🄶🄸🅅🄴 - sterek -

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"Do you ever feel like you give too much?"

It was late, well past midnight as the stars hung low overhead Beacon Hills. The night was cold and unforgiving. Stiles could feel the cold seep deep into his bones, rooting his thin frame to the shingles of his family home.

Derek hummed from beside him. The werewolf sat a mere foot away, the distance acting as bargaining territory; neither moved to claim it even though they both wanted the space to disappear.

Stiles sighed. He didn't elaborate on his question and nor did he try to pry a verbal response from Derek. The brunette man simply sighed another soft sigh and brought a cigarette to his chapped lips. Derek wrinkled his nose but kept silent. He accepted the half spent cigarette from Stiles extended hand and took a long drag himself.

This had become a routine. Over the passage of time, blurred with countless dances with death, Derek and Stiles had gone from ripping at each others throats to sharing cigarettes on the roof of Stiles house. Neither question when or how their relationship shifted to what they were now. They were well past friends at this point, made aware of that fact from Issacs instance to call Stiles 'mom' and Derek 'dad'. Best friends was more accurate, yet failed to meet the criteria for everything else the two were together. Neither pried, or tried to hasten anything, content with keeping everything as peaceful as they could.

But this was Beacon Hills.

Peace was akin to a prayer in hell - a hollow vow.

What Stiles and Derek had to face with the Pack a mere two hours ago drove that point home hard. There was a full on coven hell bent on turning Beacon Hills into their own little haven filled with human sacrifices. Defeating them took more time and effort than anything they had faced in the past two months. It cost them more too.

Isaac was passed out alongside Scott back at the McCall household, nursing a nasty gash spanning from the base of his throat to his bellybutton. Scott wasn't any better off as his back looked like someone had tried to turn him into werewolf jerky with a dull blade.

Boyd and Erica were healing up busted ribs and broken appendages. Lydia and Allison had gotten away with the least amount of damage, bodies marred with scattered bruises and small cuts. The youngest of the pack had been kept out of the fight.

Stiles was sporting a darkening black eye and a nice sized gash to his forearm, marring his tattoos that he had collected on that arm. Derek had claw marks running down his sides and back, hidden underneath his shirt. The werewolves would heal by morning, but the few humans would be nursing their battered bodies for a couple of days at least.

Derek and Stiles passed the cigarette back and forth until it was nothing but a crumpled filter. Stubbed against the rough shingles, it joined the graveyard of filters on the roof. The sun was starting to rise behind the trees, harsh tendrils of pure light slashed through the stark darkness encompassing Beacon Hills.

Stiles sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair as he watched the sun rise to a near visible level above the trees. The sun rose around six, and Stiles had to be in to work at eight, meaning he had gotten a total of zero hours of sleep.

"Want any breakfast? I've got stuff for pancakes and bacon."

Derek replied with a simple 'sure'.

The two slid into the Stilinski family house through Stiles' bedroom window. Stiles shivered at the sudden intrusion of warmth on his body. He was sore and feeling a bit crusty from the fight earlier.

"Go shower. I'll start the coffee." Derek spoke from behind Stiles, locking the window shut before he toed off his sneakers.

The werewolf gently pushed Stiles to the bathroom, sensing - and smelling - the humans pain and exhaustion. Stiles hummed and let the elder guide him, grabbing clothes in the process. The battered human could hear the werewolves heavy footsteps on the old wood stairs. Stiles smiled tiredly and closed the bathroom door.