To Build a Home

Chapter 17

"When were you planning on telling me about your promotion?" Stiles asked quietly from his place in the doorway, right shoulder leaning against the molding, arms crossed against his chest. Derek continued to rinse dishes in the sink as if he hadn't heard, face expressionless while he moved them over, one by one, into the open dishwasher.

"How was I supposed to tell you something like that when you're up half the night having some kind of anxiety-asthma attack about losing your job?" he finally asked once the sink was empty of dishes and pots.

"What, did you think I wouldn't find out?" Stiles moved from the doorway into the kitchen, arms staying put as he got closer to Derek. "And I haven't had an attack in like a week."

More like four days, Derek thought as he slid silverware into the rack of the dishwasher door. "Who told you?"

"I went to pay some of Isaac's hospital bills and I saw your direct deposit on the Chase account," Stiles sighed, letting his arms drop. "It was higher than usual. Much higher."

Derek didn't want to look at Stiles, knew the regret surging through his own body was evident in the way his teeth were grinding together, jaw muscles tight. The sour taste in his mouth continued as he put a pouch of dish soap into the door, which he nearly broke as he slammed it shut against its frame. He started a cycle and leaned his palms against the countertop above the machine with a guilty sigh.

"I'm happy for you, babe. Really, I am." Stiles inched closer and Derek could hear his husband smiling as he spoke, but it only made him feel like one of his husband's first graders. Like he needed consoling after getting frustrated over something small. "I just don't like that you kept it from me." Derek felt arms slide around his waist from behind, but he pulled away towards the stove, the sudden contact making him tense up. "Sorry," Stiles sighed once they separated. "I, uh, thought that maybe that would help things, but I guess I misread the situation."

Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hating that he'd pushed Stiles away before he could even stop himself. It was a reflex, one that he'd acquired after the fire when policemen and social workers had continually wrapped their fingers around his wrist or shoulder as a means of comfort. This isn't even a big deal anymore, he thought to himself. He knows now and he's not even mad. Weight's been lifted. Move on.

But all he could focus on at that very moment was his blatant stupidity; Stiles accessed that particular checking account now and then to pay bills and withdraw money for groceries and gas. Hell, the username and password for web access was taped to the side of the filing cabinet beside Stiles' desk in his office. Had he really thought Stiles wouldn't find out? Or had he just been trying to buy time, enough of it until things evened out and they knew where Stiles would be working in the fall? He then had a third thought: Maybe he'd wanted Stiles to bring it up because he knew it would be hard. Too hard, actually, to admit on his own.

Just like it was too hard to admit how afraid he'd been when Isaac had to go on the ventilator, something he knew nothing about at the time, and Stiles was falling apart in his arms, having an asthma attack of his own. He knew Stiles thought that his exhaustion from their week at the hospital was from anxiety, but Derek knew that fear was a better word for what he was experiencing. He'd never felt so paralyzed, physically and emotionally, at least since the fire, until that night. And he hadn't felt a reprieve, been able to take a single full breath, since.

"I don't want to fight, Der," Stiles whispered. "I just want to talk. We need to start doing more of that."

The pitter-patter of Isaac's footsteps into the kitchen for "more juice, pwease" interrupted them, Stiles too busy finding the jug of grape juice in the fridge and filling Isaac's empty sippy cup to notice that he was tugging at Derek pant leg.