Six Feet Under | Sterek

fourteen;

I'm back! This story is officially back in business!

Derek sits with him for a long time, and Stiles can breathe. He's still angry at the werewolf, he's furious and scared and hurt, but he pushes it aside for now because if Derek is kicking him out then Stiles wants to have just a little bit longer with him. It's selfish, but that's okay because Stiles is a selfish person. You have to be, when you live the way he does.

He takes a deep breath, and he holds it in his chest for as long as he can before he lets it out in a huff. It makes his throat hurt, and Stiles doesn't care, and he does it again. He wants it to hurt, he needs it to hurt. Derek makes a small noise when Stiles dissolves into hacking coughs. 

Stiles just takes another deep breath, holds on, lets go.

"Hey," Derek says softly. "Stop that. Your heartbeat is going weird."

Stiles snorts and takes another deep breath. His head is aching now, and his vision swims and Stiles really doesn't care. Let him die. There isn't much to live for anyway. His dad already thinks he's a murderer. "Even squishy humans need to breathe, Derek," he says patronisingly and his voice is like acid and Derek recoils. Something sour crawls up Stiles's throat and he shakes his head. "Sorry."

"We should have told you about the apartment before." Derek sounds genuinely apologetic, and it might have soothed Stiles if not for admittance of betrayal. 

"Peter knew too?" Peter, whom Stiles had trusted. Peter, who should have known what he was doing. Peter, whom Stiles had trusted. "So you're both sick of me? Should have known his goodwill wouldn't last. Honestly, I'm surprised either of you let me stay this long."

Derek is frowning, his pretty gemstone eyes turbulent and confused and Stiles positively aches. He wants to touch his werewolf, to help and heal and soothe. Derek says, "We're not kicking you out Stiles. Why would you ever think that?"

And, fuck, really Derek? Is Stiles going to have to spell it out for him? "Up until a week ago, you couldn't stand the sight of me," he says in a small voice, and fuck it if Derek doesn't sink in on himself. "It's okay that you didn't like me. Despite what people think, I don't need everyone to like me. I went years with only Scott by my side. I can deal with minimal positive interaction."

"Stiles-"

"I showed up on your doorstep drunk and you let me stay," Stiles says, and there's a question there and he knows that Derek knows. Derek knows. "You let me stay."

Derek stands up, fast enough that Stiles actually recoils, curling in on himself instinctively. Derek looks horrified, but he doesn't apologise. He backs away and Stiles reaches for him, because Derek can't leave him now, Stiles still needs to know why, but he's leaving, leaving, leaving-

Derek disappears through the doorway, with Stiles still reaching for him, and the human boy is left alone in a room that suddenly feels too big.

He doesn't know what to do. His bones are vibrating, and his heartbeat is in his ears, and Stiles is still holding his hand out as if that will call Derek back to the room. He's feeling too much, too soon, and he can't do it. He can't, he can't, he can't. 

Fuck fuck fuck. 

His Jeep. He can go find his Jeep, and he can get in, and he can find some more alcohol, and he can drive to the middle of bumfuck nowhere and drown himself in burning until he fucking dies. He'll drive his baby through mud and water, anything to keep Scott off his trail, and he'll fucking drive. He'll drive and drive until he runs out of petrol and then he can run until he can't run anymore.

He just needs to get out of the loft. He'd go through the window, but it's a big-ass drop and he can't have broken ankles if he wants to drive. But he can't exactly creep around werewolves and so he's stuck. It's cunning, he realises. Derek and Peter are smart to have him here, because it might not feel like a prison but that's what it is. They monitor when he comes and when he goes and they put him in a room that he can't get out of.

They're smart, those werewolves, but Stiles is the son of the Sheriff and he is smarter. Nobody cages Stiles Stilinski. Who gives a fuck if he breaks his ankles. He's going to go out the window or he's going to die trying because if Peter and Derek don't want him there then Stiles won't be there. 

It's nice, he thinks vaguely to himself as he hauls himself to his feet and hurries to the window. It's real nice to have a goal, to have something to focus on. He's been drifting, listless and lifeless and limp, and now he's being sucked into a tornado. It's turbulent, but there's calm coming.

He just needs to get out of the loft.

The drop isn't as bad as it could've been, really, and Stiles is grateful because he'd broken his ankle when he was younger trying to climb a tree and it had hurt like a bitch. He's not eager to repeat the experience. (And isn't that odd; he wants things to hurt him, he wants to hurt, but he doesn't want to be injured. What a curious, curious thing.)

He lands, and he curses because ow, and then he starts running like Hell is nipping at his heels and he feels free for the first time in a long time.

.

Peter hears the human boy open the window, hears him land and curse and run. And he lets him go, because he knows what it's like to want to outrun your life. He'd tried it once, and it had destroyed him and he's terrified that maybe Stiles will be the same, but he lets the boy run and he doesn't chase.

He looks to Scott, who hasn't noticed the slight disturbance, and grimaces. The younger werewolf is going to make life almost unbearable when he discovers his friend is gone.