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Stiles wakes up when his bare foot catches on something sharp. He stumbles face-first into a pile of fallen leaves. They scratch at his face and arms, and he huffs with indignation as he tumbles down a small hill.
Last night, he went to sleep in his bed. Perfectly safe, perfectly fine, especially with the nogitsune dead. Except it’s clearly not, considering Stiles is out in the goddamn woods wearing only a t-shirt and his pajama pants.
He scrambles to his feet, fear lancing through his blood. There are no visible landmarks in the dark forest, not even the Hale house, so Stiles’ only option is to rely on his misguided sense of direction and stumble through the woods until he (hopefully) finds his way home. Sleepwalking is nothing new for him, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying when he wakes up in a random location.
Though Stiles is no longer under the thrall of the nogitsune, he still can’t trust himself. He’s not sure anyone else should trust him, either.
Stiles remembers everything the nogitsune did. Everything he did. He remembers leaving Kira’s name on the board, remembers every single person he killed, every person he hurt. It doesn’t matter that it was the nogitsune taking possession of him to cause strife and chaos for everyone. No, Stiles feels guilty because he enjoyed it.
Sure, the blackouts weren’t fun, and being threatened in his own dreamscape was absolutely terrifying, but the nogitsune was able to give him what he couldn’t give himself. Power. Fearlessness. Control.
Stiles has experienced so much loss since he and Scott found out about the existence of the supernatural in Beacon Hills. There’s a small part of him that wishes the nogitsune would come back for him. Then he wouldn’t have to feel the hurt that threatens to swallow him whole every day. Even the people he knows that are still alive have suffered immensely. It feels like too much.
Sometimes out of the corner of his eye, Stiles thinks he catches sight of the nogitsune’s sharp metal teeth and bandaged head.
He hates that he wishes it were real.
Scott, Derek, his dad, and everyone else are too busy dealing with their own problems, so Stiles keeps thoughts like this to himself. He deals with his sleepwalking, careful to keep it quiet so his dad won’t notice. Ignores the times he wakes up, choking on bandages that aren’t there. He pretends like he doesn’t have dark thoughts anymore, like maybe he hasn’t left an opening in his mind for the nogitsune to return. Or maybe it never left, and Stiles himself is no more.
Maybe he’s here, only existing for the purpose of making his friends suffer. Nogitsunes are trickster spirits, after all. What a fun thought.
Stiles stumbles over a stick and catches himself on a nearby tree, panting heavily. He’s freezing, and a deep ache has settled in his bones. Dreams didn’t used to feel like this, but now he can’t be sure.
His vision blurs and he slowly lifts up his hand to count his fingers. One, two, three, four, five on his right hand. One, two, three—
“Stiles!” Derek arrives just in Stiles’ line of sight, causing his head to snap up. He vaguely registers that he never finished counting. “What are you doing out here?”
“What are you doing out here?” Stiles counters, aware of his unkempt appearance.
Even in daytime, he knows he’s pale as hell and only wears planned outfits on a good day (which don’t come around very often). Right now, in the dead of night and sleep deprived, Stiles is very much conscious of the dark bags under his eyes and the dirt on the soles of his feet.
“I’m a werewolf,” Derek replies seriously, like that explains anything.
“Cool. Great talk. I actually have to be getting back home.” Stiles claps his hands together and points somewhere to his left.
Derek rolls his eyes and sighs heavily. “Your home is the other way, dumbass.”
“Oh.” Stiles blinks stupidly. “Then I’ll go that way.”
He starts to walk in (hopefully) the right direction this time, mindful of the way Derek stares at his back as he goes. If Stiles is being honest, Derek is the person he wants to talk to most right now, which is why he quickens his pace. Stopping for even a moment would make every stupid word tumble out of his mouth. He would share the things that he’s been keeping to himself, and Derek would tell Scott, and Stiles’ dad, and everything would be a mess again.
Stiles hears a whoosh of air as Derek uses his wolf speed to catch up to him. Except instead of walking next to Stiles like a normal person, Derek lumbers slightly behind.
Unfortunately, Stiles finds it completely endearing.
Ever since he spotted Derek for the first time, clad in his leather jacket with piercing eyes, Stiles was completely gone on him. It didn’t matter that Derek looked ready to beat the shit out of anyone who went near him; Stiles’ brain went ‘yep. Yeah. That’s the one.’
Of course, he knew the big bad werewolf would never be interested in someone like him, and Stiles’ dad would definitely kill Derek, Stiles, then Derek again, so Stiles did everything he could think of to get Derek out of his head. He tried everything he could think of.
Emphasis on tried.
“I can hear you thinking,” Derek says in a deadpan tone.
“And I can hear you creeping behind me. There’s plenty of forest space for both of us,” Stiles says, gesturing his arms wide.
In lieu of a normal response, Derek sidles up next to him, leaving just enough space between their bodies for Jesus or whoever might show up in the woods right now. He looks completely content, sniffing the air while Stiles wraps his arms around himself and pretends he’s not freezing.
“You’re bleeding,” Derek notes.
Stiles glances down at his ankle, finally slowing his pace. It’s barely a trickle, and sure it hurts a little from falling down, but, “I can make it.”
“I could always carry you,” Derek suggests. Stiles feels his cheeks heat up and he imagines a world where Derek genuinely means it.
“I can make it home by myself. I’m very resourceful like that, I’ll have you know. Perks of being the song of a sheriff,” he insists.
Derek shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
They continue walking through the woods, barely illuminated by the moon. Stiles’ tongue itches to say something, the growing silence sparking annoyance under his skin.
“I don’t need you to coddle me,” Stiles says. “I can take care of myself, you know. It’s just a little blood. You could leave me here and I’d be perfectly fine.”
Please don’t go.
“I’m not going to leave you, Stiles,” Derek says, like Stiles is the one being an idiot. “You’d be easy prey for anything in these woods.”
Stiles snorts. “It’d be the least I deserve.”
Derek’s arm shoots out in front of Stiles’ chest, blocking his path forward. “Stiles.”
“What? I’m the idiot who let a freaking nogitsune in my head. It picked me because I’m weak and human and broken and—and messed up,” Stiles spits out, voice full of vitriol and hatred.
He has more blood on his hands than anyone else in their pack. So many people have died because of him.
Stiles can practically hear the nogitsune creeping around the recesses of his mind, whispering to him, calling out again. It’s promising power and control and everything he’s ever wanted. A way to forget the pain he’s caused.
“That’s stupid,” Derek tells him.
“I know,” Stiles mutters, turning his face away as tears prick in his eyes.
“Not you. What you said. The nogitsune could have picked anyone.” Derek drops his arm, taking his warmth with him.
“But it picked me.”
“Because you’re human?” Derek asks, crossing his arms.
“Yes. No. Maybe!” Stiles throws his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know! I don’t know.”
“Do you want to be a werewolf?” Derek asks, stepping closer. His eyes shine cold blue in the dark, practically forcing Stiles to meet his gaze.
“What? No!” Stiles exclaims.
“Exactly. You’ve turned down the bite multiple times, Stiles. You’re human, but that’s not a weakness. Everyone still cares about you and you’re part of Scott’s pack. No one’s going to leave you behind because of what you are,” Derek says. It might be the most words he’s ever said all at once, and it’s stupidly insightful.
Stiles’ shoulders slump as the truth comes spilling out. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m still not normal. I’m kidding myself if I think it’ll ever get better. Whoever I’m with is going to have to deal with the nightmares. When I wake up screaming in the middle of the night, they’ll have to comfort me and tell me that I’m not there anymore. No one’s gonna want to do that. Not for me, and it’s not because I’m human.”
“I do,” Derek says, barely audible. Stiles isn’t sure if he was meant to hear it or not.
“Really? You, the big bad wolf, want to take care of me?” Stiles lets out a self-deprecating laugh.
Derek rolls his eyes. “What do you think I’m doing right now, Stiles?”
Stiles looks down at his plaid pajama pants, sticks and leaves still attached to the fabric. “Hanging out with me so I don’t get killed because the guilt would weigh on your conscience? ‘cause it’s definitely not because of how much I talk. And I talk a lot.
“Maybe I like hearing you talk.” Derek looks away, eyes shining as he scans the tree line. “C’mon. We’re almost at the road.”
Stiles groans and follows behind. His feet are starting to ache and he’s really starting to feel the lack of sleep.
Derek’s eyes flick back to look at him. “My offer still stands.”
“The one to carry me, you mean?” Stiles hates to admit it, but the idea of being carried in Derek Hale’s arms is more than appealing right now.
Derek doesn’t respond.
“Fine,” Stiles relents. “But just this once. And if you tell anyone—“
Derek scoops him up rather gently into a bridal carry and Stiles definitely doesn’t squeak as his feet leave the ground. Derek’s body is much warmer than Stiles,’ acting as a barrier between Stiles and the wind. Stiles instinctively wraps his arms around Derek’s throat, holding on with enough force to make sure he won’t fall.
“If you tell anyone,” Stiles threatens.
Derek rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I don’t want anyone knowing about this more than you do.”
They make it back to town much quicker than Stiles ever would have on his own. It’s still fairly dark out, and much to Stiles’ embarrassment, his stomach growls. To be fair, it’s been several hours since he last ate.
“We can stop somewhere before I take you home,” Derek offers.
Stiles snorts. “What a gentleman. There’s better ways to ask a guy out on a date, you know.”
Derek doesn’t reply, just dumps Stiles on the ground, only letting go once Stiles finds his footing. “You good?”
“All good,” Stiles replies, giving him a thumbs up. “I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere without shoes, though.”
Derek frowns. “Right.”
“Hey, you could always take me home so I could grab some. Then we could eat.” Stiles hesitates. “If you want to, of course. I get it if you don’t—“
“Let’s do that,” Derek interrupts.
Several minutes later and one outfit change later, Stiles and Derek head for the Beacon Hills’ diner in the Jeep. Stiles leaves a note for his dad to say where he’ll be, choosing to opt out of mentioning the fact that Derek’s with him. He knows how well that would go down.
The sky is painted with streaks of pink, the sun starting to emerge as Stiles pulls into a parking spot. Unsurprisingly, it looks like they’re the only customers right now.
They enter the diner and a bell jingles on the door. Derek lets Stiles take the lead, sitting across from in the red booth. He looks almost…nervous, tapping his fingers on the table. His eyes shift around the diner, taking in the sticky floors and the strange odor around them.
“Pinnacle of quality, huh?” Stiles teases, reaching for a laminated menu.
“Sure,” Derek agrees, even if he doesn’t mean it.
“Hey, you grew up here, too. Something’s gotta be good here,” Stiles tries, scanning the menu. He notices a sticky spot of syrup on the list of drinks.
Derek twists his jaw, staring Stiles down, but he doesn’t reply. He’s always been the silent type, quietly analyzing until it’s time to deal with an issue. He keeps his thoughts close to his chest. Right now Stiles wonders if Derek thinks he’s an issue. It makes him squirm in his seat and drop the topic without getting an answer.
The waitress takes their order; Stiles getting a full breakfast complete with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and coffee, while Derek sticks with plain black coffee.
The man clearly has no sense of adventure.
Derek licks his lips, keeping his eyes locked on Stiles as the waitress walks away. “You cleaned up well.”
Stiles glances down at himself and shrugs. “Better than looking like I woke up sleepwalking in the Preserve again.”
“Stiles. Take the compliment.”
“Aww, I’m touched.”
“Whatever.” Derek sets his jaw. “How long has the sleepwalking been going on?”
“Oh, you know,” Stiles gestures vaguely. He’s not sure what Derek’s looking for. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Of course it does,” Derek insists. He nearly bangs his fist on the table before he remembers himself and calms down. “If something’s going on with you, you need to tell someone.”
Stiles bites his lip. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else. I don’t want my dad to worry about me again. Promise me?”
“You have my word, Stiles,” Derek promises.
“I know the nogitsune’s gone, but I’m still having a hard time telling what’s real. I keep counting my fingers, but I still can’t help wondering if maybe—maybe I never woke up. Maybe it just got better at hiding from me,” Stiles finishes quietly.
He keeps his hand under the table squeezing it into a fist and digging his fingernails in deep enough to leave indents. Counting fingers stopped working a while ago. Pain keeps him grounded in reality, even when the nogitsune calls his name.
Derek stays silent, either pondering or preparing judgement. Stiles braces for both.
“It’s not working anymore?” Derek questions.
“Not really.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Stiles wonders if Derek’s finally decided to leave him behind. Decided if he’s enough of a liability to tell everyone else about.
He trains his ears toward the kitchen, listening to the sizzling and banging of pots and pans. What he wouldn’t give to have to worry about normal things like having a minimum wage job. It would certainly be better and much less life-threatening than all the supernatural crap everyone has to deal with on a regular basis.
“You need an anchor,” Derek decides, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Uh, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a werewolf,” Stiles aptly points out.
Derek rolls his eyes. “I know that, dumbass. You don’t have to be a supernatural creature to need an anchor. It keeps you grounded.”
Anchors are meant to keep werewolves in check. It’s what keeps them human, stops them from becoming monsters. Stiles has seen firsthand what an out-of-control werewolf can do, the carnage they bring. He supposes that Derek is probably right. Stiles may still be human, but after everything with the nogitsune, this might be what he needs.
“I-I don’t—“ Stiles stutters out. “Who would I use?”
Derek shrugs. “That’s your choice. Could be your dad, Scott, Lydia; someone you’re close to.”
“Oh.”
“What? You don’t like my suggestions?” Derek asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.
“No. No! I mean yes. I mean, I just don’t think any of them will work.” Stiles clears his throat and looks away.
He’d rather not explain to the werewolf in front of him that ‘hey, you’re actually the one I like and trust. Mind if I use your presence to ground me? That would go over well.
Derek frowns. “Why not? They all make sense. Your dad, your best friend, the girl you’ve had a crush on for years—“
“Hah!” Stiles snorts a laugh, not even stopping for the bewildered look in Derek’s face. “Lydia, she’s not—“ Derek stares at him impassively. “Not the one I like,” Stiles finishes lamely.
“What about your five-year plan or whatever?”
“Ten, actually,” Stiles mutters. He always joked about having a plan, but in actuality it didn’t exist. Not when it came to Lydia, anyway. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Derek replies, averting his gaze. “Scott just doesn’t know how to shut up.
“Uh-huh.”
“So, who is it?”
“Again, I’m touched,” Stiles snarks back. “But it’s not really your concern.”
Derek keeps his eyes firmly locked on the table. “She’s a lucky girl.”
Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but the waitress finally arrives with their food. Well, his food and their coffee. He thanks her with a smile and kicks Derek under the table, earning a forced smile from the werewolf and a glare for himself. What he wouldn’t give to have Derek smile at him.
Sometimes Derek shows up in Stiles’ dreams, on his doorstep, ready to confess to something big until it’s all whisked away, and he ends up back in the white room. He watches as the nogitsune plays chess, wrapped in dirty bandages. Stiles usually wakes up when the creature rushes at him, teeth sharp enough to hurt. The phantom pain lingers, aching in his chest.
Stiles hopes that this isn’t a dream, too.
He digs into his food while Derek watches him intently, illuminated by the glow of the rising sun. Stupid hot werewolves and their stupid ability to look downright magical.
Stiles is almost done with his pancakes when he hears the nogitsune’s voice echoing through his head, calling his name. His fork clatters to his plate and he looks up just in time to see a bandaged head ducking out of sight in the direction of the restroom.
He stands up, and Derek calls after him, but his voice sounds muffled, like it’s underwater. Stiles follows the sound of his name, leaving the table behind. He’s feeling cold again, and he lifts his hand to push the wooden door open.
Stiles looks at his closed fist and unclenches it. Five fingers. He thinks, at least. A voice echoes somewhere behind him, not the nogitsune.
Derek, calling him back.
The door opens to the white room, and this time, the nogitsune isn’t playing chess. He’s waiting for Stiles to make the first move. To step in and make a choice.
Stiles takes a deep breath in, trying to calm his racing heart and trembling hands. He wants to turn around, find safety somewhere else. But the nogitsune is right there, right in front of him. Waiting.
Just a few steps forward and everything will be okay. He won’t have to feel guilty for not telling his friends about his sleepwalking. He won’t have to feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. He won’t have to—
“Stiles!” Derek says urgently.
Stiles snaps back, turning around and running face first into Derek.
On instinct, Stiles melts into his warmth, and feels Derek’s arms tentatively wrap around him. His eyes flutter a bit before he decides to pull back.
“Sorry,” he apologizes.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Derek tells him. For once, he doesn’t step away from Stiles, letting his personal space be invaded. “Are you going to tell me what that was?”
Stiles hesitates, then shakes his head. “I—I don’t—“
“Okay. Let’s sit back down,” Derek suggests.
For once, Stiles is grateful for the lack of pushiness. That’s a lie. More often than not, he’s grateful for Derek’s prickly personality. He doesn’t have to share with Derek, even though he really wants to. If Stiles decides to share, it’ll be his choice, not someone else’s.
Still, Stiles can only offer a tight smile right now. The real Derek would never be so nice, but Stiles will take this over the nogitsune. He hasn’t been able to even look at his chess board since it died.
The pancakes are cold by the time Stiles sits back down, but he shovels them in his mouth anyway. Derek watches on with amusement (at least what is considered amusement in Derek Hale terms).
“Guy, by the way,” Stiles offers through a mouthful of pancakes. He doesn’t want to talk about the nogitsune, but he can talk about this. And it’s a good way to check for continuity.
“What?” Derek sounds confused.
“You said ‘she’s a lucky girl.’ I’m telling you it’s not. A girl. The person I’m going to use as my anchor,” Stiles explains, silently cringing at how stilted his words sound.
“Oh,” Derek says, voice void of emotion. “That’s nice.”
“Yep.” Stiles stabs at his plate with his fork, causing a screeching sound to echo in the diner.
“Are you two—“
“Oh, God, no,” Stiles says with a laugh. “He’s never going to go for me. I mean, have you seen me? I talk way too much, and that makes me very easy to leave behind.”
Derek grinds his teeth together. “Then he’s an idiot. Even if you think everyone else is ready to leave you behind, you don’t get to think that of me. Not ever. You got that, Stiles? Your nerdy ass is stuck with me until the day you die.”
Stiles snorts. “Sounds like you’re planning on living for a long time, then. I wanna get out of here. Start a family. You gonna start creeping on me?”
“Even then,” Derek promises. He looks away. “Is that…something you what?”
“What do you mean?” Stiles asks, turning his head and swallowing a mouthful of eggs. They’re covered in sticky syrup that leaves a residue on his lips.
“A family. Husband, kids, you know.” Derek’s eyes seem fixed on a spot on Stiles’ face, and he glances down before replying.
“Well, yeah. I mean, it doesn’t have to be a husband. I’m not picky like that. but it might be nice to have some kids running around. You know, leave my mark on the world as something other than…you know. Still boring human Stiles, but at least I’d have a life.”
Derek hums. “It’s a nice idea. I’m sure you’d have a good life.”
Stiles knows it’s more fantasy than not. Maybe in another world, he’d be able to escape from the supernatural entities that haunt Beacon Hills and actually make something of his life.
He’d be able to pretend like he’s not reliving every action of the nogitsune, like he wasn’t conscious of every death and all the pain.
“You don’t sound particularly enthused,” Stiles notes, sending away the images of him and Derek chasing kids around in a big house. Sleep-deprivation really sucks. “Jealous or something?”
Derek huffs. “No. I’m not jealous.”
“You’ve got your murder brows on,” Stiles points out, jabbing a finger in the direction of Derek’s face. Derek’s frown worsens and he bats Stiles’ finger away.
“Don’t call them that.”
“Am I wrong, though?” Stiles asks, shooting Derek a cheeky grin.
Derek just sighs. “Finish your pancakes, Stiles.”
“My fictional future spouse is getting the Derek Hale pissy. I’m honored,” Stiles says. It’s a joke, but secretly he feels his heart warm at the thought of Derek feeling jealous. Wouldn’t that be nice? At the very least, it’s a distraction, quieting the voice of the nogitsune.
“You always make me pissy.”
“Good to know. What are your plans? Wife, kids, white-picket house? Are you going to get a dog? Would that be weird since you’re a werewolf? I know Scott works at the vet’s, and—“
Derek looks on with fond amusement as Stiles rambles through every thought in his head. Christ, Stiles really does need to get his brain checked.
“Werewolves aren’t exactly known for living normal lives,” Derek reminds him.
“Still, you could find another werewolf girl, right? You guys would make cute babies,” Stiles says, ignoring the blush rising in his cheeks. He’s basically called Derek Hale cute by proxy.
“I don’t need a girl if I’ve got you, do I?” Derek asks.
Stiles shakes his head. “Still not a wolf, though. Just so you’re not disappointed.”
“I know,” Derek says softly. “I don’t care.”
Stiles looks at Derek, really looks at him. His hazel eyes are trained on Stiles, and there’s a crease between his brows. He looks somewhere between sad and hopeful. Stiles swallows and reaches a hand out across the table.
Derek stares at it, and for a moment, Stiles isn’t sure what he’s going to do. If this were a few years ago, he might have been worried that his hand would get broken. As it is, Derek slowly stretches his own hand out and holds Stiles.
“I don’t want to take you away from your life,” Derek says slowly, staring at their tangled hands.
“Hey, you’re not stuck in Beacon Hills, you know?” Stiles insists. “I’m not, either. Besides, you can’t really leave me now. Not when you’re my anchor.”
Derek has the decency to look surprised, his lips curving into a smile. “Since we’re putting our cards on the table, I think it’s fair game to tell you that anger hasn’t been my only anchor, lately. Pain isn’t the sole thing I need anymore.”
“So you want me, messed up, trauma, and all?” Stiles asks, just to be sure.
Derek rolls his eyes. “Dumbass,” he says fondly.
The nogitsune calls out Stiles’ name again, pushing a cold wind through the diner. Goosebumps rise on his arms, but it’s easier to ignore it this time, especially with Derek still holding his hand.