Six Feet Under | Sterek

seven;

"You gotta get out of bed, kid." Peter's voice isn't sympathetic or soft. He sounds on edge, and Stiles wonders if maybe Peter's reached his limit. He doesn't really care, but he wonders about it anyway. "It smells like a corpse in here."

Once, Stiles would have said something like 'Of course you'd know what that smells like, zombie wolf.' Now, he's too tired and so he says nothing at all. 

Peter doesn't sigh, or be soft, or tell Stiles that it's okay. Instead, he grabs the covers that Stiles is currently using to smother himself and rips them off, growling harshly. Stiles looks up into angry blue eyes and doesn't flinch.

"Get up," Peter snarls, teeth bared. "Get up you useless human."

Stiles just blinks at him and curls into a little ball. His limbs are heavy and cold, and his head feels fuzzy and full of cotton. Peter's words barely register, like water that just flows off him. He's tired, he thinks and closes his eyes.

Peter is breathing heavily now, patience worn thin, and Stiles yelps as a hand closes around his ankle and tugs. "Peter!" he snaps hoarsely as he lands heavily on the floor.

"Get up," Peter repeats, lips twisted into a feral snarl. "I'm not going to babysit you, Stilinski. Get up."

Stiles makes a jumble of noises that vaguely mean, 'fuck off Peter and leave me to mope in peace, Jesus.' Peter was not amused.

"Get up, or get out."

It feels like he's been waiting for this his whole life, waiting for someone to give him an ultimatum, to care enough to force his hand. He blinks up at Peter, feeling his throat tighten and his chest ache. "Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he'd asking for.

Peter does sigh then, and he sits down on the ground cross legged. "C'mon kid," he murmurs, voice suddenly gentle. It's such a contrast to earlier that Stiles flinches. Peter's eyes soften. "What's going inside that head of yours?" He asks.

Stiles spras on his back and stares at the roof. It's oddly clean, he notices. It makes him uncomfortable. "Do you think I'm the reason my family fell apart?"

There's silence. Stiles doesn't need to look at Peter to now that there's a frown on his face. He just stares at the roof and feels like he's empty. He'd empty of hurt, of joy, of love, of care. It's hard to care, really, when there's nothing left to care about. 

"Scott's here," Peter says rather than answering Stiles's question, and that is an answer in and of itself. "C'mon." He stands up and extends a hand, but Stiles doesn't take it. How can he?

Peter waits patiently, and Stiles hates him, just a little bit. He hates him even more when Peter reaches down and pulls him up anyway, regardless of the fact that Stiles didn't make a move. Stiles hates him when Peter shoves him into the bathroom, where there are some clothes already laid out. He hates the werewolf when Peter shuts the door and locks it from the outside and Stiles is left alone.

It's not until Stiles looks in the mirror that he realises it's not Peter he hates, it's himself.

He looks sickly, his skin sallow and pale. His eyes are bloodshot and sad, and his face is gaunt. He looks pathetic. He is pathetic. "Damn it, Stiles," he sneers, his voice cracking. "Look at you. Damn it, Stiles!"

He scrubs his face with his palms, taking a deep breath to ease the building tears. He just wants to go back to sleep. He's tired.

But he doesn't. He strips down and gets in the shower and he uses Derek's soap because he can and it smells good. He stays in there for a good long while, not because the water feels great, but because his mind is so fuzzy that he can't even comprehend getting out. (The water does feel great though, it really does.)

When he finally turns the water off and steps out, he can think a little clearer, but he's even more tired. He dresses slowly, on autopilot, and when he tries the door handle, the door swings open without a fight. Stiles doesn't care to think about it. (It means that Peter had been waiting, and that means that Peter had cared.)

He stops at the entrance to his room, and stares at the bed. there are new sheets, smooth cotton ones, and the windows are open to air the room out. Stiles snorts despite himself, because now he can imagine Peter in a nurses outfit and isn't that a sight to see.

"Stiles!" Peter calls, and Stiles's limbs move before he can even register the shout. "Scott's waiting!"

No. No, he doesn't wanna see Scott, not today. Not now. He doesn't wanna see Scott, no no no no no no-

He locks up, freezing just before he walks into the main room. He doesn't-no-he-

"Stiles?" It's not Peter, and Stiles winces before registering that it's not Scott either. It's Derek, his voice uncharacteristically quiet and unimposing. His pretty gemstone eyes are worried and sad, and Stiles reaches for him without thinking. Derek frowns at the trembling hand, and Stiles pull it back again, feeling embarrassed and stupid. "Stiles, come on. Scott's waiting to see you."

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't wanna see Scott," he says in a whisper. 

"Stiles."

"No."

Derek sighs tiredly, and Stiles almost gives in just because he feels guilty for being a pain, but he really doesn't wanna see Scott. He can just imagine the injured puppy look, the pleading eyes, the mouth turned down into a frown. Stiles can't do it, not yet. 

"Why not?" Derek asks, and that's fair. 

"I'm tired," Stiles says lamely, and Derek's eyes flare and then shut off. His body tenses. His hands curl into fists and Stiles can see the claws that are starting to appear. Something acrid starts to fill that gaping hole in his chest. "I-I'm sorry," he breathes, feeling the urge to flee, to get away, to go home.

Derek just disappears into the main room and Stiles slides down the wall and sits, burying his face in his hands. He should go, he thinks, he should just go and stay with Melissa. He should go home and face his dad. He should come clean about everything. He should do a lot of things, and instead of doing them, he's sitting here doing nothing god damnit Stiles, you useless human!

"C'mon kid." It's Peter who helps him to his feet, who leads him back to his room. It's Peter who closes the windows and draws the curtains. And it's Peter who tells Stiles, "It's okay. You don't have to see him right away. I know you're tired." As if Peter isn't already sick of Stiles's moping.

Stiles thinks that he came to this loft for Derek. Derek wants nothing to do with him. 

Stiles thinks that he came to this loft so he could burn himself out, play with fire, find something to soothe the constant ache in his head.

Stiles thinks that maybe he'd come to this loft for comfort. As Peter shuts the door with a quiet click, Stiles thinks that maybe he's found it.