Unsteady | Sterek

Twenty Five: Long live the pioneers

When his mother had died, Stiles had tumbled into a well, expecting the waters of depression to catch him and hold him. Instead, he'd kept falling and falling and falling down an empty well that didn't end. He'd stuck to the wall of the well, shredded something in himself to hold on and break his neverending fall. He'd spent every second since then climbing his way back up.

The Nogitsune had taken him off the wall, held him in the air, and then thrown him back down that never ending well.

He'd tried to stop it, tried to stop his fall but he was too raw, too hurt and broken and resigned, to grab on. So, he'd let himself fall.

He'd thought he was reaching out, but when the purple blast of magic rips through Derek's chest, he realises he's still falling and he's been falling forever.

There's a scream, his he thinks, and then there's howling and swearing and shouting, but he's reaching for Derek, reaching for the shuddering, heaving chest. Derek's whimpering, a sound Stiles has never heard before.

"Oh my god," Stiles says frantically, hands hovering over the charred flesh. "Derek, oh my god. What do I do? Are you okay?"

"I've just been blasted by magic," is the choked out response. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

Stiles laughs. It sounds like a sob.

There are hands at his back and his arms, trying to pull him back, but he wans to stay with Derek, he needs to stay with derek. He can't leave, not if it means Derek dies. "I have to stay," he pleads, he doesn't even know who he's pleading but the hands recede and he's left beside Derek.

The sound of battle ceases somewhere behind him, a wail of defeat ringing in his ears, but he ignores it all and focuses on the whitening of Derek's face. His hands drift down to rest on the wound and Derek hisses in pain. "You know," Stiles says as he tests the broken and charred skin. "I never got you to watch the Batman movies. We should watch these after. Gotta get you to pick a favourite DC character. To be fair, I'm going to try and sway your decision. Can't have you liking the wrong characters."

"Stiles," Derek rasps.

"And-And we'll finally finish a Monopoly game. I know the last time we played at Pack Night, we set somethings on fire and broke a couple of windows, but this time'll be different. We can even find the Avengers one. I think that exists. I'm sure of it."

There's a hand on his. Stiles tries not to pay attention to the rattling breathing that's getting shallower. "Stiles, please."

"I need you," he admits in a rush of tears. "You can't-You can't die on me, Derek you can't. You'll be alright, you'll heal."

"Stiles, you can't believe that."

"I do," he cries. "I do believe that. Derek, you're not going to die, I won't let you."

There's a buzzing in the air, a desperate hum that might come from Stiles, it might not, but the teen boy is more focused on the dying werewolf in front of him.

There's a hand on his shoulder. "Stiles," Peter says very quietly. "We need to move him to Deaton. If there's a chance-" Peter breaks off and Stiles likes to believe he can hear the tears in the older werewolf's voice.

Part of him wants to let go, wants to fall away and pretend his heart isn't burning. The other part of him clings on so tightly that he can't breathe and his throat is raw with restrained tears. "No," he whispers to the sky and the world around him. "No. He'll be alright. He has to be. I believe it. Please."

And maybe there's a tingle to his fingers, but it could just be the blood seeping through Derek's ruined shirt.

"Stiles," Derek wheezes, his own rand resting on top of the other boy's. "Let me go."

"You can't ask that of me," Stiles says, dangerously close to shattering into ugly little pieces. "No, you dont get to tell me that. I'm not going to let you go. You're going to be okay. You'll be back to chasing squirells any day now, okay?"

"Let me go."

Let me go.

But he can't. He can't let go. Because Derek gives him coffee and a safety and a place to call home. Derek has given him love and a reason to live, a reason to try. Derek is more to Stiles than anyone else, Derek is his, Derek is dying and Stiles can't let him go.

He wants to tell Derek all of this, but someone is pulling him way, Peter, and two people are lifting Derek, Chris and Isaac, and all Stiles can do is let out a small keening noise that echoes and amplifies through the forest. Scott's hugging him, Peter keeps him close.

All Stiles can think is that he's losing another person he loves.

***

His father fell apart after Claudia died.

Stiles never commented on it, the nights he watched his father drink himself into a frenzy. He'd been young, but not young enough to ignore the whiskey bottle sitting on the table.

He'd heard it all, shouting, crying, silence that made the air heavy. Stiles liked to think the constant visits from Melissa and Scott helped but he knew that if he didn't try to do something, he'd lost both parents.

When John came home the next day, there was no alcohol anywhere in the house. He'd raged, shouted at Stiles, screamed at him. He'd yelled himself red in the face and Stiles had watched him silently until his dad started sobbing and then Stiles wrapped him in a hug and didn't let go.

John never really trusted himself around alcohol again.

Stiles didn't mention it either.