Sterek One Shots

Call Me A Safe Bet

Stiles breaks up with him on a Tuesday.

“Stop,” he says, when Derek shows up in his room, tries to pull him close. It’s been a long week; a long year. The Sheriff is still in the hospital and the alphas are all dead or scattered. Scott and Derek ripped Deucalion apart themselves, buried the pieces all over Beacon Hills like a warning.

The pack’s been rotating in and out like clockwork since the Sheriff got hurt, since Kali put a knife in his gut and twisted, just to show what she could, what she would do. Derek passes Isaac on his way in, nods a grateful greeting. He finds Stiles alone in his bedroom, just sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. He doesn't look up when Derek walks in.

He doesn't try to get Stiles up, drops to his knees between Stiles’ legs instead and crowds up against him. Derek rubs his hands up and down Stiles’ thighs, somewhere in between comforting and sexual. He doesn't know what Stiles needs.

“Stop,” Stiles says, when Derek leans up for a kiss. Derek stills, half sitting on his heels while he waits. It’s the first thing Stiles has said to him in days.

It feels like a long time before Stiles says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?” Derek asks. It sounds like the question is coming from a long way away.

Stiles shakes his head, scrubs one hand over his face. He hasn't shaved in days, the stubble contrasting sharply with his pale skin. He looks old, suddenly, older, the man he’s going to become, not the boy he is.

“I’m tapping out,” he says. “I’m done.”

“Done with what?” Derek asks. Stupidly, he thinks. He knows what Stiles means, wants to make him say it anyway. No easy outs.

“This. Everything. Werewolves, druids, all this shit. I’m out.” He finally looks Derek in the eye. “We can’t do this anymore.”

“Is this—”

“My dad almost died,” Stiles says, talking over Derek like he doesn't even hear him. “He got stabbed in the fucking stomach and he almost bled out in front of me. I had to stand there until you were done fighting and I had to watch him, dying, because of me.”

“It wasn't—”

“Don’t you say it wasn't my fault,” Stiles snaps. “Don’t you dare. He wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me. He would have been home, he would have been safe.”

“It would have been someone else, then,” Derek tries to reason. “Someone’s else father, or mother, someone who’s less—”

Stiles stands up suddenly, forcing Derek off balance, knocking him backwards with the strength of it. “What are you trying to say, that he deserved it? That because he’s a cop, it’s somehow fine for him to die, because at least he signed up for it?”

“No, Stiles, of course not,” Derek says. “I didn't mean—”

“It doesn't matter what you meant,” Stiles says. “It’s not going to happen again. He’s not going to be in danger because of me, ever again.”

“He’s always going to be in danger,” Derek says, gently. “He’s the sheriff.”

Stiles’ whole face crumples at that and suddenly he’s young again, not seventeen, just a little kid who wants to keep his dad safe. Derek gets up, moves to pull Stiles into a hug.

“Stop,” Stiles says, when Derek’s arms are halfway around his body.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just told you,” Stiles says, gaze cutting to the floor. “I can’t—not any of it. We can’t do this anymore.”

It’s the truth his mind has been shying away from, ever since Stiles said it. He understood it the first time, but he didn't want to.