want some?"

"I'm good."

…

Derek thinks back about the talk with Erica as he lies in bed that night, the moon casting shadows on his ceiling as it spills through the trees. The very fact that all three of them want him there, at their graduation surprises him. Of course Isaac doesn't have anyone else accept pack, but Erica's got her family, and Boyd has his. They spend most of the time at the house, but sometimes it's just him and Isaac. Derek smiles despite himself, that after everything he still has some semblance of family.

You're not meant to remember me.

The confused voice echoes in his head again and Derek presses his pillow over his ears. It does little to drown out the voice, even less to stop the ache in his chest.

"Who are you?" Derek slides his hands down the young man's back, pulls him close and breathes in the scent that's so maddeningly familiar. Hands press to his lower back and the young man's blunt fingernails dig into his skin. The action reminds Derek of something that he cant put his finger on.

"I'm nobody," the reply is sad almost, regretful, but the hands on his back are sure and knowing as one finger traces around his tattoo without even being able to see it. Derek runs his nose up the side of the smooth column of neck in front of him.

"I think you're somebody to me," he says and gets a sad laugh in return, a light pushing against his chest. Derek holds on.

"That's not what you used to think," the eyes shut in front of him and the face turns away.

"Are you even real?" Derek slides his fingers under his chin and turns his face back to him. The young man sighs, runs his fingers down Derek's nose.

"Stop thinking," he says and presses his lips to Derek's.

"I can't."

…

Deaton looks surprised as he walks around from the back of the clinic and to be honest, Derek's not sure who is more surprised. He hadn't intended to drive here, just drive, and he found himself with his knuckles pressed to the door of the clinic before he could even process what he was doing.

"Derek…can I help you?" Deaton asks in his calm voice but Derek can hear the slight trip in his chest that belies his calm exterior.

"Do you ever get the feeling something's missing?" Derek blurts out and Deaton frowns, pulls up the divide between them and nods his head in the direction of the consultation room.

"Are we talking about the meaning of life?" Deaton cocks an eyebrow over one eyes and Derek sighs, runs both his hands through his hand then presses his palms to the metal table.

"I keep feeling like there's someone in my life…who isn't here anymore," he frowns at himself, the confusion he has felt since that first dream makes his words stunted, confusing to even him.

"Derek…you lost your whole…" Deaton starts and Derek shakes his head.

"No, not my family…someone else…someone…important. Like he was there one minute and now he's gone and no one else seems to know." Derek wants to shift, wants to run through the trees, no responsibilities, just him and his wolf. He feels it claw up his throat and clenches his hands into fists. Deaton takes a step back and leans against the counter behind him. The gesture could be simple but Derek catches a small hitch in his heartbeat.

"When did this start?" Deaton asks and Derek takes a deep breath through his nose, calming himself, and his wolf quiets beneath his skin.

"A few weeks ago, I had a dream about…someone," Derek remembers the brown eyes, staring up at him, waking up hard and feeling like he was missing something.

"And?" Deaton doesnt move, just nods his head slightly and Derek lets out a deep sigh.

"And now I keep dreaming about him and seeing him and…fuck…I'm even hearing him. What the hell is going on?" Derek cries and slams his hands against the metal table. Deaton blinks calmly at him.

"You sure about this? It could be delayed stress, or any number of other things," Deaton starts and Derek shakes his head.

"I'm not sure about anything anymore," he says and runs his hands through his hair. He had entertained the thought that he was going crazy a number of times. But the dreams are making more and more sense, like one of those magic eye pictures coming slowly into focus, just every time Derek's just about got the hidden image, he blinks and it's gone.

"Maybe you're lonely," Deaton says and Derek scoffs at the simple explanation.

"I have people in my life," he says and Deaton raises an eyebrow.

"A bunch of teenagers who are all looking to graduate and leave soon," Derek feels the words like a slap in the face, but Deaton continues before he has a chance to think on his pack leaving anymore, "but I didn't mean your pack. Maybe you're lonely for…"

"If you say mate, I swear to God I'm going to rip your throat out with my teeth," Derek practically growls and Deaton raises another eyebrow as an image of the brown eyes staring at him across the space of a crappy jeep comes flooding back into his mind.

"No need for threats, Derek," Deaton chastises.

"Wait…" Derek holds up his hand, it shakes slightly as he presses it to his forehead to think, "I've said that before," Derek reaches across to his left arm, fingers over a phantom pain on his biceps there.

"Knowing you, you've probably said it a number of times," Deaton replies and Derek shakes his head, remembering reaching up to hands that held themselves out to him, being pulled to his unsteady feet and trying to ignore the feel that the hands in his heeded to stay there forever.

"I said it to him," Derek whispers, "I said it to him and he didn't believe me...he..." Derek pushes himself away from the table and is walking out of the practice when Deaton shouts after him.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to talk to him," Derek misses the flicker of concern over Deaton's face as he pulls the car out of the parking lot and heads home to sleep.

…

"You used to be here…with me, didn't you?" Derek runs his fingers down the smooth skin, draws circles around the moles peppered across the face he knows so heartbreakingly well but can't remember.

"Yes," there's a sad nod and long fingers curl around Derek's wrist.

"Why did you go?"

"They think I did something, they think I hurt someone," he closes his eyes and Derek traces his fingers over his eyelids.

"Did you?" The big eyes open and Derek sees pain in them, haunted darkness that he doesnt ever want to see again.

"Yes…but it was something not someone," he shakes his head and tries to get out of Derek's grasp but Derek holds on like he needs to feel him in his hands.

"We'll figure it out…" the younger man frowns and shakes his head, "I don't even know your name but I know we'll figure it out," Derek says and the big brown eyes smile at him.

"…it's…Stiles." He stands and slips from Derek's fingers.

"Come back to me, Stiles."

…

"His name is Stiles," Derek barges into the examination room and Deaton looks up from the large cat sitting on the table. It hisses and arches its back and Deaton scratches between its ears and it settles, tail flicking as it glares at Derek.

"How do you know?"

"He told me," Deaton raises an eyebrow.

"Derek..."

"No, ok I know I sound crazy but I'm telling you, he used to be here and something happened and we have to get him back..."

"Derek I want you to talk to someone, she's a friend," the tone of voice is the same as the guidance counsellor that Derek had to speak to after his family burned, the same patronising, sympathetic tone that makes his blood boil and his skin itch with anger.

"I'm not going crazy..." the metal of the table dents under his hand as he slams his fists down on the surface and Deaton blinks but doesn't flinch. "And if you won't help me then I'll just have to figure this out on my own."

…

"I need you to tell me what you did," Derek runs his nose along the side of Stiles's neck as Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. Derek's skin slides along Stiles's, slick with sweat and Derek wants more.

"Why?" Stiles breathes out, a groan bubbling from his throat as Derek's teeth scrape over the skin behind his ear.

"So I can get you back," Derek says, brushing his lips across Stiles's mouth.

"I can't come back," Stiles whispers, holding Derek's face in two hot hands. He nudges Derek's nose with his before he lets him go and rolls out from under Derek. There's a strange glow illuminating Stiles from one side, casting shadows across his face that makes him look older, harder somehow.

"Dammit Stiles I need you," Stiles frowns at Derek's admission and then shakes his head, reaching out to Derek. Derek stands and avoids his touch.

"You don't even know me," Stiles says sadly, shaking his head again and Derek lets out a growl that Stiles doesn't flinch at. He smiles at instead.

"I do though," Derek says, "I don't how but I do...you're important to me, aren't you?" Stiles blinks and Derek holds his breath.

"Not as important as I wanted to be," Stiles says and Derek can feel himself waking, can hear someone calling his name far off as if underwater.

"Stiles..." he reaches for him and Stiles steps out of his reach.

"Let it go Derek, please, you're just chasing shadows...let me go."

"No..."

Derek blinks awake and tries to ignore the heavy press of loneliness as reality filters back in. Erica's looking at him from the doorway of his room with an expression that reads of worry and concern.

"It's four in the afternoon," she says and Derek blinks against the afternoon light that streams in the window as she pushes herself off the doorframe and wrenches the curtains open. "And you're asleep."

"I was tired," Derek grumbles, ignoring the way she sits on the edge of the bed like she wants to talk.

"Yeah...dreaming about someone that isn't here will do that to you," she says and Derek growls. She ignores him and for once Derek doesn't appreciate her argumentative spirit.

"Erica...I'm ok," he scrubs his hands over his face and he feels Erica's small hand against his knee.

"Sure you are," she replies and Derek looks at her. "You think anyone of us would still be here if we thought you were crazy?" She smiles slightly and he can't help but smile back at the young girl who's become so much more than one of his Beta's. Erica's the mother of the pack, she cooks, she keeps them all in line and more than once he's overheard Erica helping hapless Isaac out with girl problems at school.

"It's not like you're going to be here for much longer anyway," he shrugs and wants to slap himself for the childish attitude. Erica leans down into his eyeline and tucks a lock of blond hair behind her ear.

"We're not going anywhere...you're our Alpha Derek," she says and Derek cant help the bloom of pride that spreads through his chest. And for not the first time he wonders how he got so lucky with the misfit band of kids. He nearly lost them all before and he doesn't think he could go through that again.

"What about college?" Erica shrugs inelegantly and nudges at his shoulder.

"What about it? There's a perfectly good one here that we all got into, and anyway, this isn't about us and college," Erica grips his thigh gently once, "who is he?" Derek doesn't even have to ask who she's talking about but the question catches him off guard.

"How did you..." he stalls and Erica grins wryly.

"You forget I work with Deaton," she started recently, helping out with the animals where she could and she somehow managed to get Isaac a job as well where he's excelled.

"He's...I don't know. I just...he's meant to be here," Erica doesn't move, just looks at him with her head cocked to one side like she's trying to figure out if he's telling the truth or not.

"Then get him back," she says eventually, standing up and stretching out her arms in front of her, she links her fingers together then lifts them above her head.

"I don't know how," Derek looks down at his hands, studies the lines across his palms. Erica drops a hand to his shoulder.

"Well then, figure it out."

…

Derek sighs as the words swim before him, pages and pages of spells, incantations and lists of magical creatures that can induce amnesia all roll into one and there's a headache building behind his eyes.

He can practically feel long fingered hands kneading the knots from his shoulders and he rolls his neck, imagines lips sliding across his skin. You work too hard Sour Wolf.

"I have too." He answers the unspoken words and sighs again. There's flicker of movement in his periphery and Derek doesn't even move, just clamps his eyes shut against the flash of red. "I need you back, Stiles."

The front door slams and excited voices float through the house and Derek jumps, slams the closest book shut and rubs his fingers in circles over his temples.

"How was your day dear?" Erica dumps her bag onto the table and Isaac slips into the chair next to him and rests his fingers against the embossed letters on one of the books in front of them. Boyd presses a kiss to Erica's cheek as she flips the kettle on and leans back against the counter.

Derek glances down at his notes and Erica picks up one of the pages.

"Did you find anything?" She asks, genuinely interested and Derek shrugs, watches as Isaac glances at Boyd and an unspoken conversation happens between them.

"A few things, but I just...I have no idea what he did," Derek drops his head into his hands, "I think he's stuck wherever he is and he can't get back."

"Maybe he doesn't want to," Boyd says, as the kettle boils. Isaac gets up and pours water into a mug and blows the steam off the top before he settles back down into one of the kitchen chairs.

"I don't care…" Derek stands, "dammit," he swipes the books off the table, pages flying as the old spines give way, "I need him."

"Ok," Erica shoos the boys out of the kitchen and scoops the books up off the floor. "So let's figure out what he did and get him back."

…

"How about this one?" Erica says a few hours later, eyes ring with red and dark smudges under them. Derek rubs his own eyes and glances to where a perfectly manicured finger is pointing. "It's got Wolfsbane in it." She says and Derek blinks as he reads the words. "Erado…that's erase in Latin right?"

"Yeah," Derek skims the page. The after effects seem to fit, although he doesn't know exactly what Stiles did so he could just be making things fit. He growls softly under his breath.

"So maybe he didn't use enough wolfsbane, I mean theoretically that could make you remember him right? Especially because you think he was important to you…I dunno," she shrugs and digs into her pocket to pull her phone out. She taps the screen a few times and drops it onto the table. "Maybe there's some kind of love bond bullshit or something." She grins half-heartedly at him and Derek rolls his eyes.

"Could be," Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, "this one erases him from existence though…not just erase him from our memories…I just don't get it…I just…"

"Ok, listen to me," Erica pulls his hand away from his face and fixes him with her she-wolf glare, "we're gonna get him back ok? Then you can ask him to you hearts content the why's, where's, who's and how's but right now we need to focus…so focus," she flicks him in the middle of his forehead and Derek surprises them both by letting out a bark of laughter.

"I think you liked each other," he says and Erica flicks her hair over her shoulder.

"Who doesn't like me?" she asks and Derek raises an eyebrow and scoffs.

…

"You were meant to forget me," Stiles slips his hands down Derek's shoulders, rests his chin on the top of Derek's head. Derek hums and leans back against the surprisingly solid chest.

"I don't think that's possible," Derek replies and Stiles leans down, presses his lips to Derek's cheek.

"I'm starting to see that," he says, lips moving against Derek's skin.

"Tell me what you did," Derek says and Stiles doesn't reply, just slides around and crawls into Derek's lap, his lips hovering over Derek's. "Tell me."

"Why?" Derek runs his hands up Stiles's back and Stiles's eyes flutter closed.

"Because I need to get you back," Derek pressed his lips to the hollow at the base of Stiles's throat and Stiles curls his hands into his hair.

"Why?" Stiles pulls on Derek's hair, cocks his head to the side as Derek lifts him up, pushes him down against the table and covers his body with his own. Stiles smiles up at him, fingers running across Derek's bottom lip.

"Because I love you." Derek says and Stiles's fingers pause in their path.

"…you already know what I did…" Stiles pulls Derek down, presses a kiss to the side of his jaw, "now wake up."

Derek wakes with his face smooshed against the book, the page sticks to his face as he sits and stretches out his shoulders.

There's a crash of pottery from the kitchen and Derek makes his way there to find Erica handing Deaton a mug and Isaac on his knees picking up bits of broken mug.

"We found the right spell," Derek rubs sleep from his eyes and Erica nods once, shoving a mug of coffee into a hands. He doesn't even question Deaton's presence as he leans back against the kitchen counter.

"Erica's filled me in," Deaton swirls the spoon through his coffee, clinks it once on the edge of the mug and lays it gently on the table. His movements sure and decisive. Derek just nods, the feel of Stiles's hands still on him, the ache in his chest, the certainty that Stiles is meant to be here with all of them. With him. "Derek…you can't just reverse something like this…it takes time and magic…and…blood," Deaton says, pausing with his coffee mug halfway to his lips. He regards Derek with calm eyes and Derek feels his pack shift around him, moving closer together as if they sense a threat to their Alpha. Deaton flicks his gaze to the others but his heart doesn't skip beneath his chest.

"I don't care…" Derek replies, "whatever it takes."

…

The plastic tube running down his arm heats as his blood fills it and Derek shifts in his seat. Isaac whines softly next to him and Derek runs his fingers through his curls, petting at the back of his neck.

Derek's vision is blackening around the edges, going blurry, his head light, but they need more. So he gives it. Whatever it takes. Boyd's barely containing his worry, Derek can feel his wolf shifting under his skin, protection for his Alpha an instinct rather than a choice.

They need a whole bodies worth of blood, eight pints, and Derek feels the strain against his heart as it pumps weakly (for him) in his chest, filling yet another container of blood. They need this, if they're to bring Stiles back, they need this blood, all of it, and Derek's more than happy to give it for someone he has no actual memories off.

You're giving too much Derek. Stiles's voice is worried, long fingers hands curl over his shoulders, ghost over where the needle is buried under his skin. Derek growls softly, tries to shake the hands off his skin. I'm not worth it.

"Yes you are," Derek groans and Deaton looks up from where he's sitting by Derek's side, raised an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

I'm not pack Derek, you told me that enough times, Stiles frowns as he looks down at Derek's arm, the tube coming out of it, the veins red and stark against the smooth skin of his inner arm.

"I was wrong," Derek replies and Boyd lays a hand against his forehead.

"You're taking too much," he tells Deaton. "He hasn't had enough time to recover."

"I'm fine," Derek says.

"Goddamit Derek, you're risking your life and for what? The possibility you might bring this guy back? You don't even know if he's real or not and you're willing to damn near kill yourself…" Boyd breathes in through his nose and Erica's hand slides down his arm, fingers curling with his as he visibly calms and glances at her. She shakes her head slightly at him and Derek's head swims. He blinks, tries to clear his vision as he feels the needle slide out of his skin and Deaton bends his arm upwards.

"Don't move," Deaton says and disappears from Derek's sight. Boyd still looks angry and worried and disapproving but Erica leans forward, mutters something too low for even Derek to hear and he leans into her, nodding once. Isaac curls his warm hand around Derek's ankle and Derek drops a hand into his hair.

"I'm ok," he mutters, through the haze, and sees Stiles's face smiling gently at him before darkness swallows him whole.

…

"If you're intent on killing yourself that's fine, but don't do it where Isaac and Erica can see," Boyd's sitting on the edge of the couch, arms folded and grim expression plastered on his face.

"I'm not…" Derek struggles to sit up, head swimming slightly but he feels stronger than he did before, "I'm not trying to kill myself."

"Well then why…" Boyd starts and Derek puts a hand on his arm.

"If Erica had been taken by the Alpha's, what would you have done?" He asks and Boyd flinches, his muscles twitching under Derek's hand. Derek feels his wolf inside swim under the surface with latent anger.

"Moved heaven and earth to get her back," he says and stares at Derek, understanding bleeding into his heavy gaze. "Ok…I get it. Just…just be careful ok?"

"Aren't I always?" Derek manages to let out a small laugh and ignores the eye roll from Boyd as he helps him to his feet.

…

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Deaton looks up from the paraphernalia dotted around him. Herbs, candles, strange bundles of things Derek doesn't want to identify, and fixes Derek with his knowing gaze.

Derek thinks for a second, imagines Stiles's hands sliding down his back as Derek's buried deep inside his willing body, imagines Stiles grinning at him across the kitchen, the humming he makes when he cooks, the smell of him on his hands. He can't imagine his life without that, he's seen it, and he's felt it. In dreams maybe, but he's had it now and he can't, won't, live his life without it now.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Deaton nods once and looks back down at the things around his crossed legs. Derek drops down to the floor in front of him and crosses his legs as well, rests his hands on his knees to stop himself from fiddling, to stop himself from reaching forward and grabbing Deaton and telling him to just fucking do it already. Deaton looks around, nods once and then looks back up at Derek. He holds his hands out to him and Derek reaches forward. Deaton's hands are cool and dry around his own, solid and sure as he turns Derek's hands palm upwards. He moves fast that Derek almost misses the glint of light against the knife and then there's a bite of pain across his palm and blood wells up from the skin. Deaton curls Derek's fingers around, squeezes his hand together and catches the drops in a silver bowl as they fall from Derek's fist. The room swims in his vision as Deaton lights the candles, smoke thick and grey dancing up towards the ceiling and Derek blinks, tries to clear the mist that settles in the corner of his vision. Deaton blurs in front of him, his mouth moving but Derek can't hear the words against the pounding of blood in his ears and the pain that radiates from his palm, meanders up his arm and settles in his chest. He sways, or possibly the floor moves under him. Deaton's lips move, the pounding in his ears becomes a buzzing, like a thousand angry bees inside his head. His skin itches and black lines parade from his fist up his veins. The buzzing growls louder and Derek opens his mouth to cry out, to put a stop to this but his voice dies in his throat and Stiles's voice cuts through the noise in his head.

I'm so sorry Derek.

There's a crack, like the world splits its self in two. And then it all goes black.

…

"…straight into the ribs, Stiles, don't think. Through the ribs and twist…" Derek blinks, shakes his head to clear it and looks up at Deaton handing a long, curved, silver flick knife to Stiles.

Stiles.

Derek nearly reaches for him, his hands shaking by his sides as Stiles curls his fingers around the knife and Derek's blood runs cold.

They think I did something, they think I hurt someone…but it was a something not a someone.

"No," Derek steps forward, fingers itching to touch Stiles, to reassure himself Stiles is actually there, under his hands, warm and solid and real. Stiles looks up from the knife, something akin to understanding passing across his face before anger seeps in and Deaton takes the knife back and raises an eyebrow at Derek. "Stiles isn't doing it."

"The hell I'm not," Stiles bristles, standing up straighter and it's all Derek can do to not drag him forward and kiss the anger out of him. Stiles flinches, a minute gesture, but Derek picks it up as he takes a step forward to them.

"You're not doing it…I'm not…" going to lose you again. Derek stops and Stiles blinks, understanding swimming in his face as Deaton looks between them both. I can't lose you again.

"That won't happen, I'll be careful this time," Stiles shakes his head, anger still under his skin but there's something else there now, a sadness that Derek wants to soothe with gentle touches and muttered words. Realisation hits him like a punch in the gut as Stiles looks up from Derek's chest to his eyes.

"Dammit Stiles," Derek slams his fist into the wall next to him and the whole room jumps, Stiles included, "I'm not fucking arguing this, you're not doing it because I said so, I said so because I love you, now sit down, shut up and stop arguing…"

"…you love me?" Stiles blinks, like he can't remember Derek telling him that when Stiles was nothing more than a shadow on the wall. The rest of the room shimmers back into reality and Derek shakes his head slightly.

"I…"

"So…" Boyd interrupts, blissfully, with a heavy hand on Derek's shoulder, "I'll do it." He plucks the knife from Deaton's hands and Erica moves in the corner of Derek's vision. Derek can only look at Stiles though he's looking anywhere but Derek.

"You sure about this Vernon?" Deaton asks and Boyd nods, his fingers curling around Erica's and squeezing once. Derek, even through all the emotions running through his body, feels the connection between those two.

"We can't have this Succubus killing anymore people so yeah…I'm sure," Deaton claps Boyd on the shoulder and pushes him gently out of the room, "so here's what you have to do…"

"You remember?" Derek asks and feels himself sway against the torrent of emotions and the whole room narrows down to just them, just Derek and Stiles and no one, nothing else.

"So do you," Stiles answers the question with a statement and bites on his bottom lip, shaking his head again. "You shouldn't have remembered anything."

"Something was missing from my life Stiles, you think I could forget that? You? Derek reaches for him, stops himself half way there. "I'm not going to let that happen again, I can't lose you again," Stiles blinks again, lets out a small choked sob as he steps towards Derek.

"I thought you didn't remember," he mutters, those eyes which haunted Derek's dreams frowning at him like he's confused. Stiles lays his hand flat against Derek's chest, his long fingers curl against the soft grey t-shirt, "I thought only I would remember." Stiles chokes again and Derek draws his hand down Stiles's jaw, tips his head up and presses their lips together, and it feels like finally, like this has been everything Derek's been waiting for, Stiles's body against his own, Stiles's mouth on his. He had this yesterday, in this time line, but half of Derek remembers being without Stiles for his whole life. Stiles whines, fingers balling Derek's shirt and he tugs him closer. "I thought you thought I couldn't do it,"

"I know you can, I just don't want you to have to. I've lived you doing it Stiles, I can't let you live through it again." Pain flashes across Stiles's face and his fingers twitch in Derek's shirt.

"Thing is, even if I don't do it this time…I still remember doing it before," he shakes his head, looks down at his hands on Derek's chest like he cant quite believe he can touch him. Derek can't believe it himself, Stiles is here, under his hands.

"I never meant for you to go through that," he says quietly and Stiles looks back up at him, eyes wide and practically brimming with tears.

"I know, I do. I don't blame you...I just..." he trails off with a sigh and starts to pull away. Derek flattens his hand against the small of Stiles's back, pulls him closer and runs his nose along the side of Stiles's neck, breathing him in.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was?" Derek asks and Stiles shudders as Derek's breath moves across his pulse. "How I thought I was going crazy? I knew you were meant to be here but you weren't," Derek presses his lips to Stiles's throat and pulls away enough to see regret in Stiles's eyes.

"Derek I…" He starts and then he's kissing Derek again, frantic and desperate and thank God you're here all rolled into this one perfect moment of Stiles's lip against Derek's. "Oh God…" Stiles mutters, and Derek slides his hand up Stiles's jaw, presses his thumb into the soft skin under Stiles's chin. "I'm so sorry Derek…" Stiles sobs, clutches at Derek like he's afraid Derek will put out of his grasp, when Derek's the one who's felt Stiles slip from his fingers, when Derek's the one who should be afraid. "I'm so sorry."

"Shhh," Derek soothes, lips almost against Stiles's, "you're here. It's ok...it's ok."

…

The whole pack's left, Boyd tucking the knife into his belt and curling his fingers into Erica's. Deaton's gone, throwing a curious look at Derek and Stiles before muttering under his breath. The rest have gone, petered out leaving Stiles and Derek alone, sensing something bigger than they know is going on. Stiles leans back against the counter and cups his hands around the mug of tea Derek pushed towards him a few minutes ago. Derek made the tea like he needed something to do with his hands, something to stop himself touching Stiles, or strangling him.

The rest of the pack took the noise with them, too. And the silence that's settled between them, across the kitchen as Derek leans against the opposite counter and shoves his hands into his pockets, isn't an easy one. They used to have that, Stiles would remember cooking whilst Derek sat, easy touches that would lead to long nights with sweat slicked skin sliding against each other, no words necessary. Of course the nights lead to awkward mornings, but if Stiles thinks about Derek, more often than not he doesn't think about those mornings. He thinks about him and Derek fitting together, working, despite everything they'd been through. Especially now when he can still feel the ache of everyone he loves missing, being able to watch but not interact, still fresh in his chest.

But the silence now isn't easy, it's pregnant and pointed and Derek shifts, clears his throat and Stiles lifts the mug to his lips, takes a sip and slides the mug across the counter to his left.

"My dad looked at me like mom had died all over again," Stiles starts, his voice quiet and Derek looks up from his shoes.

"Stiles," he shakes his head, "you don't have to."

"No, I do." Stiles takes a shaky breath in, "He looked like I had ruined his whole life, destroyed his world. I...I put that look on his face Derek. Me. For real this time, not some herb induced hallucination and I never want to see that again. I couldn't put him through that."

"What about me?" Derek asks, the faint trace of anger in his voice making its way through Stiles's veins.

"What about you?" Stiles stares at Derek across the space between them, "this had nothing to do with you," he says and Derek scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Well that's just it isn't it?"

"You're angry?" Stiles asks, incredulously, "with me? Fuck, Derek, I tried. I gave you everything I could think of and you still pulled away..." he pushes himself off the counter.

"You weren't here Stiles," Derek shouts and Stiles blinks at him, surprise and indignation mixing together as Derek takes a step forward and leans his hands against the kitchen table. "You left," the me is unsaid, but Stiles hears it loud and clear, he flinches, "without any regard for anyone, you just left. You made a rash, selfish decision…"

"Selfish? It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made, and maybe I made the wrong one but could you honestly say you wouldn't have done the same? I didn't do it to hurt you, or to punish you for pushing me away because despite all that I still kept trying. I did it for my dad Derek. He thought I killed a woman and even telling him the truth, if by some miracle he believed me, wouldn't have helped. He would have risked his badge, his life to save me and I can't have that. I can't have anyone risking anything for me." Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and Derek straightens up. There's still the table between them and Stiles sees Derek's hands twitch like he wants to touch Stiles. But he's angry and confused but he's looking at Stiles like the only thing he can see right now is Stiles.

"You don't think you're worth it?" He asks and Stiles shakes his head, uncrossing his arms but shoving his hands into his pockets again. Stiles is tired, exhausted to the point where his eyes feel gritty and Derek rounds the table, puts a little distance between them before coming closer. Stiles plants his feet and doesn't move.

"I..."

"Stiles you're worth so much more," Derek reaches him, runs his fingers across the exposed skin at Stiles's neck. Stiles lets out a puff of air, a half sigh, angles his head to let Derek see more skin, the dip of his collarbone as it disappears into his t-shirt. He remembers Derek biting down on it. Derek's fingers are warm against his skin and Stiles just wants to sink into this feeling of being close to Derek, of nothing else mattering except this, them.

"I don't want more," Stiles says, opens his eyes that he doesn't remember closing, "I don't…I just…" Stiles trails off and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He hesitates before curling his fingers into Derek's belt loops and tugging him a little closer.

"What?" Derek asks, the tip if his index finger trailing around the shell of Stiles's ear. He draws it down the line of Stiles's jaw, the faint rasp of stubble is loud, even in his own human ears.

"You, I just want you." Stiles whispers, then bites on his bottom lip as Derek grasps Stiles's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"You have me," Derek says, pulls him close, lips dangerously close to Stiles's, "now. You have me now."

The kiss is nothing like any they ever shared. Not even the first, hesitant and unsure in the middle of this very kitchen. It's soft, and there's a hint of thank God you're here as Derek presses a little harder, his thumb sliding down the front of Stiles's throat, resting in the dip at the base, his fingers on Stiles's collarbone.

"Promise me," Derek says, breath hot against Stiles's lips, "promise me you won't disappear again."

Derek's hand on Stiles's hip, the other practically wrapped round his throat, and Stiles can't even nod. Derek nudges at Stiles's nose with his own. It's cute in a way that Derek never is and Stiles swallows against the thumb on his throat.

"I promise," he mutters, voice barely above a whisper and Derek continues to move feather light touches of his lips against Stiles's face. "What are you doing?" Derek's breath moves across Stiles's cheekbone and Stiles shuts his eyes again as Derek's lips press against his eyelid.

"I keep thinking I'm still dreaming," Derek says and there's a slight tremble to his voice that makes Stiles's stomach clench with guilt once more.

"You're not," Stiles replies, digging his fingers hard into Derek's hips. "Derek." Stiles braces himself to push away and Derek feels the minute twitches in his muscles, he must do because he tenses and pulls away first.

"Sorry…you probably want to go home," he runs a hand through his hair and Stiles notices the shake, and lets out a small laugh.

"Yes," Derek flinches, "but I want to go upstairs first."

"Oh thank god," Derek breathes out as he tugs Stiles back and kisses him hard and desperate, like all the exploring, the memorising is out of the way and he can kiss Stiles like he wants to now. Stiles groans, slides his hands through Derek's hair and tugs his head back, kisses and nips down his throat and feel Derek growl.

"I need you," Stiles mutters and Derek pulls away, drags in a ragged breath and curls his fingers around Stiles, tugs him towards the stairs.

They stumble, Stiles nearly breaks his neck as he trips over his own shoe but Derek stops him, kisses him long and deep, pressing him against the stair rail with one hand dipping into the back of Stiles's jeans. Stiles nearly thinks fuck it and nearly goes down into his knees then and there but Derek moves back, swipes his thumb across Stiles's lower lip and takes another step up. Stiles's t-shirt gets ripped off at the top of the stairs, then Derek's. Stiles reaches for Derek's belt at the same time as Derek kicks off his own shoes. He growls again, low and frustrated as Stiles's shaking hands fumble with the belt.

"Bedroom," Derek growls again as Stiles finally gets the belt undone and rips it through the loops in Derek's jeans. It clatters to the floor and Derek's on him again, practically lifting Stiles clean off his feet, and walks them backwards towards Derek's bedroom. The door frame stops them and Derek gets a hand down Stiles's jeans, his fingertips running along the base of Stiles's already painfully hard dick.

"Fuck me," Stiles breathes out. It's meant to be an expletive but it comes out as a plea and Derek hums against his lips, his tongue running along the inside of Stiles's mouth.

Derek hauls him off the frame, spins him around and pushes him towards the bed. Stiles drops his jeans as he goes, steps out of them with more grace than he feels he has right now and sits on the edge of the bed, watching as Derek pushes his own jeans down his sinfully toned thighs. Thighs that Stiles has felt under his own many times before. Stiles crawls backwards, leans back against his elbows as Derek watches him, head cocked to the side. Derek often looked at him like this, a mixture of confusion and, dear God reverence. Stiles never really noticed before, usually squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny. But now he curls his own hand around his dick and strokes himself once, slowly. He lets his head falls back, throat exposed and he hears Derek groans, feels the bed dip and Derek warm hands slide up his thighs, thumbs pressing into the crease where Stiles's thighs meet his hips. Stiles lifts his head, meets Derek's eyes and Derek wraps his hand around Stiles's.

"Do you have any idea?" Derek asks, keeping his hand around Stiles's but crawling upwards till his face is over Stiles's. "Any idea…" he runs his thumb across the tip of Stiles's dick, sliding through the precome as he lowers his head, lips brushing against Stiles's. Stiles moans, tries to kiss him, tries to move his hand under the almost harsh grip of Derek's. "God," Derek groans and kisses Stiles like he needs it. Stiles's arm shakes as he holds himself up, but Derek's body weight is enough to push him flat against the mattress. Derek comes with him, lying half on top of him, hand still around Stiles's. It moves though, slowly, drawing both their hands down. "I missed you." Derek pushes Stiles's hand away, curls his back around Stiles's dick and twists, squeezes at the base before drawing it up again. "So fucking much Stiles…you…" Derek breathes in at the base of Stiles's throat, teeth scraping across Stiles's thudding pulse.

"Jesus Derek…please."

"Getting there," Derek says, pulling away long enough to fumble in the bedside table drawer. Stiles goes to turn over but Derek's strong hand on his shoulder stops him. "No…I want…I need to see you." Derek lets out a sigh as he kisses Stiles again, slides his skin against Stiles's and lifts one of Stiles's thigh around him. Derek's hips press down, his hard dick sliding against Derek's and they both groan. Under the roaring of blood and the thumping of his pulse in Stiles's ears, he hears the familiar click of the lube bottle and then Derek's finger slips between his legs and presses gently in. There's no teasing, just the agonisingly slow burn as Derek presses his finger all the way in.

"More," Stiles manages to get out as Derek draws his finger almost as slowly out. Derek bites against his throat as he pushes back in, two fingers this time and Stiles arches his whole body, pressing his hips down against Derek's hand. His dick throbs between them, trapped between his own body and Derek's.

"God Stiles I can't wait," Derek groans, drawing his fingers apart inside Stiles. Stiles swallows against the rush of emotions.

"Don't," Stiles fumbles around on the bed next to him, his fingers closing around the condom packet as Derek fucks him slowly with his fingers. Stiles's hands shake as he rips it open and reaches between them. Derek lifts himself up but doesn't withdraw his hand, pressing all the way in as Stiles rolls the condom down Derek's dick. His mouth waters, and he makes a mental note to get down on his knees for Derek as soon as he can. Derek groans, lowers his chin to his chest as Stiles gets the condom all the way on. Stiles squeezes at the base of Derek's dick, gets Derek to look up at him.

"Fuck me," he says again and this time it comes out as a command and Derek groans, draws his fingers out and leans down to kiss Stiles, breathless and slow as he moves between Stiles's thigh.

The first press of Derek's dick against him is enough to get Stiles to drag his mouth away from Derek's. The head of Derek's dick slips in and Stiles's fingers slip against the sweat on Derek's shoulder. Derek pushes all the way in, his forehead pressed to Stiles's temple. He stops.

"God you feel so fucking good Stiles, I…" he draws out just as slowly as he pressed in and Stiles can't speak. He draws his hand up the back of Derek's neck, massages the muscles there before sliding his hand into Derek's hair and tugging enough that Derek lifts his head from Stiles's temple. He pushes back in hard and Stiles's vision goes white.

"Again," Stiles breathes, and Derek does it again, pulls out slowly and practically slams back in. "Harder."

Derek sets the pace, bordering on brutal, hard and fast and so achingly perfect that Stiles feels his orgasm building low in his stomach before long. Coiling around, backs of his thighs tingling as he skins slides against Derek's.

"Look at me Stiles," Derek says, voice shaking as he pushes back in, "please." Stiles snaps his eyes to Derek's. "Come for me."

Stiles doesn't need much else than that, just another thrust from Derek, and he's coming, without being touched, come hot against his skin as Derek pulls out and pushes back in, his eyes rolling back in his head as he grunts, freezes and comes, his thighs pressed hard to Stiles's.

"Fuck," Derek collapses, head against Stiles's shoulder and Stiles runs his fingers through Derek's hair gently. "Stiles…" Derek lifts his head and runs his own hand through Stiles's hair, palm hot against the top of Stiles's head. "I love you."

Stiles feels his throat tighten and he closes his eyes briefly. He smiles back up at Derek when he opens them.

"I love you too." Derek lets out a sigh, like he's been holding his breath. Like he had no idea how desperately in love with him Stiles was, like he was waiting for Stiles to laugh at him. He moves and pulls out of Stiles's body. Stiles winces and Derek kisses him, his fingers stroking against Stiles's scalp. Derek moves completely off, tugs off the condom and ties a knot in it, dropping it somewhere Stiles can't see. Stiles stretches. In the real time scale it's probably only been a day, a couple at the most, since the last time Derek fucked him into a mattress, but for them both it's much longer than that and Stiles's muscles protest slightly. It's a good ache, but despite the warm buzz of his orgasm and Derek's declaration, Stiles needs a shower, his own come drying itchy on his stomach. He sits and Derek looks back at him, brow creased in the middle.

"I should…" Stiles trails off as Derek's face falls. For the first time since Stiles has known him, Stiles can't actually see the emotion on Derek's face. There's hurt there and Stiles plasters himself to Derek's back, curls his arms around Derek's chest, the nail of his index finger scraping across Derek's nipple. "I was going to say…I should go take a shower." Derek relaxes in his arms and Stiles presses a kiss to his shoulder blade. "You coming?"

...

Derek presses him up against the shower wall and kisses him.

Stiles gets the chance to go down on his knees and Derek's hands in his hair remind him that's he's really home.

…

Derek tucks Stiles against him, chest to Stiles back and their hands curled together. Derek throws a leg over Stiles's and mutters a sleepy "stay" again the back of Stiles's neck.

"Not going anywhere," Stiles replies and a smile crosses his face as he feels Derek's small smile against his skin.