Hours pass, or crawl, Derek by him, a million impossible Dereks begging, Don't leave. It feels wrong without him, and it's scary. The Dereks can almost premember this room without him, and they're terrified, howling.

Stiles is maybe losing his mind.

I won't, he swears, either in his head or to whichever Derek is up at bat these ten minutes, this half hour. He's lost track. He's exhausted but stubborn, the Dereks' desperation zapping him almost lucid, or through to the other side of it. I'm not leaving, I'm…

Eyes catching on, counting bruises: The shoulder still tender from when he was sixteen, his back prickling and numb from a tattoo he shouldn't have for another ten years, that old black eye because Peter never was the uncle any Derek deserved. Scars still lodged at every age, unshakable. and the only way out is through, and even this body cant handle that, anymore.

And maybe Stiles is some small security, something every Derek can draw strength from—he's glad to be, really. It's not even a day, Stiles, get a grip, so what if the room keeps revolving. A dozen hours with Derek Hale hasn't been a bad thing since Stiles stopped pretending it ever was. And adorable toddler Dereks, puzzle prodigy child Dereks, pompous pre-teen Dereks—Stiles can handle that all day. It's just the suicidal Dereks, martyr Dereks, you don't know what I did to deserve these scars Dereks, that's just—they're too close to the one Stiles knew, the one who was his. His friend, his… Whatever they were. And being an anchor, it's better than being a stranger—it's enough just being there—but it sticks something between the ribs, makes it a little harder to breathe, every time that Derek goes again.

Stiles just really fucking misses the guy who came back and stayed.

Knowing he'd stay if he only could, knowing he's trapped somewhere in all of this, struggling, knowing the taste of Stiles' stupid emotions in the air is just making this worse for him—that's why Stiles is done trying to recap.

So he stays with the small Derek-of-the-day who clings to him now and doesn't wonder why, and then sits silently with a maybe thirteen year old who spends the first entirety of his existence casually flexing nonexistent muscles in Stiles' direction.

"If you say check out the gun show, I may shoot you," Stiles says, sandpaper dry. "I'm Stiles. You're Derek. Let's make this as painless as possible, okay? Pinkie swear?"

Derek winks at him.

"Oh no," Stiles says. "I am seventeen. You are like twelve. There will be no—Wait. You're not, like, going into heat, right? Because I did not sign up for that."

"I'm fifteen," Derek says. Stiles looks at him skeptically. "In five months," he admits, smarting a little. "Whatever. Who cares?"

"You should," Stiles says, sharp. "You shouldn't—Just stick to people your own age, alright? Or younger. Find some cute thirteen year old, compliment her braces. Aand I'm now realizing how completely terrible this advice is for older you, which would be super awkward if he ever remembered this. But he won't! So, yeah. Sticking to it."

"Fine," Derek is already saying, sullen, ears burning. It's not true; he's gonna to be feeling stupid about this forever. "I get it. You don't have to—What do you mean, 'he'?"

"Did I say 'he?' Whatever was I thinking," Stiles says dully. "Ignore me, I'm tired. And probably hormonal."

It's the words Stiles isn't saying that make him so interesting. Derek can sense them, taste them in the back of his throat; long, lead-heavy lung-fulls, dull and acrid, like solid smoke.

He goes quiet, tries to listen.

"Sorry," he says, eventually. "For—before."

"No," Stiles says. "No, don't—I was a jackass. I don't know how not to be a jackass right now."

"I didn't talk to anyone for a week," Derek says, through another too-quiet forever. "After my dad."

Because it's obvious, once you're paying attention.

Grief always tastes the same.

"Yeah?" Stiles says. "How'd it end?"

"Cora kept getting sad," Derek says. "And it wasn't—she didn't know. No one was telling her anything. Being a beta sucks," Derek says fiercely, and blushes bright when the air quivers with Stiles' loss again. "Even when you're not three," he mutters. "It's like you don't even matter, like you're not even—"

"Real," Stiles says.

"Exactly," Derek says. "We don't even have a point, we're just—babies. Forever. Laura gets to do everything, so she's prepared, but I'm gonna live with my mom forever, apparently, so why bother? The only one who'll talk to me is Peter—"

The air flinches.

"Shit," Stiles says. "Can't you—Shit. What about, uh, the rest of your pack? I know there's more than just—"

"Yeah, that'll work," Derek says. "Except, oh yeah, Sameera's my mom's best friend. And Ben's totally whipped, he'd never—and anyway, he's human."

"And there aren't—books, or anything?" Stiles says, a little desperately. "Diaries? Grimiores?"

"That's hunter stuff," Derek says. "My dad hated hunters. They killed his whole family."

"They," Stiles echoes. "And then she—" And he's angry now, he's furious. More angry than even Derek could ever make himself be about people who never felt realer than stories. "Who did it."

"I don't know," Derek says. "Dad didn't like to talk about it. And then he died, so. I don't know." It's stupidly easy to say stuff like that, now. Almost six years later it's just like shrugging. Whatever. So what, who even cares, I'm not even sad anymore. It just is.

Except when it isn't, when it's weighing heavy on somebody like this, and Derek remembers. Except for some broken-off part of him where it hurts so bad, breathing feels like a workout.

But he said he was gonna be a grown up, didn't he? For Cora. Because no one else even remembers she exists half the time, and that's less fair than anything they've ever done to him.

So—whatever.

"He just said it was hunters," Derek says. "He didn't want us going after them."

"I bet," Stiles says darkly.

"There's a Code now," Derek says. "And a treaty. With the Argents. They're the hunters who live on our territory."

"Uh huh," Stiles says, looking seasick. "Great story, Der. You totally got every detail in full color. 1080 freaking p."

Derek frowns at him. "You're making fun of me."

"I'm... Yeah, I guess I was," Stiles says, and guilt knifes through the air, cuts it thin. "Sorry. It's probably best if you just keep in mind that ultimately, I'm a well-meaning asshole who doesn't know what he's doing."

"I don't know what that's supposed to mean," Derek says, but the confirmation doesn't do anything for the way his face is burning.

"And—" Stiles says, hesitating, then looking him straight in the face and saying in a rush, "and there's someone, okay, I'm—there's this guy, and my friend did something really stupid. But I mean, he was provoked by this shithead who basically throws shoes at puppies and then convinces the puppies they deserve it, and what am I even saying? He's just the worst. The biggest blowhard ever, I am not kidding. I'd keep going but I'm pretty sure he'd Beetlejuice his way in here if I did. So, yeah. What was I saying?"

"This guy?" Derek says, just a little moodily.

"Yeah yeah yeah, him. He's—I mean, we were—maybe friends is the wrong word. Allies, we were basically allies for a while, and I thought he was kind of a tool? But it turns out he just really sucks at emotions. Really understandably in hindsight, by the way. But then we actually became friends, and maybe even—and then the dude I was telling you about, the biggest shithead in the world, he attacked him. Hurt him really bad, actually, and then came back and twisted everything like he was the good guy, and then he wound up that friend of mine into saying all this bullcrap, and the guy believed him, and he took off with the guy who almost killed him, and now—I mean he came back, he came back twice, but it wasn't—He wouldn't listen. And now he's just—gone. And I don't—" He inhales shakily, exhales hard.

"He's still hurt?" Derek says. Stiles nods. "Bad?"

"I don't know," Stiles says, his voice worryingly uneven. "I don't know. He keeps—shifting."

"Like," Derek says, eyes darting a little, tone hushed. "Like—" He eyes the ceiling meaningfully.

"What?" Stiles asks, and Derek feels like an idiot all over again, but then Stiles says, "No, that's not—he's not healing right. It's not a werewolf thing, it's not something you can fix."

"Try me," Derek challenges. "You don't know where he is, right? Well I can track him."

"Because you were always so great at that," Stiles mutters, then colors. "Sorry. Again. I'm mean, I know."

"Says who?" Derek says, frowning.

"Toddlers, mostly," Stiles says.

"You're a babysitter," Derek decides. "That's how I know you. Sameera found you, right? Or Ben? For the twins."

"Uh," Stiles says. "Sort of? More like—chaos consultant." His face twists, though, and the air jabs at Derek's ribs again after he says twins, and it's pretty obvious by now why Sameera or Ben picked him. He's gonna be pack, Derek knows it. He can feel the connection already. Maybe they even did it and it's just that nobody bothered to tell him. Maybe this is even them telling him. Just Stiles and him in a room and Stiles' sadness just about drowning them, and Derek already ready to drown keeping him afloat.

"My mom can help you," Derek says, instead of confronting him on any of that. It doesn't really matter, anyway. It's just that Cora's not gonna be happy to see how quick he's bonded with the enemy. "If you don't want me to—I get it. I'm a beta. I stay in the car. But our—my mom can help, and Laura—" He almost slipped, said our alpha, showed his cards. He's the worst liar, it's embarrassing. "She's been training her whole life for this, she'll love it."

"Yeah, that's—Thanks," Stiles says, just sounding worse. "That's really—But they can't help with this."

"Why not?" Derek asks. "It can't hurt trying. And my pack doesn't care about—" My pack, like he's a stranger, like Derek doesn't have a clue. "Sameera's bi. And I'm—" Also, as it turns out, Derek absolutely can never say. This is about pack. Stiles lost his whole family, or worse, and Sameera or Ben or both are trying to give him some back, and Derek's going to ruin it.

"No, that's—" Stiles stops. "Yeah it can hurt, actually. More than hurt, you don't even—be glad you don't know, man, you don't want to. They can't help, okay. And you can't—You really can't."

"You're wrong," Derek says.

"Trust me," Stiles says, and Derek does, which is why this matters.

"I wanna know," he says, quiet but resolute. "No one ever thinks I can help. I can help. I can do lots of stuff. I can follow a scent from anywhere. I'm not great at Latin, but I know more than Laura thinks I do. And I can protect you. And your boyfriend, when we find him. I can heal almost anything as quick as it happens. It just takes practice."

"Practice," Stiles says, looking horrified and sounding—curious, despite himself.

Derek grins.

"See," Stiles says, like Derek's proved his point, when he hasn't, he knows for a fact. "I'm supposed to be his anchor and I can't even—And you're fourteen, and you're actually smiling for five seconds—"

"I smile all the time," Derek says, bewildered.

The sound Stiles makes is horrible.

"What," Derek says. "What'd I say?"

Stiles just bows his head and struggles not to shudder, won't look at him, barely breathes, but Derek feels all of it anyway.

It's getting colder and colder all the time.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Stiles says, hollowly. "I just wanna protect—him. And you."

"Me?" Derek says. He's almost insulted, chest puffing on instinct. "I can heal, I told you, just—look!"

"Derek, no!" Stiles roars, launching at him, but it's already done. Derek can't even feel it, that's how quick he is.

"You scared the shit out of me," Stiles wheezes, arms all around him, breathing hard. "Jackass. Don't do that again."

But something's wrong, something's wrong.

Derek can still smell blood.

Fresh blood.

And hear it, plink-plink-plinking down.

And feel it, running through his fingers.

Over his fingers.

He looks down.

Sees the place where his claws were, healed like new.

Like better than new.

And Stiles all against him, still wheezing.

Quieter now.

Inside the little circle, something starts to scream.