Back to December

The Dark Days I

           Stiles shot up in his bed, gasping the cooling September air as he felt the tears drying upon his face. He could not cry in front of others, not even Derek or maybe especially Derek, he wasn't sure anymore. As a matter of fact, anymore, the boy was not sure of a single damn thing. Stiles assumed, and was told countless times, that it was normal- that losing one's father was a mundane reason for uncertainty and he should not feel out of place in his grief. Another one of his favorites had been, 'you're not alone in this.' The boy scoffed at the notion. His father was dead and, despite the figure beside him, he felt more alone than ever.
          Derek sat up, swallowing his own tears that he wished to shed on Stiles' behalf, but he couldn't, he had to be there for Stiles. Soon enough, the dankness of a dry face would pass and Derek could not allow his feelings for Stiles to block the boy from sharing his.

Placing a hand on Stiles' thigh, Derek asked gently, "Did you have another nightmare?"

Stiles shifted out of Derek's touch, eyes not bothering to meet him, "What do you think?" he snapped.

Derek pulled his hand back, lips pressing together as he tried to focus on Stiles, not the lack of him, "Do you want some water?"

Stiles clenched his jaw, recalling a time when his father would ask him that, "I'm not four."

         The boy swung his legs out of the bed covers, standing to his feet as he walked out of his bedroom. It seemed everyone was asking stupid questions and treating him like a child. He was not a child, he didn't have that luxury anymore and never would again. Stiles could recall the very second he realized that. He remembered the ache in his heart from an absent being. All those who still lingered and existed just seemed so insignificant now; especially Derek. He killed the man that shot his father, but why could he not have done it earlier? Scott repeated over and over that it was not Derek's fault- that it was no ones other than the hunter that the bullet was triggered from. As Stiles treaded down his stairs, he went over the story again.
       A couple weeks had passed since Derek agreed to stop following the alpha pack. As it turned out, and without knowing the irony of it, the alphas returned the favor. They had tailed Scott and Isaac back to Derek's loft. In knowing where it was prior, the stalk seemed entirely pointless, however, this night they chose to attack.
         Cora and Derek resided in the loft, which made it five against four, but not for long. Hunters streamed in through the loft door, guns firing and not seeming to care of whom they hit. 'Werewolves were werewolves' was the only obvious motto this hunters held dear. No matter if Scott tackled Kali to the ground before she pounced on a young male hunter, werewolves were killers, along with anyone who aided them.
         When Stiles' father arrived, everyone went into hyperdrive, circling the alpha pack and seeming entirely keen on creating as much distance between them and the sheriff as possible; Scott and Derek especially, but a simple battle layout mistake was made. While the six out of ten remaining hunters circled the wolves, firing at anything that moved, someone was hit. All censored in, inhaling the abundance of blood that they did not have to look at to know was fatal.
         That was when everything stopped; the alphas, Derek's pack, even the hunters halted in place. The sheriff lay upon the ground, Derek glancing briefly at him before charging at the middle-aged man with a vacant expression on his face. He had shot someone of whom was not a werewolf and didn't care.
         Deucalion, the realized leader of the alpha pack, tilted his head to the side, smirking as Derek's claws dug deeply into the man's throat. Then they retreated, satisfied curves on their blood-soiled mouths as they walked out, leaving Derek's pack and the hunters to their own row.  Throughout the noise and punches, clawed scratches and shed blood, the sheriff had been there due to a complaint of about ten individuals carrying heavy firearms through the forest. Now, he was not there at all, tears streaming down Scott's face as he fell upon the ground, shaky fingers checking for a pulse on his vacant father figure.
         That was everything Stiles had been told- everything Scott and Derek had explained to him the following hours. In their presence, Stiles did not cry. He just stood, eyes wide and glancing back and forth to Scott and Derek as if they would take it back- as if they could.
         Mindlessly, Stiles reached the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water that he probably would never drink. Glancing at the cup, Stiles grew queasy, seeing the logo of Yankee Stadium. When he turned sixteen, his father funded a trip for them and Scott to travel to New York. The three of them were not entirely interested in baseball, but Stiles often said that it was a past time- something that should always be honored on a son's sixteenth birthday. Seeming to laugh at the idea at first, Stiles' father declined up until the day before the three of them flew to New York. Stiles' hand shook, eyes burning with a dampness as he tossed the water down the drain and set the glass aside.
        Derek listened in, hearing muffled breaths and sniffles. Stepping out of bed, he exited Stiles' room and crept silently into the kitchen. Stiles was bent over the counter, head buried in his folded arms as he wrenched silent sobs. Derek's heart broke, walking across the tiled floor to place his hand upon Stiles' back. It was meant to be a gesture of support- one of love and assurance, but Stiles jumped, standing up straight as he looked perturbedly at Derek.

"Stiles," Derek began, reaching out to the boy's tear-stained face.

"What the hell?" Stiles exclaimed, taking a hesitant step back, "Don't creep up on people like that."

"I didn't mean to scare you," Derek replied as gently as ever.

"You didn't scare me," spat the boy, "What do you want?"

"What do you think I want?" Derek asked in exasperation, "I want you back."

Stiles' eyes fell to the floor, unable to look at Derek's desperate features, "I'm right here."

"You're not," the wolf shook his head, "You haven't been for weeks."

Stiles glared at him, "In case you haven't noticed, my dad died and-"

"And that's okay," Derek said with an assuring nod, "I know what grief is, Stiles," the boy pressed his lips together, sudden guilt threatening his dry cheeks, "And it's okay if you need years, but I want you back."

Stiles shrugged, "I don't even know what that means."

"I want you to be open," Derek said, "like you were- to cry in front of people because, believe me, no one expects you not to."

Stiles felt the tears tempt his throbbing lower lids, shaking his head at Derek's uncharacteristic acclamations, "You never talk like this."

Derek shrugged, taking a step closer to Stiles, "You need to hear it."

"I'm fine," Stiles said, a single uncontrolled tear falling down his cheek.

Derek watched as he quickly wiped it off, "You're not."

"Stop," Stiles put his hand on his head, hurrying past Derek.

The wolf followed him, grabbing the boy's arm gently. They now stood in front of the couch, Stiles breathing in fumes as he tried to hold back liquid sadness, "It's okay," Derek said again.

"No," Stiles shook his head, feeling the tears seep onto his raw cheeks.

         He could not cry in front of Derek because, if he did, it made all of this too real. When he cried by himself, Stiles had no witnesses- no one to swear that what was happening was really happening. He was truly alone like he felt he was. But now Derek was seeing him cry- seeing that, no matter what, Stiles' father was dead and it was not another nightmare, it was all real.
         Rage seared through the boy. Why did Derek have to do that? Why did he have to make it real? He shoved Derek's chest, it not resulting in banishment, however, the wolf stepping right back toward him.

"No!" Stiles shouted muffly, arms hitting against Derek's chest. The wolf assumed this would happen, holding onto both of Stiles' arms to keep him still.

"It's okay," Derek said once more.

The boy continued to struggle, sobs rendering his phrases almost incoherent, "No, let go of me!"

Derek refused, pulling Stiles against him for restraint while his hands cupped the boy's face, "I'm never gonna let you go," he whispered, not certain whether Stiles heard or not.

         Stiles moved his face out of Derek's hands, pushing his forehead against the wolf's open chest. Although he initiated the gesture, Stiles tried to flail away again, but weaker this time, Derek grabbing hold of his arms once more. No more sound was heard, just muffled cries as the wolf pulled Stiles down to sit on the couch. He did, limbs seeming to give up entirely as he collapsed onto Derek's lap. Stiles' forehead rested on the wolf's knee, hands clutching to the couch fabric and tears released unimpededly from his lashes. Derek looked up, the same happening to him, tears dripping down his cheeks as he held Stiles, wishing to go back and make it better, but whether Stiles believed it or not, this was something he could never fix.
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Sorry, Papa Stilinski. I will forever regret this.

Next chapter is in current time.