7

Chapter 5

Stiles couldn't sleep, so it was no surprise that Scott- half asleep-pushed Stiles off of the makeshift bed when he shifted around the 100th time. He was hanging off the edge of the bed, Scott to his right, a curled up wolf next to Scott, Isaac on the other side of the wolf face in her fur, limbs over Liam who was drooling on Boyd's shoulder. Erica was at the edge of the bed, much like Stiles, and was curled into herself, back pushed up against Boyd's side.

It was 4am when he finally gave up and left for work.

"Stiles?" Erica said sleepily, sitting up.

"Go back to sleep Erica I'm fine. " he said resisting the urge to laugh at her crazy half up half down hair.

"M'kay." She mumbled laying back down." Don't die." She slurred in her pillow.

Stiles snorted." No promises." He mumbled to himself before grabbing his keys on the counter and leaving.

He drove through his lonely town with the radio off.

When he walked in the locker room, where every sound echoed throughout the empty air, he shivered in discomfort. He hates it when it's this quiet. When the buzz of lights and hum of electrical wires are too low to hear, when the background noise of cars and the simple sound of someone else breathing isn't there to derail his dark thoughts.

Quickly he changed into some workout gear, keeping his eyes down and away from anything reflective. You'd think by now he'd be okay with the scars but -to simply put it- he's not. He isn't strong enough to wear them as armor, and perhaps he never will. Why should he-it was his fault anyway. Needing to let out some energy he made his way toward the gym.

Running was Stiles' workout of choice.

After all that had happened in High School, after all that he's had to run from, he found out that running forces his mind to focus on one task allowing his jumping thoughts to disappear. He plugged his ears with music and jogged for about a mile before Derek walked in.

Stiles may have almost tripped and ate the floor. And that may or may not have anything to do with the fact that Derek was wearing dangerously low gym shorts that showed the outline of his bulge, accompanied by the smooth skin of his bare chest, a grey wife beater hung by his sides long in the front short in the back.

Derek froze at the doorway, obviously trying to decide if he should work out or not in Stiles' presence.

"Morning." Stiles huffed as a welcome.

"Morning." Derek huffed back walking in the room and plopping his bag on one of the benches.

The workout room had mirrors on each wall and two long benches across from one another. Weights were on the left side, jogging equipment on the right corner while stretching mats were in the middle of the right side and in front of that were two punching bags and one of those things that was shaped like an upside down balloon. People punched it in quick recessions. The middle of the room had one long mat that was used for sparring practice.

Derek sat down on one of the benches his bag next to him. He leaned over and grabbed a roll of tape. Slowly, he started to wrap the tape around his hand, over his knuckles.

"It's Derek right?"

Derek looked up from where he was crouched, a curl falling out of formation, resting on his forehead ending right at the start of his top long eyelashes.

A second passed before he looked back down continuing to wrap his hands ignoring Stiles' question yet still acknowledging that he heard it.

"So you came from New York? How come you don't have an accent?" .......still no response but Stiles in a very Stiles like manner babbled on, hands flailing and chest heaving trying to get enough air to both talk and jog. "My aunt was from New York, now her accent was wicked. She only spoke Polish to me, and Polish mixed in with a New York accent, that was hard to follow. Especially the cuss words. Man that woman had a colorful vocabulary. She used to say this thing-what was it again? Twoja stara ciagnie ps." Stiles laughed/wheezed. "Your mother goes down on dogs."