The pack is crowded in the basement. It's not to say the basement is crowded (although it kinda is, considering all the equipment that's set up for training), rather that the wolves just pack themselves into a little corner of the basement, where a ring of camp chairs are set up. Derek is crouched in the corner, facing them; he's gesturing and talking, fervent in his message but not angry.

Not angry in the way he used to get, when Isaac couldn't make a jump or Jackson didn't consider his pack during staged attacks. No, Stiles hasn't seen him get like that in a while – which isn't saying much, really, since he hasn't been around for many of the pack meets, too entangled in his own health issues, mentally and physically.

When Scott asked him for a lift to the Hale house, Stiles had been shocked. Are you sure – like, sure sure, not just sure? he'd badgered his best friend, caught in a haze of disbelief.

Since the fire, he hasn't been invited to very many pack events. There was the game night, of course, and that one training session where he got the lead in a run, but then he'd blown it all by going a little crazy… Apparently, his werewolf all-access card has been approved again, and Stiles isn't sure if it's because he's actually feeling better, or because three nights ago he totally made out with Derek.

As in, Derek's callused hands were curved gently against his neck, urging Stiles closer, while Stiles' own hands had been desperately clutching the alpha's shirt. As in, Derek's lips were warm and soft, his stubble rough but – what, refreshing? Whatever, Stiles had liked it.

He liked the way their mouths fit together. Their teeth had clanked a few times, and their noses collided, but, yea. If kissing was ever an Olympic event, he's pretty sure Derek could win the gold. Easily.

The alpha had left without a word afterwards; a small, pleased smile and then he was ducking out the window. It hadn't been a long kiss, and hadn't even been enough, but it was something.

That was three nights ago though, and since then, they had had no contact.

It drove him crazy, of course. He'd planned on going to bed, but he quickly discovered that wasn't possible. Plan B was the only logical course of action, and (un)surprisingly, Stiles didn't need any visual or audio aids to help get himself up; his head was full of Derek and the heat of Derek and Derek's mouth and, yea, no, he had zero stamina.

But now he's sitting on the bottom step, fingering a loose string on his shirt, watching Derek speak. He's passionate, like he always is, but it's tempered; he's not so hard with them. Instead of demanding perfection from the get-go, it sounds like he's encouraging his pack. His dark eyes dart around, making eye contact with each member.

Sometimes, he even glances back at Stiles, and it makes his heart stutter.

Which is definitely embarrassing, because everyone can hear it. They all glance over in their own time. Erica smirks at him with smug satisfaction and Scott smiles encouragingly; Boyd just stares and Isaac suppresses a laugh. Jackson squints at him, and Stiles almost thinks the kid looks like he approves, but it's hard to say.

Truth be told, the attention makes him uncomfortable. He knows he should be all love-glazed smiles and sighs, but he's not. He's staring at Derek, watching the way his mouth moves, and trying to figure out why he feels so awful in the midst of feeling so amazing.

Eventually, he pushes himself to his feet and climbs the stairs. His fingers push through his hair and he pulls on the strands, turning into the kitchen. It's where he finds Allison and Lydia (when did they show up?), talking about who knows what. They're seated on the barstools, and as soon as he enters, they hush. Allison at least has the sense to duck her head and use her hair to hide her smile; Lydia just beams at him and cocks her head to the side.

"Are congrats in order?" she asks sweetly, and he isn't sure what to say, so he just tugs open the fridge and plays with the arsenal of condiments squeezed onto one side-shelf.

"But, really, Stiles, it's sweet," Allison adds. "We were all waiting for it to happen."

"Thanks, guys," he says, swallowing. He gives himself a minute to find the right sort of reassuring smile and tosses it over his shoulder at them; they grin back.

"Soo… gonna give us the deets?"

He grabs a zip-lock bag of celery stick and turns to face them, leaning his back against the counter and prying open the baggie. "I don't kiss and tell," he drawls, lifting his brows. Inwardly, he can feel a wave of panic start to inject itself into his veins, and he tries to push it back down. He's been feeling so well lately, and Derek – Derek likes him.

Everything is perfect. Why can't he just let it be perfect? What's wrong with him?

Stiles can't say that sort of thing to them though, instead tries his best to swallow his discomfort. He keeps his eyes averted and his breathing slow, hoping that – well, he doesn't really know. Maybe he's just hoping for the strength to convince everyone he's feeling fine. No, better than fine – great.

"Oh, so it's going to be like that, huh?" Allison laughs. Lydia's looking at him though, really looks at him, and Stiles fidgets, pushes a piece of celery between his lips and bites down. It snaps between his teeth, breaking easily.

Mouth full, he shrugs, chews, swallows, then says, "I mean, this is the first time it's ever happened. I have to like, lord it over everyone. It's only fair, since you're all paired up like... like, fuck, a FRIENDS episode." He smiles and can already begin to fill it slip; he nods toward the living room. "I'mma go see how the project is coming along, yea?"

"Wait." Lydia half-lurches toward him, and Stiles flinches; he'd made it two steps from the counter, but her assault makes him slam back against the fridge. "I just, uhm." She licks her lips. "I just wanted to ask whether you knew what they were talking about. Downstairs. Jackson won't tell me."

"Yea, Scott's been pretty quiet, too…" Allison offers. She glances at Lydia through her dark locks, and then up to Stiles, putting on a smile to make up for the awkward moment that just happened.

He blinks, stares at Lydia, then shakes his head slowly. "No, sorry, guys. Derek," he flushes when he says his name, feeling the way the word rolls around his mouth and off his tongue, "uhmm, he's pretty quiet. They let me go down there, but it's like I can't go pass the stairs. Can't be much though. I figure it's just training." His shoulders lift with a shrug and he apologizes before making his escape.

At least, he tries to – again, futilely. He's just under the kitchen threshold when Boyd slips past him, and Erica catches his shoulder and spins him back around, squeezing. "Where ya going, hot stuff?" she asks, grinning suggestively at him.

"Apparently nowhere," he grumbles, letting his eyes droop half-shut. Despite his best effort, he can feel his mood slipping to a bad place; he wants to go go go away and get into his own silent, secret place, where he can scream and cry if he needs to. Which he does, because as the pack files into the kitchen and starts raiding for food and someone snatches away his celery sticks, he's surrounded by a chorus of japes and laughter and questions, and he's in the middle of it.

He scrambles deep inside himself, clawing for a little bit of tolerance, a little bit of strength – he can do this, he's been doing it for the past few months. Except, now that he's gotten better, he isn't sure how to fake it. Once upon a time, he could show up somewhere and never say a word and no one would mention it; not now though, not after he's cracked jokes with each one of them, not after he's kissed Derek.

His mouth feels dry, and wow, okay, he's definitely a little light-headed, but he still laughs when Isaac shoulders him out of the way, reaching out to push the blonde back. Scott glares at both of them, mumbling something about how he's been replaced, but then he walks directly to Allison and puts an arm around her shoulders and Boyd points out the hypocrisy in that.

"Get a room!" Erica jeers and Jackson makes a comment Stiles can't hear.

Derek steps past him and their hands brush. Stiles wants to reach out and twine their fingers together, wants to grab Derek by the shoulders and ask him if the whole thing is real, but he can't.

He can't, and he hates those two damn words.

He leaves.

There's a room upstairs that's only half painted. It must be the room Derek is currently working on, because the scent of paint is still prevalent, and when Stiles reaches down to grab the paintbrushes, they're still wet from being washed.

He pries open the paint can and pours a little into the trough. He dips the brush, then flings it at the wall.

Gray dots splatter the primer, and he repeats the gesture, again and again and again. Flecks land on his face and his clothes, and eventually he grunts and leans over, dipping both hands and then slamming them against the wall. He throws a punch, and it hurts; he cries out, and then he smacks the flesh of his palm against the wall and wishes he were stronger. He wishes he could just – just punch through the drywall and the insulation, could just punch through the haze in his mind and get back to feeling better.

In his storm of anger and frustration, he realizes why he's throwing a fit any nine year-old would envy.

It's because, for five seconds, he felt happy. For five seconds, three days ago, he didn't feel numb or empty or sad. For five seconds, his dad was – was like Schrodinger's cat; dead or alive, it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was Derek Hale, and as long as Derek Hale was kissing him, he was okay and whole and happy.

But how could that be? How could he let himself forget about his dad? How could he let his dad be replaced by a kiss?

The wave of guilt is overwhelming. Stiles drops to his knees and screams, muffling his cry with the crook of his elbow. He pulls at his hair and he revels in the pricks of pain.

How how how how how could he smile without his father around? His dad, who died because he'd gotten caught up in a shit storm of supernatural drama, who burned alive and… It was his fault, Stiles Stilinski's fault.

He doesn't deserve happiness, not after that. Not after what he's done.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, willing the tears away. They won't go though, and he drops his fingers down to his face, hiding as he sobs. His fingernails dig lightly into the soft flesh of his forehead and cheeks and chin, and in that moment, he hates himself.

He hates himself for not running into their house. He hates himself for just watching the ambulance pull up, not screaming when the EMTs didn't prep a gurney, not having the strength to rip away from the hands that contained him. At this point, it doesn't matter whether he would have died in that fire – he probably should have.

By the time Derek discovers him, curled in on himself and covered in paint, the tears are just memories, dry trails of salt, and his breathing is calmer (it's still awkward through, full of hiccups and hitches). He doesn't know how long he's been there; he doesn't know how long Derek's been watching, if he has. Stiles likes to think that no one heard him, that it's all his little secret, but he knows better. He deserves that embarrassment; he does. He's like a stupid little child, a stupid little King Joffrey.

When the alpha says his name, whispers it, he bites down on his lip and pretends not to notice. Derek persists though, crouches down beside him and lightly touches his shoulder. "Stiles."

It's not a question, there is no underlying, Are you okay? It's obvious he's not. Derek frames his name like a fact, like that's all that needs to be said. It makes his toes curl.

The alpha squeezes his shoulder, then lightly runs his hand down Stiles' back, following the jut of his spine. "I really like what you've done with the room."

Stiles can't help himself: he scoffs, pulls his head up to squint through his puffy eyes at the wolf. "Don't coddle me," he croaks. "Please. Yell at me. Tell I'm a piece of shit and you regret it – all of it. Please please please, just do it. Right now. I can take it." The words surprise him, how easy they come, how easy they're to speak, and he holds his breath, watching Derek watch him.

What he doesn't expect is for the alpha to furrow his brows and say, "Yea, you kinda are a piece of shit. I was going to paint that fucking wall an accent color, so now I have to prime it again. Do you know how long that takes? Not long, but still. That's more money. Do you think I have a lot of that hanging around in this burnt up crisp?"

Stiles blinks back tears and looks away.

"Look at you. So fucking pathetic. You have paint all–" Derek breaks off with a sigh, and the anger is gone instantly. "You have paint all over you, Stiles. What did you do, pour the bucket over your head?"

He frowns at that. "No."

"Might as well have. Here."

Stiles shrieks as the cool liquid touches the back of his neck, and he lurches forward to get out from under the stream of paint (in hindsight, not such a great idea, because he just gets it all over his back). Derek is cackling, and he doesn't think about it – Stiles lunges toward the alpha, batting the paint can so it rocks between Derek's fingers and, suddenly, Stiles isn't the only one covered in paint.

Derek howls with surprise and tosses the can aside, growling, "You'll pay for that one."

They wrestle, trying to smear as much paint as they can on one another. Stiles briefly gets the upperhand when he snatches the paintbrush and tickles it against Derek's cheeks, but then Derek just grabs the trough and slams the flimsy plastic against Stiles' side. Paint explodes everywhere and they're both laughing and gasping.

Their legs are tangled together, and Stiles' hands are resting on either side of Derek's head. The paintbrush is limp between his fingers, and he pushes it away as he glances down, trying to sort out which legs are his and where they need to be so he can get up.

Derek lifts his hands up to Stiles' hips though, as soon as he realizes the kid means to get up. They both seem to stop breathing, and then Derek asks quietly, "Are you still feeling gray?"

Silence, and then one side of Stiles' mouth slowly hitches upward. "Worse joke ever," he whispers, feeling that twist of discomfort all over again. Distracted by the attack, he forgot about his behavior, about how shitty he feels, but it comes back now and – yea, he should leave.

He needs to leave.

Derek isn't letting go of him though. His hazel eyes are insistent and intense, and Stiles remembers that first night when the alpha showed up in his room and helped him out of all five-hundred of his t-shirts (of course, he didn't help Stiles out of the most important one: the last one). His lower lip quivers and he glances away, but then he makes himself look back at Derek.

Derek, covered in paint and watching him.

Derek, who held his hand in the ambulance and disappeared afterwards.

Derek, who was lurking outside his window like the weirdo he is.

It makes his mouth twitch up and the alpha seems to breathe again. Stiles watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat, watches the way he seems to draw in a deep breath, exhale it, close his eyes and then reopen them. They're not so intense this time, instead uncertain and vulnerable and, more than anything, sad.

"Stiles, I'm not perfect," he whispers. "I'm trying to be, but I'm not. I've had this house for ten years, and for the past year, I've been working on it. Two rooms – that's it, that's all I have done."

"I don't think you can count the kitchen as completed until you put lights in," Stiles points out – quietly, of course.

Derek wrinkles his nose at that. "Okay, so one. One fucking room. That's it…" His hands flex against Stiles' hips, gripping at the fabric of his shirt, and his eyes are latched onto Stiles, almost as if glancing away would mean losing his train of thought, or maybe his confidence to speak. "I feel like, with every nail, I'm destroying all the memories I've ever had here. Like I'm forsaking my family, by rebuilding. I don't want to – I don't want to forget, but I can't keep lingering either." The breath he takes is shaky, and he shuts his eyes. "I can't. I want new things, now, Stiles. I want you, too…"

Stiles' lips press together in a hard line to keep from quivering, and he leans down. He buries his face in the junction between Derek's neck and shoulder, and lets his body slip down until its flush against Derek's. The alpha's hands run up from his hips to his shoulder blades, then wrap around him in a tight hug, and Stiles feels Derek's breath huff against his neck.

He's a mess in every sense of the word, physically and emotionally, but it's okay.

It's okay, because Derek is, too.

Somehow, it makes him feel astronomically better.