Fight Till We Die

In The Quiet After

Love is so short; forgetting is so long.

- Pablo Neruda

When Libby arrived home, Derek was nowhere to be seen, but the smell of gunpowder was potent in the air. Gunpowder and blood. Derek's blood. Libby prowled through the house, looking for any sign of a threat before she strode out in front of the house and called into the open air for him.

"Derek!" She tried to follow the trail of blood but his wound must've closed up before she could make any real distance. "Derek!" 

No answer. 

Libby had nothing to do but wait. She'd tried to call him, but she heard his phone buzzing on the table in the kitchen. There was a significant more damage to the house, but the house was filthy enough as it was, that Libby didn't bother to clean it. 

She sat and did homework for a long while before the sun fell over the horizon. Derek hadn't come home, so when she finished, Libby changed into her pair of soft shorts and her St. Louis sweatshirt, and she jogged back to Stiles' house. As far as she was concerned, she lived there until he said otherwise. Any chance she got to not sleep in that house was one she would take.

Even as the thought ran through her mind, Libby felt an immense wave of guilt wash over her. It wasn't fair to leave Derek there alone. He would never admit it, but that house bothered him as much as it did her. She should've stayed at home. Should've waited for him. Libby shot Derek a text about the events of the past few hours, and that she would stay with Stiles again. She told him to call her when he got home, but she doubted he would. 

She should've done a lot of things but it was easier to stay away. The silence of the house-the smell-had always held echoes of a memory she was too cowardly to face. Libby knew it wasn't fair to keep making excuses; Derek had lost everyone too. She was supposed to be his anchor, and she was failing. Had been failing him for years.

Still, she kept moving.

She was up in Stiles' room before she remembered that she should've knocked. When she opened his door, she doubted he would've come if she did. 

He was spread out on the ground with folders and files surrounding him. He only looked up at her when her feet crossed his eyeline.

"Hey."

"Did Scott call?"

"No."

Libby nodded and ran her tongue over her teeth, not meeting his eyes. 

"Hey, what's wrong?" He scrambled up from where he sat and met her eye, even as she tried to avoid him. "Libby?"

"Nothing." Her voice barely carried the word from her throat to Stiles' ears. She hated how quiet she was. How weak she sounded. 

"Nothing?"

She hesitated and knew she had given herself away. Rather than continue to lie, she turned her head the the papers below, clenching her jaw. "I think Derek got shot."

"What?"

"When I got to the house, I smelled blood and gunpowder. He wasn't there."

"Are you okay?"

Libby looked up with a furrowed brow. "I'm not the one who got shot." Stiles stepped over the papers, but a bolded headline caught her eye and she flinched unintentionally. Crouching, she grabbed the page, "What the hell are you doing?"