"Stiles," Derek says. "Just hit me."

Stiles hits him, just once, catches him on the lip and stares at it, stares at him, at the wide-open look on his face, at his chest rising softly, falling softly, his mouth already healing, how was Stiles ever scared of him? Derek with his arms at his sides, straight-spined, so fucking steady, waiting for Stiles to beat the crap out of him, and Stiles—

Stiles doesn't.

Stiles reaches up, careful, brushes the still-wet blood from Derek's lip.

The moment freezes, all sound drops out, all air, all gravity, and Stiles—

"I'm not doing that," Jeff says.

"I think it could be a really sweet scene," Dylan says. His whole left side is, like, soaking up Tyler's dejection. He doesn't even have to turn around to feel it. It sucks.

"Derek's already in a relationship," Jeff says.

"Oh, is that what that is?" Tyler says.

"It doesn't have to be—weird, or whatever," Dylan reasons. "It can just be this really, like, sweet, brotherly—"

"Just this nice, touching moment," Tyler says.

"I'll think about it," Jeff says.

"This is all your fault," Stiles says, and means it, doesn't realize how sharp and hot the rage is until he says it, lump lodged high in his throat, eyes stinging, this was the one thing, the one thing that Stiles swore would never happen, this is his father. "You invited her into our lives, you—"

"I know," Derek says, he sounds sorry, he should be fucking sorry, what he fucking—

"I'm sorry," Derek says, and Stiles can't breathe, and the first punch comes like a gasp

and the others like hyperventilating, Stiles' arms moving too quickly, fists landing too hard, and Derek isn't fighting back, why isn't he fucking fighting back? Stiles' eyes are burning and his heartbeat is thundering in his ears and his whole body is too small and he's somewhere outside it and he needs—

He needs Derek to hit him so hard he's forced back inside himself, needs a blow thumping between his ribs like a second heartbeat, needs his cheek smarting, his lip raw and bleeding, his mouth chafing, he needs—

He's still hitting Derek when their mouths smash together, his fists still swinging like pendulums, but it sinks in as he drags his head back, breathes cool clear air that's been missing for too long. Derek's mouth tastes like metal and mint and salt, the world's incessant static hum settles under Stiles' skin, panic and fury cooling into purpose, focus, clarity, and Stiles pulls back, looks at him—

"Holy shit," the director says, and the whole scene shatters into Tyler and Dylan, still catching their breath, still just staring.

"Whoa," Dylan says.

"Whoa," Tyler echoes.

They both step back at once, break at once, try to throw it off at once, calm down.

"Okay, let's reset and go again," the director says, and neither of them says, What if you use that take? but they're both thinking it.

The scene doesn't make it in.

AN: no hobriens in this fic resembling actual hobriens are representative of actual hobriens. probably.